This story was inspired by the song “Sparrow on the Schoolyard Wall” written and performed by Ian Anderson and his excellent group Jethro Tull.  The song can be found on the 1991 album Catfish Rising.  I am, by my own admission, ignorant of Russian names and proper forms of address.  I chose to use the Anglo-Saxon Mr. and Miss for the ease of their familiarity to me.  I hope you will forgive these transgressions and enjoy the story.  Your comments are always welcome.

 You want to be a bookworm?  You wanna be aloof?
You wanna sit in judgement, looking down from the roof?
Try a wee sensation; but first you have to want to join in.
You should be, should be raging down the freeway
with some friends from the mall.
Don’t stay forever in your limbo; fly before you fall
Little sparrow on the schoolyard wall.

 “He’s too young, I tell you.  Twelve years old, a good two years younger than our youngest member.  He’s not ready.  He’s just a child, Dmitri.”  Peter Gregorovich absentmindedly removed his delicate wire rimmed glasses and polished them for the second time since his good friend and colleague had engaged him in conversation.  It was a nervous habit and he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it.

“This one is a child in years only.  You’ve seen his records.  He scores off the charts.”  Dmitri Alexovich’s eyes brightened at the thought of the gifted student.  Ah, the possibilities!

“Intelligent, yes, but mature?  Not necessarily so.  He’s reckless, doesn’t think before he speaks.  Did you hear what he said in Simkov’s class yesterday?  He said that Stalin’s version of Communism is not true Communism.  From what I understand Simkov nearly dropped his teeth!”

Dmitri frowned, “Yes I did hear.  I heard that and a whole lot more.  That is why I came to see you Peter.  Simkov wants the boy sent to Leningrad, to the retraining school.”

Peter looked up in horror.  “God, no!  They would eat him alive there.”

"My thoughts exactly.  I’ve heard of the methods they use to break these high spirited boys there and he is so fine boned and fair.  I shudder to think of what will happen to him.  We have to bring him into the group early.”

“Can’t we just advise him without making him a member?  We could be putting the others at risk trusting in one so young.”

“No, Peter, without a purpose he will have no reason to follow our advice.  We don’t have to involve him in all our activities, just enough to give him a reason to change his attitude.  He’s already one of us in his thinking.”

“Okay, okay.  I’ll invite him to Friday’s meeting, if it’s not too late already that is.”

The small blond haired youngster sat in the headmaster’s office boldly staring at the angry man sitting behind the desk.  The man’s face was a deep shade of red and he banged on the desktop with his clenched fist to emphasize his words.  “Am I to understand that you questioned our great leader’s ideals?”

“No, sir I…”

“Silence!  I will tell you when to speak, you insignificant child!  Who do you think you are that you can question the one who rules over this vast and glorious union?”

The boy ignored the man’s recent warning and spoke without permission.  “I didn’t ask a question, sir.  I stated a fact.  Mr. Stalin’s ideas are very different from Mr. Marx’s.”

The headmaster felt like he was going to explode.  “Did I tell you to speak?  Where do you get these ideas from, where?”

The boy stared at him in silence.

“I asked you a question!”

“Do you want me to speak?  You just said…”

“Aaagh!  This is more than I can deal with right now!  Return to your classroom.  I will decide your punishment and send for you later.”  He watched the child calmly get up and leave the room.  His words fell on the empty chair.  “You are going to be the death of me, Illya Nickovetch.”

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin slowly picked his books off his desk and prepared to return to the dormitory he shared with the other twelve-year-old boys.  He was in no hurry.  The other boys had departed quickly in order to get a few hands of cards in before dinner.  He took no pleasure in their childish games, not that they invited him to join.  He learned such things quickly and could not be beaten.  He didn’t understand how they could struggle so.  All he had to do was watch the cards that were played and he remembered each and every one.  The game was no challenge and the other boys were not graceful losers.

