Tears Shed in the Grip of Insufferable Oppression

 

Chapter 1 - Torrential waters

1917 November 7, was an insufferable winter day. October to January are the four months Russia shears off from Earth. Escalated cutthroat cold snow layer, with its frozen fingers clawing that huge nation tears it out from the soil. The next few months, the prisoning of that nation in some abysmal space. By squeezing its last ounce of hope, burning the last piece of wood that nation battles with it. Each humane resisting effort is transcribed into journals and literature. Release from the clutches of cold weather at the end of February is like the rebirth of Russia. Wriggling out from the dark womb, gently finding its way through the cold slow layer, steps into the new sunshine world beneath a fresh blue sky. Trees, Birds, Reptiles along with humankind every creature is resurrected. That part of the world knows the secret of death and the coming-alive life cycle.

But that November was different. Under the grayish snow layer, bullets were fired. The scattered red sparks twinkled all over the enshrouded snow layer. Ubiquitous cry of lamentation. It reverberated echoing in the surrounding red brick buildings. Observing that lamenting roar, the buildings seemed to grow in size. Hail slogans and war cries. The clamor of millions of people overwhelmed with the ecstatic feeling rocked the sky. That clamor piercing the ears of angels and the holy man sleeping in the sky relayed a message. Their thus far duty is done and dusted. For thousands of years, the downtrodden people who shed sweat and tears praying for remission from misery mounted a never seen before rebellion. They broke free from suppression to write their future. Arms became their new personal deities. Amidst the somber, snow-blanketed streets of Saint Petersburg, the fervent worker classes danced and sang in unison, echoing military and harvest slogans. Occasionally, bullets punctuated the air, fired skyward. Among the throng, two notable American journalists stood out: John Reed and Reece Williams. They had arrived to bear witness to the unfolding of the historic October Revolution firsthand. The entire nation is in euphoria, unprecedented. I marvel at how the very foundations of hell remain undisturbed," he penned. "Yes, indeed. When the surge of armed soldiers engulfed the Hermitage Winter Palace, it seemed as if the gates of hell were about to rupture. 'Moscow would have surely fallen,' declared Williams. "Such exuberance, such excitement. The French Revolution must have unfolded with a similar collective fervor." A peasant, adorned in rugged attire, brandishing a rifle, leaped forward, blowing a kiss and exclaiming, "Tovarisch, Tovarisch." Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, he, with an idiosyncratic Russian fervor, bellowed, "Tovarisch, Tovarisch." Like a chant, stretching his arms towards the heavens, tears streaming, he repeated the slogans, an embodiment of the emotions surging within him. “What does that mean?” asked Reed. “A piquing word. It can be translated as comrade or fellow compatriot.” “Why does this word make this elder one crazy”? “This is one of the pivotal slogans of the revolution. It means equality, mutual support, and unity in blood. You can call anyone Tovarisch. Only in this part of the world, you can fondly address someone with this word. Remember, not because of the thoughts it evoked but the emotions it evoked, fire powered the revolution.“ “Each of these surroundings is never seen before. I feel excitement and fear at the same moment” “All great moments evoke these dual feelings” They reached the first line of the war fence. A young soldier carrying a smoke-emitting gun getting up on foot “Comrade, your identity card please” asked. John Reed showed his identity cards. The young soldier greeted him. “Allow me to introduce myself Tribanov. I am a commissar from Georgia. He is Yanishov from Neiboth” “Greetings Comrade. I would like to meet your leader Lenin” He laughed with the face appearing crimson caused by the cold frozen “ Leader? No one is around here with such a title. We have a comrade called Lenin. He is our mentor too” “Yes. True. I wish to meet him” “He is over there in the red square. Or he may be in Smoleny” “Smoleny?” “Tsar’s military college. Now it is the secretariat office of the Soviets” “Can you take me there?” “There is a heavy gunfight over there. There could be at least a thousand Military college students still resisting. Gunfire sound resonated in the surroundings. He heard the whistle blowing sound closer to his ears. “Comrade, Come here quickly and take cover” Once taking cover “Comrade, I guess you are in the war field for the first time,” asked Tribanov. “Yes. How did you know?” “The whistle sound you heard was the sound of bullets. You just escaped death in a whisker” They felt jitters in their gut. Reed `` Oh God. Can't believe the leader of the revolution is right here in this dangerous zone?” They did not respond as they scampered ahead for shooting. A few minutes passed, and there was a commotion. Then it was settled. “Are we really in a dangerous zone?” asked Reed. “Yes, Without a doubt, absolute death is just a few feet away. At this moment, I don't worry about my life as I savored the most cherishing events in these last 10 days. “ Tribanov's lips quivered, filled with emotion. “Comrade, I am not in a meaninglessly motivated battlefield fighting for some x against some x. I am dying for my future generation to create a world where justice alone prevails. There can't be any bigger cause for sacrificing my life.” John Reed, moved by those words turned emotional with profuse tears. He embraced that worker. A few hours passed, and reinforcement force arrived at the scene. The war fence was forged ahead. All the journalists in that spot were taken to Smolney in an old war vehicle. On the way, blood-effusing bodies of fallen soldiers scattered all over as apples fell in a garden. After two days, they came to know that no soldier survived that battle. Smoleny is an aged building. It was a realization of an astounding dream of the Tsar. Enormous red brick pillars. Huge corridor. Wide staircases. Huge parking space for Coach vehicles. There was even a bigger corridor on the first floor. The corridor and foyer swarmed with the heads of Red Army soldiers. Stench of humans. Lamentation of humans. The vehicle stopped a little away from that wave of crowd. A soldier wearing an unfit uniform came closer and asked “American Journalists?”. “Yes” “Come with me. Lenin enquired specially mentioning you” “About us?” “Yes. Come along. “ They penetrated through that bustling crowd and reached the corridor. A short man was sitting on the other side of a huge table in the Smoleny corridor. After checking our identity card “ Comrades, Please sit over there. Help yourself with the company of two German journalists” Those two were moved by that mass ecstatic state. The entire crowd appeared to be single-minded and emotionally hypercharged. Suddenly, there was a cry from the commotion. People around the square where the Tsar Nicholas stone statue was dispersed. Workers climbed all over the statue like bees. By the watch of Tsar's cold eyes, workers placed the hooks over his neck and arms. The ropes of the hook were pulled by hundreds of arms. The statue quivered mildly. Workers jumped out of the statue. Suddenly, the head breaking away fell on the ground and shattered. People scattered out of that place. The dangling podium of the statue fell on the ground rocking the ground. The shattering sound was ears piercing. A crazy mass celebration sound erupted. Unbridled laughter let loose with intermittent crying sounds. Workers climbing on top of the fallen statue, pranced. “Can ever a huge mass of humans losing themselves, unite into such a singular colossal power? Is it even possible?” asked Reed. “You are witnessing it indeed. Histories made when human mass unite as a single unit, motivate to achieve a single goal,” said Williams. “Monstrous power,” said Reed befuddled. “ If it is not channelized in the right path, it may even destroy the world” “He must be a wizard. He has full control over this flood.” “It may appear on the surface level. Didn't you notice the fall of the Tsar? After all, they had been ruling for centuries.” “But this is a different era” “Yes. The era of powerful yet reckless, impetus primeval man. The golden age is bygone. This is the Iron Age” “Do you think he is a man of iron?” “If he is not, this well could be the beginning of a great disaster. These people need an iron-minded leader. Motivated by impregnable fort-like wisdom, unwavering pronounced expressive words emerge from steel-like hearts. “Do you think Vladimir Ilyich is a wonder man?” “I don't believe that” “Let us hope” “Silence, Silence” a loud commanding voice ordered. There followed a cacophony of hundreds of voices. That command visibly enshrouded that crowd like a wave. The first row of men at the entrance turned silent. Slowly the entire crowd settled as if the ocean turned ice in seconds. One man climbed over a cannon vehicle brought there by a few other men. “Look over there. Who is standing over the cannon vehicle? Can't believe my eyes.” “History writing its pages” “Yet” “This is an Iron Age right?” There was a stout yet muscular man in a black robe with h globourous prominent forehead, short nose, tight lips, french beard, glittering hard angled browed eyes, and a spirited smile. “Yes, he is the one. He is looking just like how he was portrayed in the picture,” said Williams. His contagious excitement caught Reed too. The moment of truth is imminent. It is going to be a watershed moment for humanity. The future course of civilization is going to change in a decisive direction forever. Without skipping a beat, I must observe and write about each event, each scene, each news, every word from his mouth, and every pause he takes in this speech. I must store it in my deep-down conscious memory. I would live my entire life as a witness to this momentous moment. This is the sole purpose of my life. Reed’s entire form was quivering. That man, upon climbing over the cannon vehicle, raising his hand, greeted the crowd. A thunderous sound erupted in the crowd as if the smoleny building was going to collapse. He beckoned to settle the crowd. A Silent wave slowly covered the crowd. He appeared tired. His mane waved in the air. His dress was filled with dust and smeared with grease. He was like some enigmatic ancient drawing. The silence grew deeper. A cough, one rifle cling sound and a shoe scratching ground sound sealed that silence. The smell of silence slowly emerged. Mixtures of blood, sweat, firepowder, rugged boots, and snow smell wafted around. The entire crowd was frozen and fixed on that man to hear the next word from this mouth. “Comrade!” said he. As his voice was a little low, it was not audible. He shouted his lungs out “Comrade. We begin our journey for building a socialistic society”

