So, just like before, I’d take part in the morning salutes at school, and bow in front of the portrait that hung above the teacher’s desk, of Party Chairman Gomułka’s ancient, crumpled face scowling down at us. I took part in the marches, in the parades, in the May 1 celebrations, the anniversaries of the October Revolution. Holding banners with obsequious slogans praising our Soviet brothers, singing the songs they had taught us. I was like the little boy in Hans Christian Andersen’s tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” except I didn’t speak up. I pretended not to see the obvious truth: that we had never asked for this system. That it had been forced upon us. I sat through the lessons and endured it all, carrying Beniek’s banishment inside me, bile collecting in the pit of me. During breaks I’d pick fights with other boys, coming away with a bloody nose or busted lips and temporary relief. And I swore that I would never become one of them, of those who led their mendacious lives in submission to the system.

*  *  *

One day, as you came out of the lake, you asked me whether I had a girlfriend. I shook my head, thrown by your question. You were bent over drying your thighs, and I couldn’t see your face. I smiled to hide my embarrassment, even though you couldn’t see me.

“No,” I finally said. “And you?”

You’d reached your feet. I watched you run a corner of your flimsy towel through the crevices between your toes. Then you looked up, confident that I was waiting for you.

“No,” you said carefully. “Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

You straightened, brushing your hair back with a hand. You looked both defiant and amused.

“It means I used to. But not anymore. I prefer this now.”

And before I could ask anything further, before I could gauge your words and the corridors lying beyond them, you came over and pulled me in. Your mouth set down on my neck, avidly. Like a vampire, I thought, and closed my eyes.

On the last morning at the lake we packed our things and dismantled the tent. We watched it collapse onto the ground like a dying hot-air balloon. Then we flattened and folded its lifeless body and pushed it into its cylindrical bag. We did it all without exchanging a word.

“You know we can’t tell anyone,” you said to me, suddenly serious, pulling the bag closed.

“About what?” I asked. I knew exactly. My stomach was like a towel being twisted. I watched you collect the rods lying scattered on the ground, opening the bag again and shoving them inside.

You threw me a furtive look. “About this.”

I picked up a stick and threw it toward the lake, seeing it fly and fall in vain, not making a sound.

“No. I guess we can’t.”