The prospect of the impending punishment from the headmaster held no fear for him either.  What could they possibly do to him?  Take away his possessions?  He had none.  Cause him physical pain?  He was able to take his mind elsewhere at such times.  Take him from his parents?  Too late.  No, they had no power over him as far as he was concerned.  He finished gathering up his books and slowly walked down the hall.  He was about to go through the double-doored exit when one of the classroom doors opened and a voice addressed him.

“Illya Nickovetch?”

He turned to see Peter Gregorovich Kurosov standing in the doorway of his classroom.  He didn’t know the science teacher personally, but the man’s small stature and soft-spoken voice were nonthreatening and the boy felt at ease.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like to talk to you for a moment if you have the time.”

A teacher asking him if he had the time to talk?  Now that was different.  “Yes, sir.  Do you want me to come inside?”

“Oh, yes, yes.  Come in and sit down.”

Illya watched as the young man took off his glasses and rubbed them with his lab coat.

Peter looked into the innocent blue eyes and felt a renewed sense of urgency.  “Do you know how to play chess, son?”

“Yes and no, sir.”

“Yes and no?”

“I’ve read about the game, but I have never actually played.”

“Mr. Dimchek and I proctor a chess club here after dinner on Friday nights.  Would you like to come to a meeting, perhaps learn to play the game?”

The child’s face fell.  “I don’t think the headmaster will allow me out after dinner, sir.”

“I think I can convince the headmaster if you are interested, that is.”  Say yes child, say yes.

“Yes, if I am allowed, I would like that very much.  Can I ask you a question, sir?”

“Certainly, go right ahead.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are a smart boy, Illya Nickovetch and our club needs you.”

Somebody actually wanted him because he was smart?  That was a first.  “Excuse me, sir, but I’d better go before I am missed.”

“Yes, of course.  I’ll send one of the older boys to fetch you Friday night.”

Peter used his free period on Thursday to visit the headmaster’s office.  “I would like your permission to allow Illya Nickovetch to join the chess club on Friday night, sir.”

The older man grimaced.  “Why?  That boy is nothing but trouble.  Besides, isn’t he a little young for the game?”

“In years, yes sir, but in his head, no.  He would do well with the mental stimulation.”

“Mental stimulation?  I’ll give him some mental stimulation.”  He picked up some forms from his desk.  “I have the paperwork to send him to Leningrad.”

Peter tried to hide the panic he felt.  “Please sir, you must reconsider.  You know what they do to young boys there, beatings, rape, God knows what else.”

“That is only rumor.  They will make him listen, teach him respect.”

“They will kill him.  Such a fine mind gone to waste.  Let us teach him the game.  It will help him learn discipline, give him something to concentrate on.  Our boys are some of the best students in this school; a credit to you.”

“Alright, Peter Gregorovich.  I will give you a month.  If his behavior doesn’t improve I will complete these forms and transfer him out.  Is that clear?”

“Yes sir, thank-you sir.”

When the small twelve-year old entered the room filled with the older children Friday night he received a few curious glances, but there was no open hostility on anyone’s face.  That was a relief.  Mr. Kurosov came over to greet him.  “Ah, Illya Nickovetch, I’m glad you could join us.  This is Dmitri Alexovich Dimchek.  He teaches social studies to the upper grades.  He will teach you the game.”

They sat alone in a corner.  Dmitri explained the rules of the game and a few basic strategies.  The boy caught on quickly.  Although the teacher was able to beat him in each game, it wasn’t without effort.  Over the final fame, Dmitri spoke to the child.  “Life is a lot like a chess game, son.  You must play carefully or you will upset the board.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“There has been much talk about your disagreement with Mr. Simkov.  You must be careful what you say.”

“I have said nothing that isn’t true, sir.”

“Some truths are better left unsaid.  You must do something for me, son.”

“Yes?”

“When you feel differently from your teachers or even from the other students, do not express it to them.  Wait until you come here.  Discuss it with me or with Mr. Kurosov.”

“Why?”

“Because every time you cause controversy you put yourself in danger.  You must realize that.  You are a very smart young man.”

Clear blue eyes looked into Dmitri’s dark ones.  “I am not afraid.”