 

Chapter 2 - The Bronze Horseman (poem)

By the billowing Neva River's bank,

Stood a stormy thoughts beset man Gazing upon enormous river flow, Solitude boat drifting, a silent woe A Pushkin ( A Bronze Horseman beginning lines) In October end, Neva freezes like a man recollecting a traumatic memory. The imposing senate building, situated in front of the leaf-shredded trees thoroughfares, not a soul dares to occupy the steel-grated stone tables that line it. The grind of the coach wheel making the snow powder only to be frozen back to snow, is not a pleasant sight. The snowflakes blanketed the steel grates, as I ambled ahead playing with the snowflakes, crumbling it between my fingers. My footstep seemed to reverberate through the mist. It occurred to me that a spectral image hounding me. I always suspect someone is surveilling me closely. Spying is not uncommon in this country. In my case, let me confide with you, I am spying on myself. The former Nicholoi Bhukarin beforemath of learning Philosophy and Politics, who was not a member of the party, a tenderfoot young man, whose sole life purpose was immerse into poems. He was an unassuming, anxious, butter-handed, scrumpy adolescent boy. He fretted over his overly prominent neck and scarcely noticeable lips. Throughout his awakening time, his soul incessantly pondered the question why does this earth turn so languidly? The love letters he penned never reached the mouth of the post box. In the recent past, when he read those letters hidden in a box stored in an underground room, he was seized by profound remorse, how come countless times he was ready to sacrifice his life, most of the time for a woman? He was filled with acute remorse feeling. He sought redemption in a holy altar to self-sacrifice his being. He was a sweet moron. Many of his beloved beauties faded into the recesses of his memory. He happened to see a few of them in the streets. Some peculiar attitude finds a place in the weathered faces of the aged beauties. He first noticed that when he saw the Rathyonavna Siyomski on the stage. It was the expression that made them beautiful in their teen days. The contrived manifestation of the very same expression would turn into the greatest caricature of all drawn by the god. It would make me sniggle. Poor Vera. Now she is the spouse of a Town committee member. He was lucky that his letters did not reach her hands. In this cold political era, love letters are perilous. He noticed a bloke sitting on the stone bench gazing at him. He averted his gaze when their eyes met. I wondered what piqued his attention on me. As a figure poised to attain historical significance, I seldom express my laughter, crying, and anger in public. Concealing the shrewd politician beneath a veneer of composure requires considerable effort. Perhaps he identified that concealed politician within me. I went near and sat beside that juvenile. There is a possibility that he might be a member of the Bolsheviks or a soldier of the Red Army. He might have met me in some instance. No, It is unlikely. I have not attended the party meetings in the last two years. After allowing a few moments to ensure safety and establish a comfort zone “ Good Day, Comrade” I began. His countenance turned pale. The bluish veins and prominent cheeks suddenly turning pale was a repelling sight. How could a man turn such pale? Sharp nose, and his Adam's apple was so thin. My mind was excited as his face looked familiar. “Have we met before?” He smiled. His expression resembled that of a fearful baby. After a brief pause, “ I noticed your gaze on me. Do you know who I am?” “No. I don’t” his voice was trembling, clearly taken aback by the directness of my question. I felt disappointed by his response. “My names Nikolai Bhukharin” He did not seem aware of my name. He smiled. “May I know why you were gazing at me?” I asked. “You must be aware of what it means to gaze at strangers these days” “You. You.. were quoting lines from a poem” said he. His face flushed crimson instantly. His head started quivering. “Did I quote poem? “ “Yes just now, when you were crumbling snowflakes from the steel grates” “It is not possible” “Yes. I heard the same lines of the poem that I was reciting from my heart” His contagious excitement enveloped me. “Which poem?” He seemed embarrassed “It is a well-known old poem. Perhaps you know by heart too. The Bronze Horseman” My heartbeat shot out. My legs moved involuntarily. That poem drove me crazy in my young days. On those days, I must have recited it at least a thousand times happily prancing around. Those verses are part of my every breath. But off late those versed slipped out from my memory. “Pardon me. Could you remind me of the lines you mentioned?” I asked “Those lines laden with traumatic memories. “ said he. “ May I sing them instead? Reciting the poem bores me “ “Please do” He cleared his throat and began softly. With each word, he emphasized the poetic depth, as if summoning another persona from within. "Neither died, nor one of the living, neither a beast nor a human, but some enigmatic spirit," he recited. An agonizing ache gripped me, surging through every fiber of my being and sapping my strength. I reclined, parting my legs in an attempt to ease the overwhelming intensity. "Did I hurt you?" the youth inquired. "No," I replied. "It's just some old memories resurfacing. Not sure if they're pleasant or haunting." "Indeed," he murmured. "Are you a fan of Pushkin's poetry?" I asked. "I would die reciting his lines," he confessed, shocking me with his fervor. It felt like déjà vu as he gestured toward the bronze horseman. "That's the bronze horseman. He's never changed except for the face." I glanced at the statue. As the mist dissipated from the Senate ground, a cleft in the sky emerged, resembling a cascading waterfall. Tsar Peter's bronze horseman stood revealed, bathed in a luminous glow that emphasized every crease in the dress and sparkle in the horse's mane. The elevated legs and sinewy flesh of the horse and its neck extended in a pose of majestic grandeur. Comfortable Peter emanating a sense of valor holding that rein in this hand. Statue’s countenance, etched with the imprints of dreams, pride, and a steadfast gaze, held an uncanny sense of familiarity. The 3D bronze statue imparted a dreamlike ambiance to the entire setting. It was as though a color drawing had sprung to life, endeavoring to establish a communion with us. "Two centuries ago, a man stood on the banks of this river. The Neva flowed vigorously, resembling a wild forest river, surging through the lightless marshes on both sides. Makeshift shanties of Finnish fishermen released smoke from their chimneys. Delicate blue wisps drifted through the enveloping mist. Dinghies tethered to dock poles seemed like restless dogs ready to leap into the Neva, breaking free from their chains. The fishing boats unfurled their wings. In that era, Russia, too, mirrored the essence of this river. Robust, unyielding, and relentless, akin to the stern love of a barbaric mother, it harbored a cruel devotion.” "Yes, that is history," I acknowledged. His discourse took me by surprise, yet I found myself completely immersed in his speech. It is rare to encounter such a consciousness unfiltered, human voice these days. "On that day, perched atop a rock, he spent hours contemplating the river. My country is an eyeless monster, a windowless palace. Let an eye appear, let windows emerge. Through them, we will behold the entirety of Europe. May the essential fragrance of all civilizations fill my soul," he commanded, beckoning with his hand. “Yes this is the destiny of this city” "This city, sprouting from marsh soil and dense forest, reached sky-high. Red clouds tapped on palace balconies and vibrant highways. Tapestry of life, bustling supermarkets, operas, army marching squares, feasts, and parties. Along the Neva, stone-crafted embankments emerged, hosting ships from far-off nations. The entire world seemed to descend from it," he began to sing. Oh Illustrious city of Peter May you thrive as bold as Mother Russia Mighty Nature’s forces will yield in front of you Former enemies dissolved in the annals of time Undulating Finnesh Waves pays homage to your splendor A gentle breeze caressing me unlocked all the doors of my soul. Tears welled within me. One single melody, one single poignant song that made me cry in the young days, propelled me to some distant realm and made me feel like a solitary boat drifting in a vast ocean. “So many lines left unwritten by Pushkin,” said that Young man. “This city was ascended over the thousands of Finnish fishermen's lives. Millions of slaves transported from the distant Chechnya, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan endured the cruel lash and toiled tirelessly until their last breath met in this soil. Human bodies enriched the base of this land as much as the forest deep woods” “Yes, Pushkin metaphorically captured their sacrifice through the impoverished Finnish young Yevkani,” said he. “Indeed. Did you get a chance to read the historical background of this novel?” “Not extensively” “Pushkin was fond of the name He directly referenced it in his verses and even authored a novella titled 'Yevkani Onekin” “Yes” “He was his fellow compatriot poet Yevkani Paradatheis. He had an ardent passion for Yevkani's poetry. Yevkani was originally part of the December Revolution. He was captured and exiled to Siberia. He died there. Pushkin has so many letters unsent addressed to Yevkani even after he departs” “Does that flood symbolize the December revolt?” “Undoubtedly. Pushkin meticulously documented the Decembarists in his journals capturing their visages with manic intensity. Through his vivid visual narrative, he indirectly suggested his profound connection, as if he too might have been a participant. Poor Pushkin. The faces of Decemberists hounded him forever.” “Why did not he take part in the movement?” The youth trembled overwhelmed with emotions then raised his voice “Sir, He is a poet. His actions are driven by his pure soul. For day and night, he could pour forth his emotions through his imagination. In his dreams alone, he could sacrifice his life by hanging a rope or firing a cannon. Only in his mind, he could be exiled to Siberia and toil through it. He did not directly take part in the movement as he is a poet” I was not surprised by his reaction as I know that was the nature of a poet. All of a sudden, he