Timur and His Squad

It was all of three months since Colonel Alexandrov, the commanding officer of an armoured unit, left home.

Presumably, he was with his unit.

In the middle of the summer he sent a wire home advising his daughters Olga and Jenny to rent a cottage in the country near Moscow and to spend the rest of their vacation there.

Jenny stood leaning on the handle of her broom in front of Olga, her print head-scarf pushed back, and scowled as her sister issued instructions:

"I'll take the things down in a lorry and you clean up the flat.

It's no use frowning and pouting.

When you leave, lock the door.

Return the books to the library.

Don't go dropping in to say good-bye to all your girl friends but go straight to the station.

From there you will send Daddy this telegram.

Then take the train and come straight to the villa. Jenny, you must do as I tell you.

After all, I'm your sister. . . ."

"And I'm yours."

"Quite right, but I'm older than you — and besides, it's what Dad told us to do."

When Jenny heard the engine of the lorry start up in the yard, she heaved a sigh and glanced around the room.

Complete disorder met her eyes.

She went up to the dusty mirror in which was reflected the portrait of her father on the opposite wall.

All right, then!

Granted Olga was older and had to be obeyed for the time being!

But it was she, Jenny, who had her father's nose and mouth and eyebrows.

And, most likely, it would turn out to be she who had inherited his character too.

She tightened the knot of her kerchief, kicked off her sandals and picked up a duster.

Then she whisked the cloth off the table, set a pail under the tap, grabbed the broom and swept a pile of rubbish toward the door.

Soon the oil stove was spluttering and the primus buzzing.

The floor was flooded with water.

Soapsuds frothed in the zinc washtub.

And, outside, passers-by gaped up at a barefoot girl in a red sun-dress standing fearlessly on a third-floor windowsill cleaning a wide-open window.

The lorry sped along the broad, sun-flooded road.

Olga sat in the back in a wicker chair, resting her feet on a suitcase and leaning against a soft bundle.

On her lap a reddish-yellow kitten was playing with a bunch of cornflowers.

At the 20th milepost they were overtaken by a motorised column.

The soldiers, who sat in rows on wooden benches, the muzzles of their rifles pointed skyward, were singing lustily.

At the sound of the singing the doors and windows of j cottages were thrown wide open.

Excited children tumbled out over fences and through gates.