“Listen to me, Illya Nickovetch!  I am afraid!  I am afraid for you.  If you persist they will send you to Leningrad for retraining.  Surely you have heard about this terrible place!”

The boy only shrugged in response.  Dmitri wasn’t sure if the child didn’t know the stories or if he just didn’t care.  He hoped it was the former, but he suspected it was actually the latter.  “Please son, heed my words.  You are a valuable young man.  Someday you will make an important contribution to the world, but to do that you must live to grow up.  Let us help you.”

So dress a little dangerous and modify your walk.
There’s nothing wrong with sparrows but try to be a sparrowhawk.
Hunting in the evening and floating in the heat of the day.
You might, might acquire some predatory instinct.
Do the wolf pack crawl.
Don’t stay forever in your limbo; fly before you fall
Little sparrow on the schoolyard wall.

Over the next week Illya found himself looking forward to Friday’s chess club meeting.  This was a new experience for him.  He had never looked forward to anything in the past.  His teachers found him slightly distracted, but were relieved at his lack of outbursts.  Dmitri and Peter were relieved at the lack of gossip in the teacher’s lounge.  They gave the boy encouraging smiles in the hallway and some of the older boys from the club greeted him casually in the halls and cafeteria.  It felt so strange; he wasn’t sure if or how to respond.

On Friday night Peter sat with him for his first game.  “So, you had a good week, Illya Nickovetch?”

“I didn’t challenge any of my teachers, if that is what you mean.”

Peter took off his glasses and polished them needlessly once again.  He put them back on and ran his hand through his curly brown hair.  “That wasn’t easy for you, was it?”

The answer came at once. “No!  They are so blind!  How can grown men be so ignorant?”  Realizing what he had just said to a teacher, Illya became suddenly silent and looked questioningly up at Peter.

“Relax son, Dmitri told you that you can speak freely here and it is true.  We will never lie to you or hold what you say against you.  You should understand that some of these teachers are ignorant, but most of them do and say as they are told because they need their jobs.  They have families to feed.  They are afraid.”

“Are you afraid, Mr. Kurosov?”

“To some extent, yes, but like you I find it impossible to live without some freedom of expression.  That is one of the reasons Mr. Dimchek and I formed this club.  Everyone here speaks freely to one another.  In our small way we do what we can to make a better life for everyone.”

“By playing chess?”

“Yes, that and in other ways as well.  In time you will learn.  Now I think it is time for you to play against another student.”

The teacher introduced the twelve-year old to a fifteen-year old who promptly beat him at two games of chess.  The other boy treated him as an equal and they discussed many things besides chess.

Within the next two weeks he came to know several of the other club members.  It didn’t seem to matter to them that he was younger.  The attention from the older boys also garnered him some grudging respect from the boys his own age who had previously wanted nothing to do with him.  He found himself trying to walk like the teenagers and was twice criticized for wearing his uniform tie in the loose casual style of the upper classmen.  For the first time in his short lonely existence he felt like he belonged somewhere.

Well, I don’t want to be your daddy.
Don’t want to be your engineer of sin.
And I don’t want to play the piper here.
I’m only banging on a mandolin and anyway,
you’re just a little sparrow on the schoolyard wall.

At the next chess club meeting Peter approached the new student just as he finished his first game.  “Would you come with me for a moment, Illya Nickovetch?  Misha, you can play your next game against Ivan.  The two boys got up from the table, one joined another student and the other followed the teacher into a small back room.  “Sit down, son.  Tell me, do you like coming here to these meetings?”

Illya was wary.  “Yes sir, why do you ask?”

“What do you like about it?”

“Well, of course I like the game, but mostly I like the talk.  I can speak here without being yelled at.  I don’t have to think like everyone else here.”

“Has it occurred to you that what we do is dangerous?  That such talk is not only frowned upon, but forbidden?”

“Yes sir, I know that.”  He felt a moment of fear.  Didn’t they trust him?  “I never talk about the club, except for the chess games and no one cares about that.  I don’t have to stop coming, do I?”