took a step back visibly embarrassed. “Perhaps” he hesitated “He is a coward. His reasons through poems must have been fiction mere excuses to hide his timidity. His poems are just reasons to fill the gap of his cowardice. His poetic sense is vast, and so too is his cowardice. “Pushkin’s aggression is evident from the lines describing the flood,” I said. “ As winter nears the end, Neva’s frozen surface begins to fracture, tumultuous collision of snow rocks emitted as if frowning. It erupts with a lamentation akin to a feverish man's anguish." In tumultuous churn, the waters coil, Sweeping through the islands' soil. Unbridled waves, and rains, they came, High rose the river, in wild flame, Like boiling water, Neva's might, Flood roared into the city's sight. His words resonated like the chirping of an unfamiliar bird. When I listened to the volcanic verses of Pushkin through his voice, a hundred new voices stirred within the depths of my being. It seemed as though I had traversed vast distances carried along by the currents of his voice. It was only when the waves of my mind began to settle that I noticed him, deeply immersed in his thoughts. A rare sobriety, akin to the quietude of early mornings, filled me. I resolved to dispel it by continuing the conversation. "Floods will eventually subdue, Comrade. We are not prepared to accept this in our youthful days." "Yevkani, for a few moments, fixed his gaze upon the Bronze Horseman, meeting its eyes directly. In that fleeting second, his resolute stare caused the pride-filled eyes of the bronze equestrian to falter," continued the youth. "Indeed, only those rare moments possess the power to ascend to the pages of history." "I witnessed Yevkani being swept away by the flood, seeking refuge beside the lion statue in the military academy, nestled under the dome at the corner of Peter's Square. Beneath his feet lay a tumultuous burial ground of bodies and countless treasures. Tongues of waves licked at everything around him. All that he had once looked upon with lofty regard, all that had held high rank in his eyes, now lay beneath him, subdued and lifeless. With a single push, he could reduce palatial structures to dust. Yet, his mind restrained him. He did not succumb to the intoxication of power. Instead, he found himself consumed by anxiety over the unfolding events. "What is happening, why such a disaster?" his mind screamed. Amidst the confusion, clear thoughts eluded him. In his later life, frequently he traversed through the same turbulent, fiery state of his mind. When Yevkani opened his eyes, he beheld the very image of the Bronze Horseman, turning grand, pride-filled countenance and haughty eyes. Flotsams and jetsams, rags draped over it, the flood coursing and covering its chest, it seemed as if poised for a leap. In a fleeting moment, Yevkani was startled. Peter, attaining a monstrous size, returned to life. Once his thoughts settled, his gaze turned toward the statue. The once dignified countenance now displayed a hint of provoked intensity, as if ready to burst forth with life. His focus narrowed on the statue's eyes, which conveyed an array of emotions—vengeance, humiliation, ferocity, and impotence. In the very next moment, a trace of fear flickered across the eyes, exhilarating Yevkani's senses. It tempted him to dance with excitement, though he refrained from shouting the triumphant slogan as the visage transformed into a sardonic smile. The smile, however, bore the weight of bitter indifference, eventually freezing into a chilling and merciless expression. Unable to withstand the statue's final expression, he averted his gaze. “Am I boring you?” asked the youth. I opened my eyes, hit by an intense headache—a consequence of indulging in alcohol during the late hours of the night. The influence of alcohol amplifies during moments of solitude, eroding our control over consumption levels, and resulting in weariness that consumes us like a relentless current. My room, once clear, now appeared shrouded in an impenetrable haze. Broken artifacts and remnants of days gone by weighed heavily on my mind, sinking into the recesses of memories. The room, filled with silent spider webs and lingering odors, only stirred to life at night. A rhythmic sound, "tat tat tat," accompanied by creaks and friction, reverberated through the air. Powerless to stop the noise, I would hastily reach for a vodka bottle. As the vodka poured, it inundated the room, submerging every object. Gradually, the noise subsided, and the submerged items found their place. The weightless remnants floated atop the liquid until, at last, the air escaped, bringing tranquility to my trembling body. A fleeting sense of fulfillment ensued as the room, like a ponderous ship in a storm, broke free and sank into a peaceful ocean, finding its rest. However, the aftermath lingered—the next day, my entire being carried the unmistakable scent of vodka. My nerves struggled under its weight. Morning would arrive, exonerating the pain and weariness. Now I found it challenging to convey this experience to the youth. To them, alcohol remains a mere liquid. I sighed deeply. “What are you thinking?” he asked. "After the draining of the flood, what remains are silts, dregs, decaying corpses, and sludges, remnants of the chaos that once engulfed us. The river, however, resumes its natural flow, indifferent to the upheaval it caused. These events witnessed firsthand, will soon find their place in the annals of history. History, an ever-present disheartening force, remains an unwelcome companion. The floodwaters recede, leaving behind marks on the walls, silent witnesses to the intensity of the deluge. As we contemplate the aftermath, we may dwell on the sorrow and wonder of what could have been. But it amounts to nothing more than a stumbling, revelry, and an emotional unraveling, no deeper than the surface amidst the ebb and flow of life." Yevkani’s visit to slum to meet his lover post draining is a sorrow filled sight. Here stood her humble Shanty, Here marked her entrance, Here defined its threshold, The flood, without trace, did erase. Emanating a nauseous sensation, a poignant emotion welled up within my core. Sealing my lips tightly, I strive to restrain the burgeoning sentiment. Despite my efforts, a subdued hiccup escapes. Moments later, my barriers relent, and my doors open. Tears flow freely, akin to a cascading waterfall. After years of restraint, breaking through the misty veil, I unleash the flood of my heart's lament. No trace of destruction remains, Sunshine blankets the scene, Veiling the day's terror, The world embraced normalcy Through open streets, detached, Strolled the inhabitants of the big city. My voice harmonizing with his in perfect unison, the lyrics of the song resonated deeply. Yevkani, transformed into a frenzied figure, rent his garments asunder and careened through the streets. From within those verses, a solitary line emerged, cleaving through me with an unexpected force. He was seized by a rush of nightmares. Startled, he awoke. Abruptly, his singing ceased, and he was left perplexed. To recover from his shock, he began to pace around. Across the merciless snow of Nova, the sunrays unfurled. "Were you able to identify the fisherman who seemed possessed?" asked the youth. "Who might it be?" "Who else but Pushkin? I see it with unmatched clarity. Sleepless, tormented by heartache and nights drowned in drink, he finds his way here. In the winter dawn, in a square deserted by souls, he stands before this statue. The city, now accustomed to the grim news of the December revolutionaries' demise, is slowly cloaked in a fear that camouflages itself. Before this bronze statue, he stands, feeling like a soul utterly crushed and humiliated." Raising his head, Yevkani cast a glance at the Bronze Horseman statue. Under the horse's reared legs, the city seemed to cower in fear. Disbelief took hold as his eyes bore witness to the impossible. The statue's bronze frame trembled, its tail quivered. The horse raised its head, shaking its mane vigorously. Suddenly, it lashed out at him, trampling on his chest with the ferocity of a wild beast. Horses, an army of them, unleashed for years, for centuries, eternally. The man, propelled by a maniacal terror, dashed haphazardly through the city streets. Pursued by the Bronze Horseman, now a magnificent and terrifying apparition. No hiding place could be found in the nooks and corners of the city. Desperate, he leaped into the icy Neva. As a frothy wave, the fog over the Neva was carried westward by the wind. The river lay still, its fractured snow floats drifting gently on its surface. The cursed dwelling stands forsaken, He collapsed upon its threshold, A hapless maniac, now lifeless, Passersby subdued his existence. He concluded by reciting a poem by Pushkin. His words reverberated within me, echoing repeatedly. Together, we walked in solemn silence, burdened by unspoken weight. Breaking that silence “ Thank you. I must leave. It has been quite some time “ "I must extend my gratitude. This poem and I have yearned for your arrival for a long time” It felt as though I had witnessed a flash of lightning. As my thoughts momentarily halted, I reached out for a handshake. His chilly fingers clasped my palm, and we shook hands. I struggled to cast off the thoughts of him as I trudged along the cold road with heavy steps. Over the years, I have been practicing the art of disentangling myself from incomprehensible thoughts. The boulders in the road appeared as if the fractures Snow rocks drifting over the Nova. Compelling my mind into the next step, I sought to attain a semblance of tranquility. I continued walking in this manner for a considerable distance. My name is inscribed on a fractured snow rock, cold impatiently drifting , eagerly awaiting the imprint of my foot. Why couldn't I sleep last night? Why did I read some old letters almost maniacally? Why did memories of him flood back to me? Why did I find myself repeatedly gazing at Anna's baby? It was here, on the banks of Nova, where he had once spent the best days of his life, his vibrant youth and sagacious spirit intertwined. In that epoch, a tempest swept through our existence. Veracious as it may be, history, at times, unfurls unbelievable pages. Indeed, it is the very purpose that led me to this place. The chill of the merciless winter has unveiled to me the depths of agony, instilling within my soul an overwhelming fear.

