My boyhood didn't boast any striking brotherhood bonds. Rather, I had a motley crew of friends who befriended me solely for their benefit of me protecting them with my brawn and ferocity.

These two qualities are good commodities to offer in the bargain of friendship in one's youth-and in the schoolyard as well as the battlefield.

One lad in my village stands out, however.

Miron Mironovich Koschevoi was his name.

Odd about him was that he was unusually fair and slight-unlike the most of us who were a darker, sturdier lot.  But he never struck me as frail, since he had a proud, disdainful glower that made him almost my boyish equal in the classroom and schoolyard.

If ever a cleverer man on Earth existed than Miron, I should be called a coward in combat.

We seldom quarreled because we knew the other compensated what the other lacked. Whatever I lacked in wit, he made up for with his own; and whatever he lacked in brawn, I made up for that for his sake.

But wait! We began as rivals in our young schooldays-would you believe it?

With his fine penmanship, ciphering skills second to none among all the boys, and his manners which pleased our schoolmaster, Miron (or Mirka, as I called him) outperformed me in the classroom.

I hated him when my eyes first laid on him. Here was this pretty little puppy with his preened manners strutting so haughtily. And the schoolmaster must have despised me especially, since he seated that whelp right next to me in class!

 Initially, I ignored the runt- I had my control, almost like a little ataman over his stanista, with my crew of comrades in the schoolyard. Miron had his, not to mention the adoring attention of some simpering girls, too.

Yet there came the Pancake Day event which proved the watershed of ending our rivalry. It began as most Pancake Days- chilled with rain, not enough snow to cover the mud. Miserable. If you wore wool, God save you then if you got wet!

Despite the poor prices on the grain market that year, pancakes were in abundance. A proud Kazaktchka can make her own pancakes as good as the peasant!

Though not crisp on the edges as Kolya and I liked them (as our Mother made them), Auntie made some damn fine pancakes- she drenched them butter, and against tradition, she dusted sugar on them, too!

“What is the point of Shrovetide if we can’t indulge?” She reasoned as she poured a small tureen of butter onto that tempting stack of neat pancakes.

With the gentle care of a nursing mother, she wrapped the coveted pastry in thick white cloth, tied the ends snugly, and tucked the prized bundle into my lunch pail. Kolya, still too young for school, had that coveted position at being at the kitchen, right beside Auntie, as she fried each golden cake to perfection! I envied him, the little prince!

Nonetheless, the steam wafting from the pail, and catching sight of the butter bleeding grease spots through the thick cloth fortified my courage as I dashed out in the rain and mud for yet another dreary schoolday.

My boyish comrades and I congregated around the coatracks of the schoolhouse, like we were men at an election. We always traded a pancake with each other- we reasoned it was only fair to sample the handiwork of each mother, auntie and grandma!

Remaining covert took great pains- our schoolmaster had too much of that stiff German “ness” in him, and any lad caught with a pancake in the classroom received a fierce birching from that bespectacled bastard.

We voted Matvei, a sort of right-hand man, er, boy, of mine, should hide the cache of pancakes. He sat right against the corner of the hall, where the corner could easily hide a row of lunchpails.

But luck did not favor us today. Instead, that blockhead of a schoolmaster set his favorite, that pipsqueak of Miron Mironovich as a sort of watchdog.

“You all know my rules- no sweetmeats, no pastries here!” He turned to that traitor, that solemn-faced, pride-laced pup, standing at his side like some officer to his superior.

“Miron Mironovich,” the schoolmaster wheedled in sickening civility, “you may help me inspect that this classroom is in order.”

That’s good, Mirka, be the puppet for this ferret! I fumed silently, as Miron, in a staged manner, nonchalantly glanced around the classroom, eyeing each desk like some crow.

As his eyes coolly surveyed our rows of desks, I panicked. My desk infront of my soon-to-be unfortunate comrade, I, like any decent Cossack lad, took a hit for Matvei. Miron eyed our prized cache- his eyes widened like a smug victor taking his booty.

What happened next, you ask? A dumbfounded Matvei stammered, I claimed the blame, Miron received a pancake from OUR cache as a “reward”, and the schoolmaster’s birch set the back of my legs on fire.

As the schoolmaster turned his back, Miron smirked cruelly and stuck out his tongue at me in mockery. Punishment comes in pairs, so the schoolmaster made me write some vague platitude one hundred times on the blackboard…

My legs on fire with some furious welt, I couldn’t sit down. This made Miron smirk all the more.

I'd deal with him, I vowed! I gritted my teeth and scratched the chalk into board in silent fury. The moment that little whelp set foot on the schoolyard, I'd pommel that scrawny pup soundly.

That longed-for moment arrived. As we boys spilled into the yard like young colts splashing in a stream, Miron dashed a straight line for the large tree in the yard's bare center. He knelt down and stuck his hand down a knothole of a sizeable root- was he retrieving something?

A grateful Matvei goaded me eagerly, perhaps out of guilt, since I took the blame for him. “Hey! It’s not fair, Andrei- we’re all behind you for getting back at that good-for-nothing Mirka! We’d fight him for you, but this between man and man.”

Of course, we were only 10 then(!)

My wounded pride simmered hotly in me, and it distracted me from noticing what the little pale “Judas” was yanking through. Whatever cache he'd pull up didn't matter-he'd be pommeled with at least a black eye.

No sooner had I came up on him, I growled my intentions to him. Let it be said if I was bully, I was a fair one. I, in my vain idea of "mercy" would give him the chance to defend himself.

"Mirka! All by yourself! What do you get out of being a traitor? Well, you’ll see how we like that!  But I want to see if you can fight me. I bet you can't!" I challenged Miron. My scorn reached a new intensity.