“No son, no.  I am glad you are happy here.  The other boys like you.  You are a free thinker.  Mr. Dimchek and I feel that you are ready for more than just chess.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Everyone in this club is here because they believe in freedom of speech and in a man’s right to think for himself.  We participate in other activities to further this belief.  I understand that you are gifted with the ability to speak and comprehend other languages?”

The boy smiled shyly.  “I know five other languages well and I am learning two more.”

Peter removed a book from his inner lab coat pocket and placed it on the table.

The boy’s eyes widened.  The book was American and therefore clearly illegal to possess much less read.

“Can you translate this book?”

Illya picked it up as if it were a snake waiting to bite him.  He paged through it briefly.  “Yes, I can.”

“Good!  I thought so.  I would like you to spend the first half-hour of each meeting translating this and other books for us.  You understand that this is a secret activity and that if you are found out you will endanger not only yourself, but the entire club?”

The young boy straightened in his chair.  “I would never do anything to hurt anyone here, sir.  I would be proud to translate this book.”

“You are a fine boy, Illya Nickovetch.  Let me give you one more piece of advice.  Do not dismiss the other teachers and students in this school lightly.  I know you don’t always agree with them, but you can learn from them.  Use them to increase your knowledge.  Play up to them, but be subtle about it.  If they no longer hate you or feel that you are so different from them it will protect you and in the long run protect us and what we are accomplishing here.  Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, I think I do, sir.  I won’t let you down.”

There’s nothing wrong with learning.
Nothing wrong with your books.
So exercise some judgement.
Too much broth can spoil the cook.
Feel a little sensation and know when it’s time to join in.
You should be, should be raging down the freeway
With some friends from the mall.
Don’t stay forever in your limbo; fly before you fall
Little sparrow on the schoolyard wall.

The month reprieve that the headmaster had granted Kuryakin came and went.  He modified his behavior enough to almost impress some of his teachers and to force Simkov to back off.  There were times in social studies class that the boy wanted desperately to object, but he swallowed his objections and kept his silence.  The narrow-minded teacher observed the student’s facial expressions and he knew that the boy was holding back.  Although he was glad that there was no more turmoil in his class, he had really wanted to see this particular student transferred out.  Yes, he knew what would happen to the naïve young boy in Leningrad, but this one needed to be taken down a peg or two.  He even tried to bait the boy, but the child seemed oblivious to his efforts.

Illya continued to attend the Friday chess club meetings.  After nearly two months he was beginning to win some of his matches.  He enjoyed the competition, but he dutifully excused himself after the first half-hour and worked diligently on his translations.  He was in the middle of translating a very controversial American novel when a stranger entered the front room and asked to see Mr. Kurosov.  Peter spoke with the man for a moment and then the man left.  “Attention students!  We will have to wind up early tonight.  My wife is about to have a baby!”

The students put away the chess sets and quickly straightened the room.  Dmitri was home sick with the flu, so Peter was on his own.  He herded the students out into the night and headed for home.  Illya stood outside in the snow and suddenly realized that Mr. Kurosov hadn’t taken the book with him.  It couldn’t be found in the classroom tomorrow.  He ran back into the building.

“Where are you going, Illya?”

“I forgot my hat.  I will see you next week.”  He retrieved the book and concealed it on his person.  He would have to hide it until next week.  On Monday he would try to give it to Mr. Dimchek or Mr. Kurosov.  He hid it in his mattress for the weekend.  The matron who cleaned the dormitory had the weekends off, so nothing would be disturbed until Monday.  Monday morning he finished his shower quickly and returned to his bunk before the other boys.  He removed the book and covered it with a book jacket belonging to another one of his textbooks.  In this way he was able to carry it undetected to school.

He made it through most of the day with no problems.  He counted the minutes until the end of Simkov’s class and the subsequent end of the school day.  When the bell finally rang the other students jostled past him out of the classroom.  He stacked his books and made his way for the door.  In his haste he didn’t see the tattered gym bag which had been left behind by one of the other pupils.  He tripped over it and his books went flying.  Simkov looked up from his desk.  “Get up, you clumsy oaf!  Pick up your books and get moving!  I want to go home tonight!”