I discerned the shadow gradually veiling my surroundings. The relentless pursuit of its presence became apparent to me. Verily, it is the ominous silhouette of the Bronze Horseman.

 Chapter 3 - Gusts of Snow ( M Veerabadra Pillai B.A)

Stage: An Ancient Russian Home. There exists two doorways: the main portal and a secondary entrance, discreetly leading to the kitchen and anteroom. At the heart of this domicile, a flaming hearth constructed from red bricks in curvy fashion.  Above this source of warmth and light, a bookshelf stands. Crowning this repository a coals ablaze, smoke whispering samovar rests. Hanging from a silver holder, a dual candle burns, casting a twin flame. In this setting of, a pair of rocking chairs, occupying one, a young lady of eighteen summers, her figure draped in a woolen knitwear, finds solace in the pages of a book. Outside, the nature manifests as gusts of wind and as a sound of snowflakes descending. Over the wall, a statue of Jesus Christ, crafted from silver, captures the faint glow of the candlelight.

A middle-aged woman makes her appearance, entering the scene with a quiet presence. The young lady, catching sight of her, turns her attention inquisitively towards the woman.

Mother: "Haven't you gone to bed yet? Do you not realize how late it is?"

Anna: "No, I just feel as though he might arrive at any moment."

Mother: (Settling into the chair, which emits a creaking noise) "It's the dead of winter. I've never experienced such cold in this land before—it's as if God has forsaken us, leaving us in the clutches of Satan."

Anna: (Startled) "Mother, what are you saying?" (She glances around, assessing their surroundings) "When will you learn to temper your words? Do you speak so recklessly with everyone?"

Mother: (With a look of pity) "I was merely speaking of the snow."

Anna: (With fervent intensity) Choose your words with care before you speak.

Mother: Am I no longer permitted even to lament the harshness of the snow?

Anna: (Exasperated) Mother! Oh, Mother, I find myself at a loss to make you understand.

Mother: You were too young to grasp the past. Merely a toddler of three when the great October Revolution unfolded. Your father served on the front lines of the war for two long years. There were no letters exchanged during that time. I found myself on the brink of financial ruin, the house ensnared by the relentless snow. Venturing into the forest alone, I gathered sticks for firewood. With that, we could heat only this room. Huddled in front of the hearth, we spent days and nights. In those harrowing times, every part of our home, save for this room, succumbed to the icy grasp of the snow. Even rats and insects, desperate to escape the tightening grip of the cold, sought refuge near our hearth. In our midst lived an elderly lady, her demeanor still echoing the grace of a duchess, born into privilege and opulence. Unwavering in her loyalty, she could never comprehend the October Revolution, her allegiance to the Tsarist regime undiminished until her final breath. May I recount that tale?

Anna: I am not in the mood for stories.

Mother: What other choice do we have in this snowy climate?

Anna: Can't you see, I am reading this book.

Mother: The same old books again. How many times can you read them?

Anna: It's the umpteenth time you've recounted the same old story.

Mother: Memories may be old, but they never run dry. Each retelling brings forth new thoughts, a comfort found in words, assuring that the haunting days won't be relived. It could help us erase the past – the cold, starvation, loneliness, fear, and the loss of confidence. Huh huh. What horrendous days those were. We were clueless about what was happening and when the war would end. So many tales unfolded – the Red Army overpowering the Winter Palace, the death of the Tsar, followed by another narrative of the White Army obliterating the Red Army. And if that weren't enough, Mithayevna, the elderly lady, shared a spine-chilling story. Amidst the bleak aftermath of battle, the fallen soldiers of the Red Army lay, their severed heads forming a morbid mound reminiscent of Peter's transformation of the marshy landscapes into Saint Petersburg. Much like the Tsar's ambitious vision for a new city rising from the ground, here, it was to be built upon the somber foundation of fallen comrades. The biting cold gripped me, rendering my voice silent, unable even to shed a tear for the chilling scene before me.

Anna: (mockingly) Ah, a newfound eloquence in your storytelling, I see.

Mother: (dismissively responding to the jest) Turmoil ensued with riots and pillages unfurling in the streets. Peasants and rogues alike ran amok, raiding homes, capturing helpless women in their wake. In our exodus from home, seeking solace within the walls of the Churches, we encountered a stark reality – a scarcity of firewood. The challenge of baking bread with the limited flour at hand pressed upon us. In our desperate plight, we resorted to burning the furniture within the church. We subsisted on meager rations, sustaining ourselves with dry bread and tea bereft of sweetness. After a trying period of ten days, a glimmer of hope emerged as Father found us. It was as though sunshine had suddenly bathed us in its warmth, illuminating our surroundings with newfound relief. Father declared the triumph of the revolution as the red flag soared above the Saint Petersburg palace. Overwhelmed, he seemed to lose himself, tears streaming down his face as he sang songs of jubilation. In his euphoria, he showered kisses upon himself, me, and the elderly lady. The elderly lady remarked dramatically, "I am proud of your loyalty to the Tsar, evident in the shedding of your blood." , oblivious to the true nature of the situation.  Her sincere yet ironic sentiment elicited laughter from us all that day.  Would you care to continue listening?

Anna: Go ahead.

Mother: As we journeyed homeward, the streets bore witness to the devastation of arson, with public properties engulfed in flames and corpses strewn about. Homes lay ransacked, their contents pillaged, while within our own abode, only lifeless rats remained.Father, in a moment of levity, quipped, "Ah, the revolution, the antidote to our lurking enemy,"   likening our surroundings to the desolate streets of post-revolution Moscow.

Anna: ( Getting up moving towards window) Rain is stopped no Gusts of snow too. 

Mother: Yet, I have never known a winter as bitterly cold as this, where the very hooves of horses seem to crackle in the frost."

Anna : ( growing concerned), "Where has he gone? It has been very late."

Mother: ( reassured): "He holds a high-ranking post, likely immersed in the throes of hectic work."

Anna: "But he promised he would return by evening."

Mother: "His official duties likely prevented him from keeping his promise."

Anna's sudden somberness overwhelmed the room as she confessed, "I cannot understand, mother."

Mother, her tone subdued, responded, "And now you cry. I waved the red flag at this mismatched marriage. Your husband was your father's comrade, twenty years your senior. His life was spent mostly on battlefields and in village propaganda. You didn't heed my warnings; his high rank overrode my concerns."

Anna asserted, "I've told you thousands of times, Mother. It's not his high post that captivates me." Emphasizing her point, she continued, "He is the greatest revolutionary leader of our country, a close confidante of Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin. A profound thinker in his own right."

Mother responded, "You urged me to hold my tongue, yet Trotsky's perilous name slips from your lips."

Anna, visibly confused and turning pale, shushed, "Do not shout."

Mother, with a measured tone, explained, "Your husband is a prominent figure, a member of the Politburo, bearing immense responsibilities. Being his wife is no ordinary role, especially for such a young lady as yourself." 

Anna: (gracefully turning her countenance) Though I am young, I am bound to him as his wife. (a hint of blush on her cheeks) Even now, amidst the frivolous affections of adolescent boys, the ardor of his earlier days of love for me still lingers. In those moments of fervent passion, he enveloped me ecstatically. I recall a day, strolling together in the garden. Reciting Pushkin's verses, he tried to pluck a flower, offering it to me with romantic flair. Struggling to pluck a flower from the cluster of plants, he stumbled through the verses repeatedly. That incident still elicits laughter from me even now.

Mother: The sweetness of love is fleeting.

Anna: (in a displeased tone) Perhaps that is your experience of love.

Mother: (sighs) Like the post-revolutionary honeymoon days, love endures.

Anna: The spring of love never runs dry.

Mother: I'm not one for poems.

Anna: (sighs) He might appear at any moment.

Mother: My dear, your patience in awaiting his arrival is a testament to your love. Yet, my eyes yearn for sleep. (Planting a gentle kiss on her forehead) Goodnight, my sweet. We shall meet in the morning. (She gracefully fades away.)

