Is Journalism Worth Dying For__ Final Dispatches - Anna Politkovskaya [212]
Anna was absolutely convinced of the rightness of her choice to fight for justice, and to defend the weak and the wronged. It is the way saints live but, as we know from history, their lives are unfortunately often short. She cannot write any more now. Now it is our turn to write about her.
The idea of forming our association came to us one time when, joining hands, we jumped off a garage roof into a deep snowdrift. Alas, I doubt there are any garage owners left who are so kindly disposed towards children. A few months before we had all been new pupils in Class 1B. We were all born leaders and a happy childhood intuition must have suggested to us that it would be better to join forces, to form a nucleus which would attract our classmates, rather than fight it out with each other to be the leader of this new pack. We were minded to do good, having been brought up on the edifying novellas of Valentina Oseyeva and Arkadiy Gaidar, and tales about heroic Young Pioneers.
Our first good deed was to help the class dunce, a boy called Volodya, to revise for a series of class tests and to improve dramatically on his disgraceful marks. We gathered at Anna’s. She proposed an original incentive: for every mistake he made in the maths examples Volodya would have to eat several sugared cranberry sweets. Soon the sweets were all gone, but the mistakes persisted. Volodya did not come to school the next day. Sweet things disagreed with him and he came out in a terrible rash which took ages to clear up.
Our inclination to do good deeds evolved into a determination to catch criminals. Every day as we walked to school we passed a stand in the street which had photographs of people wanted for questioning by the militia. This inspired us to new feats. For several days we followed close on the heels of a suspicious person who evidently lived somewhere nearby. Perhaps he really did have a criminal past. At all events, he spent most of the day in the company of the local alcoholics or just hanging around aimlessly. We were convinced that we had detected a terrible saboteur and that the Motherland would be proud of us. We were never to forget the militiamen seating us in a motorbike sidecar, and with eyes ablaze and our Pioneer neckerchiefs flying in the wind we were driven round the courtyards in search of our suspect. We do not know to this day what the militia talked to him about, but for years after that our hypothetical criminal crossed to the other side of the road whenever he saw us.
We were good at