Young Illya wiped the tears he shed on his threadbare sleeve. The clothing he'd worn while hiding in the ruins of Kyiv and in the Sryets camp were better than what was issued here.*
Nothing fit, as he was so small. The grey shirt and black short pants were hand me downs, his worn shoes were loose.
The only new bits were his black hat with the red star sewn to it and a red neckerchief emblazoned with the hammer and sickle.
"Vy, Kuryakin! You are dead," Maxim shouted from the shadows.
Illya scrambled for cover.
.
* ref "Beginnings"