(Tense silence envelops the room, broken only by the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock. She tends to the hearth, coaxing warmth into the chilled air. After a moment,  She recites a poem loud and clear, each word slicing through the silence.)

Comrades, let us unite,

To sing the Dawn Twilight song in chorus bright.

The snow shall yield and fade from sight,

Each bird, in knowing, takes to flight.

The light shall free us from our binds,

Let us embrace the song that the soul of light finds.

To break our chains, the utmost bliss,

In liberation, we find our truest peace.

Anna: In his physical form, he carries the innocence of a child. Yet, how marvelously he lifts us into the ethereal realms of light with merely his words. Truly, he is a creator touched by grace, singled out by the earth itself from millions of souls, , endowing him with words of profound lightness.

(The familiar sound of a car coming to a halt, followed by the familiar creak of doors opening and closing outside.)

"Nikita!" (Her voice brimming with exuberant fervor, she rushes towards the entrance of the house.) "Nikita, how much longer must I wait to behold that face?"

Bukharin: Alas, it is late. Why are you still awake?

Anna: I was awaiting your return.

Bukharin: I was detained at the Central Politburo meeting.

Anna: Wasn't it scheduled for the morning?

Bukharin: It concluded during the night.

Anna: Nevertheless, why did it run so late?

Bukharin: Anna Mikailevna, it's  a complicated affair ( He closes his eyes and stretches wearily)

Anna: Have you had your dinner yet?

Bukharin: Yes.

Anna: (softly) Would you care for a cup of tea?

Bukharin: (Perplexed) Pardon?

Anna: (Gazing at him with meaning) Tea...

Bukharin: Yes, I would appreciate that.

Anna poured the tea from the samovar into a delicate cup, offering it to Bukharin. He sips it, deeply engrossed.

Anna: Osip’s poems were gracing my thoughts as you entered.

Bukharin: (half-absorbed) I see?

Anna: His words, like golden strands of the heart, ache with profound beauty. I wonder why he has not graced us with his presence of late.

Bukharin: (Startled, he fumbles, nearly losing his cup, but manages to steady it, his composure slowly returning) Did you mention Osip?

Anna: What troubles you? I simply inquired about Osip Mandelstam, the poet.

Bukharin: (Struggling to control his trembling fingers against his cheek) Anna... (pauses for a few moments) There's something I must confess to you.

Anna: (Suddenly gripped by fear) Osip? (Her fear echoes in a haunting tone.)

(Bukharin lowers his head in silence.)

Anna: (Shaking Bukharin urgently) Nikita, what has befallen Osip? You must tell me.

Bukharin: (In a fearful tone) I cannot say for certain.

Anna: What do you mean?

Bukharin: The last I heard, he was taken by the secret police for interrogation.

Anna: Then what?

Bukharin: It has been 40 days since.

Anna: (Her heart breaking, she weeps loudly) Osip, his heart was as tender as a child's.

Bukharin: (Touched by guilt) He must be alright. Just taken for questioning.

Anna: Do you not understand the implications of the word "interrogation" in this country?

Bukharin: Yes, I am aware. But my hands are tied.

Anna: (Accusingly) Ashamed, Nikita? You, a member of the Politburo shaping the destiny of our nation, and you claim helplessness? 

Bukharin: (Rising wearily) Every wife envisions her husband possessing superhuman abilities.

Anna: (Furious) How can you remain so composed? How can you absolve yourself of Osip's fate? Countless pleasant days spent in this room, engaging in literary debates. His sharp intellect and childlike camaraderie with you still linger vividly in my memory. Bukharin: (Sitting back in the chair) I spoke with "him" today. Anna: With whom? Bukharin: (In a furious tone) With whom? That sunset Jesus, Genghis Khan, Tsar Peter. Anna: (Sighs heavily) Keep yourself composed. Bukharin: There's nothing left to hold back. I poured out everything I've concealed within my mind thus far. Anna: (Trembling voice) Face to face, directly? (Anna, in a high-pitched wail, holds her head) Bukharin: No more use in veiled words and measured tones. I divulged everything to him directly. Bukharin: In truth, I went to discuss Osip with him. Anna: And what did he say? Bukharin: He responded calmly and amiably, listening to my grievances with open ears. He even made note of them, promising to rectify any mistakes made. The devil delights in preying upon the wounded. Anna: You mentioned he responded calmly. Bukharin: I could never fathom the emotions concealed behind those two enigmatic little eyes. Anna: Everything is just a figment of your imagination. Bukharin: (Maintaining composure, steadfastly) Anna, you are not privy to the intricacies of Party affairs. I refrained from discussing them earlier to spare you any distress. Anna: (Confidently) Well, you can confide in me now. Bukharin: I hold a profound belief in your confidence and patience. Each time I reflect upon it, I sense an exceptionally strong character within you. Intelligentsia, conspiracies, and commanders-in-chief, all vanquished. (He holds his head, experiencing a sudden surge of force emitting from within.) I've never made exceptions to these thought processes. (He holds his head, shaking it vigorously.) Anna, you epitomize the essence of a Russian woman. Oh God, what sort of artificial words are these? (He stands up.) No, Anna, no one can defeat you. One day, history will kneel before you, beseeching forgiveness. You shall not be destroyed. You will endure this coldest of seasons and witness the arrival of Spring. (Emotion-filled, he paces around the room.) Do you realize who you are? Oh God, how did I perceive everything so clearly. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky both immortalized your character in words, as Natasha, Nelli, Sonia, and Kitty. You never permit logic to shroud your conscience. Cynicism and fear never envelop your innate ethics. Your soul never runs dry, never loses its mercy. Because, you are the fertile land. Unlike us, mere matchsticks burning and turning to ash in seconds. You are the seeds from which eternal torrents, like generations, flow. They emerge from your soil, never aware of this cold weather. When they are born, there will be a resounding blow to these cold rocks. Yes, in tomorrow. (Filled with tears) How remarkably clear I could see the future. The confidence it imparts to today is akin to one who has lost their way, surrounded by snow everywhere, suddenly witnessing golden dawn rays at the peak of the mountains. Anna: (Composed) You were about to share the inside matters of the party. Bukharin: Yes. (Silence prevails for a few seconds) Anna, unlike what you may think, I do not hold a prominent position in the party hierarchy. Slowly, I've been relieved of all my responsibilities. Myself, Rico, Tomsky, and Papa Colin hold no official position within the party. Anna: Why so? Bukharin: When the new Economic Policy was revoked, we found ourselves jobless. Despite our best efforts to argue its benefits in the Politburo, our collective opinion held no sway. It became apparent later that the New Economic Policy had been used as a weapon to undermine Trotsky's influence. Regrettably, we were mere pawns unwittingly aiding in Trotsky's removal from the party. Anna: Where is he now? Bukharin: Unofficial reports indicate that he sought asylum in some South American country. Additionally, there are rumors circulating about the deployment of secret mercenaries sent to surveil and potentially eliminate him. Anna: I happened to see Trotsky twice in my life. A strong and stout-formed person, with an unyielding and passionate personality. On that day, there was a huge crowd thronging to catch a glimpse of his face. It was a wave of faces filled with exuberance. But Trotsky remained unaffected by that crowd's fervor. (She let out a Sigh.) Bukharin: Yes, that is Trosky. He was grown surrounded by extremely emotional people. Always filled with passion. Emotional debates. Speeches. But he was a very lonely person. The silence confined him like a glass cage. Anna: He has no formidable one to challenge - underscore him. Bukharin: I don't think so. He likes to walk on the cake, but he couldn't even bear the noise of dry leaves trampling underfoot. (Furiously) Coward, a big coward. Like a rabbit in a hole, he flinched at every sound he heard. He sees enemies in every movement around him. This cowardly tyrant is extremely pernicious. Anna: How could he not flinch every moment? After all, he catapulted himself to the peak of power just by plots and conspiracies. Bukharin: (Trembling) Ah, the cat is out of the bag. Your perception of my image thus far hidden stands revealed before you.