But he ignored me. Biting his lower and then sticking his tongue out in concentration, he focused on yanking whatever he had stashed down in the root knot-hole.

I was furious. He really disdained me, didn't he? Like I was some churlish peasant not worth his time. I'd make him see differently. Two black eyes can really open a boy's eyes, I deduced.

"Hey!" I roared. "Didn't hear me? I want us to fight! What? Too scared, girlie? Think you're too good to fight me?" I clenched my fist and my teeth. Now I knew what dogs felt when they bared their teeth and growled.

With a grunt, Miron gave a final tug. The force sent him falling back on his rump but he extracted his cache. It was a small, leather pouch of sort, with drawstrings.

"Oh," he murmured, as he drolly looked over his shoulders at me, "I heard you. And I want to beat you, Andreika! But not like you want. I have a better idea."

"What's that, girlie?" I demanded, hiding my growing apprehension. What trick did he scheme?

He shook the little pouch. It rattled. "With this. It's marbles. I want to beat you- over a game of marbles. Schoolmaster can’t get mad if we play marbles, right? I bet you never played with marbles, did you, Andrei Danilovich?"

"Marbles! That's stupid! I can pelt you with those, for sure!" I retorted, suddenly confident at his proposal. Marbles!

"No, I mean the game, you stupid oaf! You must be as stupid as everyone says you are! I bet you're too stupid to play marbles, even!" spat Miron with a derisive laugh.

Since that damned whelp raised his voice so loud, the other boys heard and rushed around us in an eager throng.

"You can beat him easily, Andreika! Show him what for!" goaded Fedka, a schoolmate of mine who exploited my bullying with bets of sweets and boyish trinkets when I was the victor.

"Hah! Miron is smarter- show Andreika, Miron!" goaded another lad, an ally of Miron's.

Loyal Matvei said nothing, except he clasped my hand firmly in a heartening shake. With the ceremonial formality of some priest preparing a holy observation, Matvei then drew the circle in the frosty mud with a stick.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and temples. My tongue was dry. Damn Miron and his mocking wit! I had no idea how to play marbles. I always wrestled or raced with the boys, not play marbles or riddles.  But pride demanded I lie.

"Sure! I can play that easily. I'll beat you, Mirka! And you'll have all your marbles forfeited-your collection will be mine when the bell rings!" I boasted with that boyish bravado every boy throws around.

Mirka smirked again, his eyes half-closed, as though bored with confidence. "We'll see, Andreika."

Flicking his head forward, and with ceremony, Miron placed each marble in its place. I still had no idea how one played marbles. I keenly observed, much like a new rider religiously observes and mimics the older rider when he straps the saddle and pulls the cinch correctly.

"Here! This is your shooter marble. I'll go first so you can see how it's done." Miron handed me a large, cat's eye marble into my palms.

I growled between my teeth. I would observe, just to see how it was played.

Kneeling down, Miron flattened himself on his elbow. With the other free arm, he deftly pinched the marble between his two first fingers and thumb. He squinted one eye, licked his lips and flicked one marble like a slingshot from his hand. The marble shot across the circle and knocked out three marbles from the circle.  His allies cheered him on.

When my turn came, I knew mine would cheer me on, especially Matvei. Dear Matvei…loyal to the end. Too loyal for his own good, I’d learn later when we became men.

I snorted in contempt. Lumbering down, I knelt, placed the marble between my first two fingers and thumb just as he had. But I flicked too weakly and too prematurely before I could aim my shot- the marble flew out from my hand and plopped flatly an inch away from where I knelt. A wave of laughs and heckling erupted from the crowding throng of boys.

Miron smirked his damned haughty smirk again! He joined in their laughing. That little whelp brayed like a donkey's colt, I thought.

Anger ignited me at their laughing. I huffed and my knees locked in fury.  Quickly, I snatched up the shooter marble and hurled right at his rosy face. "I'll beat you that way, Mirka!"

The marble pelted him right on his button nose and spiked a trail of blood as though I punched him in the nose. A small spot, the size of a kopeck spilled on his white shirt.

Toppling back, he fainted. Blood trailed from his nostrils. Fear spiked me. I hadn't intended hitting him so had- I only wanted to smart that pup that way he wounded my pride in front of our classmates.

We shouted and shook to revive him. He remained still, as though sleeping soundly. Fedka, my former backer, darted into the schoolhouse, fetched the schoolmaster and became my chief accuser.  The schoolmaster smacked me on the back of my head soundly and then brought Miron into his office. He sent another boy to fetch the nearby doctor.

Once the doctor arrived, he ducked into the office. We all waited in anticipation. I was breathless with gnawing terror. Had I killed Miron? I hated him, but not so much I wanted to kill him. Would I be hanged for that? Did boys hang?

“You can’t hang, Andrei- you were just defending your honor, I can witness, that!” Matvei piped up when I blubbered that question.

I then prayed and cried a bit behind the large tree. I vowed if God let that stupid brat lived, I'd never bully him again and I'd observe Lent like Aunt Pelageya wanted me to do.

Finally, after what seemed an eternal penance, the doctor emerged from the schoolhouse. He chuckled with the schoolmaster on the rickety steps.

Fear made me ignore my sudden timidity towards my elders. I sprinted up to the doctor and schoolmaster.

"Is he all right?" I breathlessly asked.

"Well!  You must be the infamous marble shooter! Ho!" chortled the plump doctor. "All this uproar caused by marbles. No, he's fine- just stunned. No worse than falling off a horse and having the wind knocked out of him. But you- you'd best practice your aim or else all your classmates will have bloody noses or knots on their heads."

He left, and the schoolmaster tugged a tuft of my hair roughly. "Enough of your antics, Andrei Danilovich! I should switch you again- you need it! But I'm too tired from this uproar." He sighed, mumbled something and retreated into the schoolhouse.