Illya scrambled to retrieve the books.  The teacher watched with a look of disgust on his face.  “Hurry up!  Do I have to help you?”

“No sir, no!  I can do it!”

Too late.  Mr. Simkov reached down and grabbed a book which had fallen next to his desk.  He was about to hand it back when he noticed that there was something different about the book.  It was lighter than a textbook.  He removed the brown paper book cover and took a closer look.  “What is this?  This book is American!  Where did you get this?”

The boy’s first instinct was to run and it must have been written all over his face, because Simkov came forward quickly and grabbed him by the arm.  “You’re not going anywhere, but to the headmaster’s office, young man!”

He dragged the child down the hall and down the stairs.  He took him directly into the headmaster’s office and slammed the door behind him.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Simkov?”

Simkov was trembling with rage.  He slammed the book down on the desk.  “Look what Illya Nickovetch has been reading!”

The headmaster’s eyes widened in surprise.  “My God!  Where did you get this book?”

The boy remained mute.

“I asked you a question, Illya Nickovetch.  I expect an answer.  Where did you get this?”

“I bought it from a man on the street.”

“You bought it?  Where did you get the money?”

“I didn’t give him money, sir.  He wanted food, so I saved some of my dinner and gave it to him.  He was grateful to me, so he gave me this book.  Is it a bad book, sir?”

Simkov was beside himself.  “You know damn well it is a bad book.  Who are you trying to kid?  You speak and read English almost as well as your teacher.  It is no accident that you possess this book.”

“Why did you accept the book, young man?”

“I was curious, sir.”

“Well, your curiosity has gone a little too far this time, Illya Nickovetch.  Miss Alymov, will take you down to the detention room.  Since you like to give your food away, you can do without dinner tonight.  You will remain there until I send for you tomorrow after I decide what to do with you.”

The two men watched the stern secretary guide the blond young boy out of the room.  She closed the door quietly.  The headmaster ran his hand over his face.  “What in God’s name am I going to do with that boy?”

“You know what has to be done.  Send him to Leningrad!  You still have the paperwork, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, but he has been doing so well lately, I was beginning to hope…”

“There is no hope for that one!  I know it appears that he has changed, but it is just a façade; a false face put on for our benefit.  He is laughing at us all behind our backs.”

“I’m just not sure of that, comrade.  I think I will call a meeting of all his teachers tomorrow morning and get some more input before I make up my mind.”

The news of the young student and the banned book spread like wild fire through the school’s grapevine the next morning.  Peter went to see Dmitri immediately upon hearing it.  “What are we going to do, Dmitri?  Oooh, this is all my fault!  I was in such a hurry to get out of there Friday night I forgot to collect the book.  We are ruined!”

“Calm down, Peter.  All is not lost.  The boy obviously hasn’t given us up or we would be sitting in a jail cell by now.”

“Not yet, you mean.  He is a mere child.  They will make him talk.”

“No, Peter, this is no mere child.  He must have given them some sort of plausible explanation for possessing the book or the headmaster would be shipping him off to Leningrad without a second thought.  This teacher’s meeting that is being held, we must be there.  If nothing else it will help us know where we stand.”

The two teachers implored the headmaster to let them join the meeting.  He agreed because they had spent regular time with the child for the last couple of months.  He wanted all the input he could get before making this life altering decision.  In spite of what most of the teachers and all of the students thought, he was not a heartless man.  He had seen the lasting effects the school in Leningrad had on a student and he also had a sizable list of names of students who never returned.  He would not make this decision casually.

The eight teachers sat crowded into the small office and gave their opinions of the wayward pupil.  The math and language instructors liked him.  They never had to show him something more than once.  The science teacher was weary of all his questions, but had no behavior problems with him.  The phys-ed coach didn’t count him among his favorite students.  He never showed much enthusiasm for the competitive sports and only went through the motions, even though he was very agile and coordinated and could have done better.  The only two teachers he had been openly impudent with were the literature and social studies teachers.  The literature teacher admitted that he had settled down over the last month or so.  Only Mr. Simkov was adamant that the boy should be transferred out.  Peter and Dmitri exchanged worried glances as they listened to the angry man’s diatribe.