Anna: Oh no, I did not mean. Bukharin: I absolutely understand your perspective of me. (Getting up, walking around restlessly) In the early power struggles, I was the one who argued and convinced Siminov and Kamnev that if Trotsky came to power, it would mean the end for them, as they would be his main competitors. I used threats and bought their support. When I look back, I've been contemplating so much about how they bought into that argument. It must have been a reflection of the deep-seated fears in their minds. What is the source of that fear? These great individuals came together with a golden dream for humanity, as instruments of the great revolution. How did they become ensnared in this fear? Do you know why, dear Anna? Anna: Why? Bukharin: If Trotsky were to become the head of the state, the feared consequences were very much plausible. Anna : Nikta! Bukharin: Anna, above all, these two were the most intimate companions of Trotsky, familiar with his innermost thoughts. They closely monitored his psyche while collaborating closely. The tale of Philipkulmich Mirona remains etched in their memories. Anna: Who is he? Bukhari: He was a comrade of your father, one of the most esteemed commanders in the Red Army. He stood as Trotsky's closest ally for eight years. Born into a humble Cossack family, he ascended as soldier in the Tsar's army. He was personally selected by Trotsky for the Red Army. This man led the vanguard that stormed the Kremlin during the October Revolution. In 1921, he was dispatched to the south to quell the Cossack uprising. Distressed by the harsh treatment meted out to the simple Cossack folk and their possessions by the Red Army, he confronted Trotsky, pleading for an end to the brutality. He cautioned that if the Red Army's excesses in the aftermath of suppression were not curtailed, the entire Cossack populace would turn against us, perhaps even joining the White Army. Trotsky, however, refused to heed his warning. Mironov was subsequently accused of blasphemy and met his end through hanging. Trotsky was the one who ordered his capital punishment. Now, I find myself in Mironov's position, and he mirrors the Trotsky's state of mind . It's the same cycle of emotional turmoil, suggesting I may well meet the same end. But why say 'perhaps'? Indeed, my demise appears to be a foregone conclusion, imminent and unavoidable. Anna: Nikita! You've completely lost confidence. Bukharin: No, Anna. It's not about losing confidence; I simply have no plans for the future. The strategies we once held dear have crumbled to dust. Thus, we can evaluate past events without the burden of future worries. The Bolsheviks are, at their core, propelled by a vicious force—fratricide among comrades. The genesis of Bolshevik empowerment, if we trace its roots, lies in the intricate dance of plots and schemes. And behold, through the corridors of time, that legacy endures. Anna: Are you referring to Lenin? Bukharin: I am recalling his exact words regarding the Mensheviks. Though I endeavor to stifle such memories, they persist like an indigestible bitterness, stirring within me a nauseating unease. According to Lenin, the Mensheviks have no place on this earth save for the confines of prison. Any hint of opposition to the revolution, no matter how minuscule, must be eradicated without a trace. In the fervor of revolution's zenith, our senses were engulfed, our ears deaf to dissenting murmurs. The last Menshevik who dared to shun foreign asylum met his fate at the hands of the Revolutionary government. To us, the revolution stood as the resurrected son of God, its damage deemed as inevitable collateral. Anna: I am in disbelief; I hail from a generation that heralded the revolution as the dawn of a golden era. Bukharin: Indeed, it is a dawn. Have you ever met with Kerensky? Anna: I presume he was a Menshevik. Bukharin: (With a wry smile) Speak it aloud. Menshevik. Anti-revolutionary. Advocate of regression. Anna, recall the Mensheviks' stance. They contended that the revolution, led by the working class with the aid of armed forces, amounted to a mere transfer of power—a pseudo-revolution, lacking true transformative essence. They argued that the revolution must originate from the Russian soil itself. I recall Kerensky's impassioned speech on television, where he bellowed "Comrades" with fervor. Even now, this great nation remains predominantly agrarian, with 80% of its population still under the feudal yoke of landlords. Every village in this country stands as a segregated entity, untouched by the industrial tide. Many have yet to feel the slightest impact of modernization. The majority of the population remains unaware that the government is meant to function for the people. Let us begin by educating them on the principles of socialism. Let the first seeds of revolution sprout from there. Each of Kerensky's words seemed to echo those of Lenin from a few months prior. Anna: What unfolded afterward? Bukharin: Lenin seized upon an opportune moment, as weary, disillusioned soldiers returned from the battlefield, harboring resentment toward the existing government. He discerned their yearning for ceasefire, wasting no time in devising his scheme. Lenin envisioned the revolution as the ultimate battle for peace. All that transpired stemmed from that vision. Kerensky, once a proponent, lamented in the assembly, "Comrades, the faction of disillusioned armed men and agitated workers does not authentically represent the spirit of this entire nation. This chapter of history is undoubtedly complex. An interim government, acting as a compromised force between the army and the workers, could provide stability until the workers are educated in the principles of revolutionary philosophy. Kerensky's prophecy foretold of ambitious factions uniting to claim dominion, plunging Russia into the abyss of exploitation and ruin. Yet, in my fervor, I denounced him with damning words, branding him a coward and power-hungry opportunist. Trotsky, too, added his damning words, branding Kerensky as naught but history's scavenger. Now, every utterance of Kerensky echoes like the resurrected Redeemer, Jesus Christ himself, returning to challenge the conscience of our times. Anna: Did you not foresee this at the time, Nikita? Bukharin: My mind was veiled by the intoxicating fervor of victory. Even now, I recall those moments vividly. When news reached me of the Winter Palace's capture, yes, indeed, I had a boner, swept up in an undeniable rush of excitement.

Anna: (With disgust) Nikita!

Bukharin: The immense force of that wave was beyond human restraint, engulfing me entirely, penetrating every fiber of my being. When Kerensky fled to Norway, Trotsky dispatched secret police to track him down and silence him. In that moment, I struggled to see the cruelty in such an act, even for a fleeting second. So many assassinations, so much bloodshed, ethics blurred into oblivion. Humanity's moral compass lost amidst the chaos, discarded like ancient superstitions. A new brand of ethics emerged, concocted and adhered to with fervor. Lenin proclaimed, "After this great revolution, even the birds will soar as before." But was this truly a revolution? Merely a fleeting episode in the annals of history. Such occurrences have repeated throughout time, a recurring theme etched upon the pages of our collective past.

Anna: Nikita, are you rejecting Lenin as well?

Bukharin: Presently, I find myself without a definitive philosophical stance against Lenin, yet doubts about his ideology linger within me.

Anna: Are you questioning the very essence of revolution?

Bukharin: Indeed, I question not the concept of revolution itself, but rather its ethical implications. Consider, every hardship we endure traces back to the upheaval of revolution, does it not? Why then should we expect mercy from Stalin, when we extended none to the Mensheviks? Trotsky proclaimed that mercy belongs to an era long past. Words like love, loyalty, and culture were once wielded by capitalists to perpetually exploit the working class. In this new era's dawn, let us forge and uphold fresh morals, ethics, and values. Indeed, the lexicon of this new age is adorned with words like fraternity and equality. I can still vividly recall the brilliance in his eyes as he uttered those words in the dim half-light. That illumination was but a mere droplet of the immense force that swept through us all. May my eyes, too, be overwhelmed by that potent force.

Anna: (hesitantly) You've undergone a profound transformation. Your mind and heart seem utterly shattered. Not just your beliefs and ambitions, but every aspect of you appears to be in disarray.

Bukharin: (weeping uncontrollably) There's nothing left within me. I am but an empty vessel, soon to be consumed by the soil. My thoughts and body will fade away, my seeds never to be sown. Nothing remains that truly belongs to me.

Anna: (Holding his shoulder) Nikita, is this truly you?

Bukharin: (Settling) My ego lies in ruins. With its collapse, I feel utterly devoid of purpose. My entire existence seems devoid of meaning.

Anna: Nikita, I'm at a loss. (weeping)

Bukharin: I've come to realize the desolate destination my ego has led me to—void, emptiness. Yet, there seems to be no alternative outcome. For millennia, saints have spoken of this arrogance culminating in the abyss of emptiness.

Anna: Why must you shoulder all the blame for whatever has transpired? Bukharin: No, Anna, I'm not assigning blame to myself. I am merely engaging in critical analysis of my own actions. Did you know, I vividly foresaw these events in my instinctive thoughts long before they occurred? Anna: Can it really be so? Bukharin: Alone, as my innermost thoughts stir awake, casting aside the deceptive dance of words, fear grips me upon recognizing the unfolding events. Yet, swiftly, I endeavor to quell this dread, drenching it with words. I seek solace in the rational explanations I've spun, hoping to distill some shred of hope from them.( his anxiety palpable as he rises and begins to pace) Upon meeting Chengiz Khan alone, that same fear ensnared me, tight and unyielding. (He stops, lost in thought) I recall the day we resolved to cast our votes against Trotsky. In the Supreme Soviet conference hall's restroom—no, it doubled as a smoking room—Kamenev, Zinoviev, Radek, and I found ourselves. There we were, all four of us, in utter disarray. Trotsky had just concluded his address. It appeared he had swayed the supportive tide in his favor. He argued against the new economic policy with fervor. Meanwhile, Radek and Kamenev were fervently smoking their cigarettes, nearly consumed by their nervous energy. And as ever, Zinoviev was there, scribbling notes with relentless diligence, endeavoring to points for his argument. Radek, with a grave tone, declared, 'There is no other choice,' acknowledging the slender thread that separated our paths. In that moment, the root of my anxiety became clear to me. The fate of the Supreme Soviet hangs precariously by a few slender threads of votes. Should we align with the prevailing side, we may evade catastrophe. However, the specter of betrayal looms large over us—each of us casting suspicious glances at the others, pondering who among us might stray. This pervasive atmosphere of mistrust weighs heavily upon us all. Yet, as Chengiz Khan emerged victorious in the end, a wave of relief washed over me, soothing the frayed nerves and quieting the tumult within. Anna: "Had Trotsky emerged victorious, such a precarious situation might never have unfolded. Regardless, he belonged to the intelligentsia, a group known for their intellect and discernment. It's unlikely he would have wrought such extensive damage." Bukharin: "This is the plight of Russian farmers, a fate seemingly inevitable and beyond anyone's control." Anna: "I remain perplexed by your ability to speak about it so starkly."

