Free The Impossible Journey by Gloria Whelan Page A

first step. I tried to study the map I had torn out of my schoolbook, but I had trouble concentrating, for the late-morning sun was pleasant on my back, the grass soft under me, and the June breezes gentle.
    The river was crowded with barges and fishingboats. One of the fishing boats made its way onshore. An elderly man tied up the boat and, slinging a wriggling bag over his shoulder, stepped onto land. He looked about until he saw us.
    â€œYou, there,” he called. “Come here.” He was a wiry man, thin as a birch sapling, with long, wispy white hair. His tanned face was pleated with wrinkles. Though I could think of nothing wrong we had done, he was scowling at us.
    Holding hands, we made our way slowly down the bank toward the river.
    â€œCome along,” he called out. “I’ve no time to waste. I must sell these chickens and buy supplies so that I can be in my village by tomorrow night. Nothing is safe in this cursed city. If you two watch my boat for me, I’ll give you some kopecks.”
    He left us with the boat and began climbing up the bank.
    â€œWhat is the name of your village?” I asked.
    He called the name over his shoulder, adding,“And a poor excuse for a village it is.” It seemed he did not like his village any more than the city. As soon as he was out of sight, I got out my map. His village was nearly a hundred miles downstream. A hundred miles was a week’s walk. I made up my mind that we would go with him. How much better it would be to float along in a boat than to make our way by foot.
    The boat was a long wooden affair, narrow at both ends so that it would skim through the water. I had seen such boats before. Papa and I had often watched the fishermen on the Neva pull into Leningrad to sell their catches. A fishing pole and a landing net were stowed on the bottom of the boat along with a pail, which must have held the bait. Georgi and I would easily fit into the boat.
    â€œGeorgi, listen to me. Remember when you were in the play in school and you took the part of the good factory worker who had made more steering wheels for automobiles than anyone else?”
    â€œYes, and Lev Markovich didn’t meet his goal andthe teacher said that made Comrade Stalin very sad, but I made him happy.”
    â€œNever mind how happy or sad Comrade Stalin was. You memorized lines for the play.”
    The corners of Georgi’s mouth turned down and his eyes were watery. “Mama helped me.”
    â€œGeorgi, you must learn some lines now, and I’ll help you.”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œThey’re very easy—only a few words—and Georgi, if you don’t do it right, we will have to walk a hundred miles instead of riding in the boat.”
    Georgi stood looking at the boat. I could see he was thinking a ride in such a boat would be pleasant.
    In a half hour’s time the man returned with an armful of supplies, which he began to stow in the boat. He handed each of us five miserly kopecks.
    â€œYou can be on your way now,” he ordered. “That’s all you’re going to get.”
    I took a deep breath. “Please, sir, we are going tothe next village on the river from your own. I’ll give you two rubles if you take us along in your boat.”
    â€œWhat? Two children wandering about on their own? You, boy, tell me the truth. What are you doing here?”
    Georgi, looking longingly at the boat, recited, “My papa died fighting for the revolution and my mama is sick, and we are to go to my grandmother, who will take care of us.”
    I sighed with relief. Georgi had not missed a word.
    â€œTwo rubles are not enough,” the man said.
    I had taken two rubles from the little store in my pocket and had them clutched in my hand. I opened my hand and showed them to the man. “It’s all I have,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s in there?” He gave our knapsacks a greedy look.
    â€œOnly our