“He questions anything and everything!  Even when he doesn’t say anything I can tell he scoffs at what I say.  Twelve years old and he has the nerve to tell me that in his opinion I am interpreting a historical event incorrectly.  As if he has the right to an opinion!  I am giving him facts and he acts as if they are theories that can be discussed!”

“So, you have noticed no recent improvements in his attitude, Mr. Simkov?”

Simkov spoke grudgingly, “Well, he has been less disruptive lately, but it’s a front I tell you!  What about the book?  Isn’t that proof of what I have been saying?”

The headmaster shifted in his chair.  “He wouldn’t be the first student who purchased a banned book from some radical on the street.  These traitors are everywhere trying to corrupt our youth.  They have a knack for choosing the vulnerable ones.”

“May I remind you, sir, that in the past you have transferred these students to Leningrad without a second thought.  Why is this one any different?”

“Because he is smart, Simkov.  He could bring great credit to this school.”

“He could also bring great trouble!”

“Let us see what he has to say for himself.”  He picked up the phone and spoke to his secretary.

Simkov in the meantime was mumbling under his breath, “…a waste of time…”

Within minutes the student in question entered the office accompanied by the grimacing secretary.  “Thank-you Miss Alymov.  That will be all.  Now that you have had time to think about your actions, Illya Nickovetch, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The small boy stood to the side of the headmaster’s large desk and gazed fearfully at the group.  He appeared to be on the verge of tears.  To Dmitri and Peter he looked defeated and lost.  Dmitri tried to give him a fortifying look from the back of the room.  “I am sorry I have caused you so much trouble, sir.  I made a bad decision when I bought that book, but the man who gave it to me looked so cold and hungry and he was so big!  I was afraid to say no.”

Peter and Dmitri were stunned by Kuryakin’s ability to lie.  This child was amazing.  They had to somehow save him.

Simkov, in spite of his narrow-mindedness, was not a stupid man.  “This is bullshit!”

“Mr. Simkov!  Please control yourself!  Do you realize that I could send you off to Leningrad for what you have done, child?”

“Yes, sir.  I am prepared to go.”

No, oh God no!

“You are prepared to go?  Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have to play chess anymore.”

“Play chess?  Oh, yes, Mr. Kurosov’s club.  Don’t you like to play chess?”

Peter and Dmitri looked at each other in obvious confusion.

“Well, yes sir, I like the games, but I am tired of the lectures.”

“Lectures?  Explain yourself, boy.”

“While we play Mr. Kurosov and Mr. Dimchek talk to us about what a wonderful country we live in and how great our leaders are.”

“Don’t you believe these things?”

The boy focused his gaze on Simkov as he spoke.  “Yes, I have learned them from Mr. Simkov, but I am tired of hearing them.”

The two club proctors tried to keep the incredulous expressions off their faces.  Dmitri spoke up, “We think the boy needs to be reminded of these truths as often as possible, sir.  We try to instill patriotic values in all our members.”

“A worthy goal, Mr. Dimchek.  From all reports this student’s behavior has improved significantly since he has joined your club.  If I decide not to transfer him to Leningrad would you be willing to act as a guardian to him, to monitor his actions?”

Illya emitted a soft barely audible moan.

“Silence, young man!  Mr. Dimchek?”

Dmitri surpressed the urge to shout his agreement.  “Well, I suppose so, for the good of the school.”

“Good.”  He picked up his phone.  “Miss Alymov, please see that Mr. Kuryakin gets to his next class.”

The woman came into the room and handed the child his books, save one, which had been kept for him from the day before.  He took them from her, but in the process dropped the top two at Dmitri’s feet.  The teacher and the student bent down at the same time to retrieve the books.  When their faces met unseen by the others in the room, one held a look of awed admiration and the other a small smile.

The End?