Bukharin: "How else can one respond, having borne witness to such ruthless devastation? I can only imagine the colossal forces at play, where integrated minds brimmed with self-pride. It's not fate, but rather the machinations of an arrogant mind. Man is blessed to inhabit the soil, yet instead of peacefully coexisting in cooperation, he awakens a monster lurking beneath the earth. This monstrous force now reigns over Europe with an iron grip, wielding its power at the edge of its whip. That solitary monster finds companionship in another indomitable beast. Yes, iron and coal, the monstrous couple, have attained a supreme form. Their offspring, born of ferocious sex , now saturate the soil of the earth. Tanks, cannons, planes, tractors, motors—each relentlessly inflicting incurable wounds upon the surface of the soil. The great nations feed their insatiable greed, while we stand as mere droplets before these monstrous entities. A revolution, a revolution of iron, the master of them all. (Rising with eyes filled with a distant gaze) "Yes, I was there, witnessing the torrential flow of iron,. Helmets, bayonets, rifles—coal-rusted iron—it swept away the winter palace on that fateful day. The Hermitage's chambers were inundated. On that day, iron manifested through the Lenin, Trotsky, and Svestiyov. Now, transformed into tractors and tanks, it ravages our distant villages, pillaging the very essence of our land. Anna: (With a startled tone) Nikita, what truth lies behind the commotion yonder? Bukharin: Last April, during my journey, the train paused briefly at Mikilai Station. There, in the open, lay countless farmers, their garb tattered, shivering from more than just the cold. They were encircled by tanks, and soldiers stood watch over them. The snow, like a shroud, concealed them. And for a fleeting moment, as if the veil was lifted, I saw children, their faces pallid and lifeless, all their vitality sapped away. Anna: (Her voice breaking, tears overwhelming her) Pray, speak no more of such horrors. Bukharin: Behind the now veiled curtain, the silver gleam of marshaled tanks broke through. The edges of bayonets glittered ominously. Those were the Gulag exiles, bound for Siberia. Many perished even before the deportation began; others would meet their end awaiting the train. The exact number who would survive the journey to Siberia remains shrouded in uncertainty. Anna: (Lamenting) Jesus Christ, my Redeemer... Nikita, is this indeed true? Have your own eyes beheld such sorrow? Bukharin: The statistics I've managed to gather are even more harrowing. It is estimated that at least 10 million farmers have perished. If we were to stack their lifeless bodies, they would tower higher than the tallest buildings of Moscow and Saint Petersburg combined. Anna: (Covering her face with both hands) Please, say no more. Bukharin: To be honest, I wish not to burden you with such grim revelations. I desire for you to remain as pure and untainted as a fresh flower. It was only upon meeting you that I felt compelled to shed all pretense. In your presence, I find a glimmer of hope restored in humanity, akin to how flies seek warmth in the cold. Perhaps my guilty conscience is the driving force behind my affection for you since the very first moment we met. (Anna shed tears for a few moments, Then, a heavy silence descended, filling the space with an unspoken weight)

Bukharin: I feel as though Mother Russia herself is weeping, kneeling in sorrow. (She moves near the window) It appears a snowstorm is looming on the horizon. Outside, a dreadful silence blankets the land.

Anna: What caused the farmers to wither and decay like dry leaves? Where is the backbone that once rebelled against the oppressive tyranny of the Tsar?

Bukharin: This time, they face iron. Picture a scene where tanks and armored vehicles surveil unarmed peasants, whose only bond is with the soil beneath their feet. Seeking even the slightest hint of hostility, it unleashes its fury upon them. Those suspected of opposition are swiftly imprisoned. Farmers are coerced into laboring on collective farms. Had they acquiesced and surrendered, perhaps they would have found reprieve. But they underestimated the might of iron. Unyielding opposition only fueled the flames of total disaster.

Anna: Do not absolve yourself of your role in this crime against humanity. Did you present this as the second revolution at the 3rd Congress Conference?

Bukharin: It was part ignorance, part arrogance. (He smiled wryly) Yes, what I said is correct. This is indeed a significant second revolution. Merely a continuation of the violence unleashed upon the Cossacks by the Red Army following Lenin's orders.

Anna: Why has your knowledge and wisdom taken a backseat?

Bukharin: (with a heavy heart) You, my dear Anna, possess the uncanny ability to touch upon the tenderest recesses of my soul with such piercing questions. Indeed, you stand as a beacon of illumination, exposing the vulnerabilities within me. It is fitting that you should be the one to confront me. This is the destiny I rightfully deserve. (kneeling softly, his voice filled with remorse) I am but a coward, arrogant, capricious, a sinner more than that a murderer. 

Anna: (Quickly reaching out, she embraces him tightly) Nikita, Nikita, (She showers him with affectionate kisses) Your soul remains untainted, untouched by sin.

(Bukharin, regaining composure after shedding tears)

Anna: You are innocent.

Bukharin: Indeed. I can depart this life with peace in my heart.

Anna: Such nonsensical words you speak.

Bukharin: Yes, death draws near. Siniov and Kamov have been apprehended and are currently undergoing interrogation in prison.

Anna: (Startled) When did this happen?

Bukharin: It has been a month. They stand accused of poisoning Kero, betraying the revolution, and several other charges.

Anna: Good heavens, Sinovyov? Could such an accusation be leveled against him?

Bukharin: In just a few days, they will be coerced into confessing their supposed crimes with their own mouths.

Anna: (Clutching her chest) Oh Lord, my Savior!

(The snow blows fiercely, rattling the windows and causing every object in the room to quiver. Visibility is reduced to near nothingness in the onslaught of snow gusts. The twinkling lamp flickers, its light on the verge of being extinguished. The howling of the snow gusts fills the air.)

Bukharin: Next, it will be me, Ricov, and Tomsky.

Anna: No, it cannot be so.

Bukharin: It's only a matter of time.

Anna: Why must we face such a grim fate, Nikita?

Bukharin: In this age of iron, my mind and heart cling to the remnants of bygone ethics. Natural forces shape the movement of the earth in every era. I may be labeled as Satan, Lucifer, or the prince of darkness, each era having its unique vessel for such forces. Just as a king rules a country or a philosophy dominates a century. Before that omnipotent force, wisdom and prudence are reduced to mere dust. I failed to perceive, blinded by my own arrogance. I attempted to wield that force as a weapon  leveraging my logical skills, believing myself capable of determining the course of our country's fate.

Anna: Nikita, is that true?

Bukharin: Yes, indeed. I was consumed by that ambition. It wasn't mere greed or a distant fantasy. I truly believed I was destined to lead our nation after Lenin's passing. In my vision, Stalin would have been a formidable ally, much like Trotsky was for Lenin. But reality proved to be quite different. Lenin was a tool wielded by Trotsky, and I, in turn, became a key intellectual asset for Stalin. Throughout the ages, intellectuals and visionaries have been nothing more than instruments in the hands of the ominous forces that shape our world. When that force, draped in the cloak of supreme authority, emerged, we inadvertently facilitated its rise by furnishing the rhetoric to justify its actions. This supreme force has blanketed the globe with its doctrines—Socialism, Capitalism, Imperialism—using words as its most potent weapons.

(Snow gusts fiercely, with the sound of a tree branch breaking in the distance.)

Bukharin: Do you hear the clang of iron? (His demeanor is that of a possessed maniac.)

Anna: (Tearfully) No, I don't.

Bukharin: It could come upon me at any moment. I may never see you again. There's a strong chance I'll be coerced into confessing to crimes I never committed.

Anna: You mustn't succumb to their brutality. You shouldn't perish labeled as a criminal. The Russian farmers must understand the truth behind your demise.

Bukharin: It feels futile.

Anna: No, Nikita. There's purpose. Only then can your spirit find peace.

Bukharin: There's nothing left. Just emptiness.

Anna: You must resist no matter how harsh the treatment. You must never admit to crimes you didn't commit.

Bukharin: Anyone with a shred of love in their heart for anything in this world would eventually yield.

Anna: Is that me?

Bukharin: (Tenderly) Yes, it is you.

Anna: No, Nikita, please don't say that.

Bukharin: My love for you is the only tether anchoring me to life in this world.

Anna: I can't bear to live with this burden.

Bukharin: Don't be foolish.

Anna: I swear to you. I won't survive this.

Bukharin: Won't you grant me some solace by staying alive?

Anna: What will you leave for me besides my life? How can I go on knowing I only survived by bargaining for your life? How can I bear the weight of this guilt?

Bukharin: (Pausing for a few moments) Nothing. (The snow gusts, lights flicker in the distance) Anna. You may perhaps be right. History could unbelievably leap ahead in time. On that fine day, if the snow melts away, I shouldn't have to stand before that generation as a criminal.

Anna: (Gaining strength from his words) Well said, Nikita.

Bukharin: There's no use arguing in his court. You mustn't waste your words.

Anna: I don't understand.

Bukharin: My instinct tells me that you will endure these perilous trials. You will live to see the spring, perhaps many decades from now, in another era. You must survive those challenging decades. Like a survivor writing an distress message in a bottle and casting it into the sea, I am entrusting my statement to you.

Anna: (Startled) You burden me with sorrow.

Bukharin: My words will give purpose to your life ahead. They will be a beacon in the darkness. You will not perish. You are resilient. Raskolnikov confessed his crime to a pure soul like yours..

Anna: I am just an ordinary woman, Nikita.

Bukharin: You will discover your own strength in time. (Kneeling down) Let me begin my statement. This is for the generations of Spring.

(As Anna experiences an emotional meltdown, unable to feel her feet amidst the relentless snowstorm, Bukharin begins his confession.

The storm fiercely pounds at the door. Anna finds stability, clutching onto his every word with trembling fingers pressed against her bosom.

With an agitated body, Bukharin keeps his arm close to his chest as he proceeds with his confession. As the howling of the snow diminishes, only Bukharin's voice echoes through the darkness.)

Bukharin: Remember, the snow and darkness will not endure forever. On a beautiful spring day, this entire nation will awaken and open its heart and ears to your words. Fresh, fragrant flowers will grace my grave. They will weep, bowing their heads in homage, and call me "Comrade Bukharin." My soul will not find peace until that moment. I will await the awakening in my grave with fervor.

(Statement is completed)

Bukharin: Light the candle, Anna.

Anna: Wait a minute. (She lights a candle. The room gradually comes alive with light.)

Bukharin: Remember every word of my statement. You must not forget even a single letter. One day, you will have to recite it from the podium of history.

Anna: I swear I won't forget. Like breathing, I will recite this statement throughout my entire life until the day you mentioned arrives.

Bukharin: (Lets out a sigh) Now, all we can do is wait.

Anna: (Calmly) What would you like for dinner? You must be hungry.

Bukharin: Hungry, yes, and thirsty too. (He gets up, scratching his head) It will be quenched only after many centuries.

(Once again, the howling of the snow fills the air.)

Bukharin: This snowstorm is blowing from Moscow to Siberia. It freezes all the water bodies in between.

(The sound of a car engine is heard outside.)

Anna: (In fear) Nikita!

Bukharin: (In a steady tone) Stay calm. You must gather all your strength from here on out.

Anna: (With a broken voice) I beg you, flee to a distant country for your life. (She cries, resting on his chest)

Bukharin: (Gently releasing himself from her embrace) Don't speak nonsense. Gather your strength. Remember, you must survive this storm. Do not forget a single word.

Anna: I will never forget.

(The sound of a cluster of boots approaching the door. Followed by the door opening and inquiring voices.)

Bukharin: Extreme cold weather. You may have to face worse climates than this. Your soul must not turn cold. (He kisses her) Let me greet them. (He disappears)

Anna: Nikita! Nikita!

(Lights are extinguished. Snow continues to howl. The door screens agitate. Papers on the desk flutter. Anna's trembling fingers light the lamp. Anna holds a red flame, cupped in her palm.)

Chapter 3 - Prelude to the Interrogation ( Prokhorov- Independent translation M Veerabadra Pillai B.A)

At 10 am, during the initial security exchange, I noted it was my day designated for bathing and washing. In our confines, we're allotted merely three such days each month, with the timing often unpredictable. Standing behind the bars, the security guard Subletsky greeted me, "Good day, Anthiriyan. Today happens to be your turn for soap duty," his tone dripping with pretentiousness. Peering out of the window, I questioned, "Pardon me, what did you say?" "I simply mentioned your name on the schedule," he retorted.

The prospect of temporary relief ignited a spark of hope within me. However, as the news settled in, the confinement of that room transformed into torment. My body seemed to rebel against its own odor, the sweat clinging to me like a repulsive cloak. This discomfort lingered, relentless until I could cleanse myself. It wasn't merely the act of bathing; it was the chance to reconnect with humanity in the open space. Yet, whenever I was brought back to the interrogation room, the presence of other humans became an unbearable burden. Every movement, every uttered word seemed to amplify my turmoil. But in the bathroom, it was different. There, amidst the nakedness of others, there was a raw honesty, a simplicity.

*Anthirian Purokhorov, a Russian theologian, met his fate under Stalin's government through capital punishment. He was renowned for his work, "The Cross and the Holy Spirit Machine." His prison memoirs, titled "Awaiting Death Daily," was published posthumously, with translations available in both English and French. This specific chapter, now translated, was originally discovered as a manuscript in Malayalam, as is often the case.. Intriguingly, there is evidence that two magazines once rejected this story, leaving it unpublished.

Subletsky, affable in demeanor yet possessing the robust frame characteristic of Chechnya, harbors a pacific nature at his core. "You are already ready," he remarked, a smile gracing his features. "Yes, yes, always," I responded, echoing his laughter.

"Have you heard? The sub-jailer is being investigated for mishandling funds," he murmured in a hushed tone. "It's been an ongoing scandal; he's allegedly involved with the meat shop owners." Sublesky, a seasoned prison guard, possessed intricate knowledge of the prison's internal dynamics. Yet, as time passed, even the layman like him within these politics find themselves embroiled, subject to the strong biases harbored. Amidst the tales of corruption, alliances, and betrayal, every individual was entangled in the intricate web woven by humans, for humans. As I listen to the ramblings of this half-baked inmate, glamorizing the prison's corruption, I find myself pacing the confines of my cell.  Sleep eludes me as I passionately advocate for the possibility of innocence, nurturing a deep-seated animosity towards the corrupt forces that pervade this environment. In my frustration, I entertain thoughts of violence against those who have no bearing on my life. I chuckle bitterly at the irony - how mankind, in its folly, has birthed so many jesters.

Two security guards materialized, executing their duties with precision as they unlocked the door to my cell. "Prisoner number 618, step forward," one of them called out. I emerged, clutching my blanket tightly around me, feeling the chill of the outside air. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, but the cold seemed more biting than usual. My legs trembled uncontrollably, and as I stepped into the open space, I faltered and collapsed to the ground.

We traversed through an icy corridor, leading to a spacious room on the other side. There, seven or eight figures awaited, clutching bundles of clothes tightly in sacks. Their faces bore a pallid, gray hue, their eyes devoid of life, resembling those of a deceased animal. Despite slight variations in facial features—widened faces, elongated jaws, crooked mouths—they all seemed to be replicas of the same human mold. As I sat among them, I couldn't shake the feeling of resembling them. Yet, I found solace in the consciousness that set me apart. Perhaps they, too, pondered their differences from others. Behind these gray visages, there may reside unique, volcanic thoughts, simmering in the depths like an untamed sea. They didn't even acknowledge my presence with the slightest glance.

Two more men made their entrance into the chamber. Their pallid visage too bore semblance of a animal recently succumbed, while his companion, a man of shorter stature, exuded a restlessness in both gaze and gesture, reminiscent of a rodent. Yet, there was a flicker, a fleeting light that seemed to have just vanished from his countenance, as if he teetered on the brink of uttering some jest, barely contained within. Our gazes intertwined. With a smile curving his lips, he made a direct path toward me, and upon reaching, he wasted no time in conversing. "Mironov insists on silence during our baths, yet has he pondered why the water itself sings? Does anyone question its melody, born from its lengthy journey from Siberia's heart?" As he spoke, his pupils dilated with an intensity bordering on the brink of madness, his smile broadening in tandem. "It's the untamed, devilish spirits that travel with the water to our very doorsteps. Are you aware of this, Your Honor? Just last night, the jar in my room resounded with laughter, loud and clear. How peculiar, when winter has not yet begun its reign, leaving autumn to dance." As he approached, a semblance of solace washed over me, affirming that the breath of life yet coursed through my veins. Following the initial shock, a gnawing doubt began to afflict me. Was my mind in a state of equilibrium? How could one ascertain such stability? I was acutely aware of my thoughts simmering to a boil. In the solitude of a solitary chamber, the mind seems a cold, heavy companion, steadfastly clinging. It maintains a guise of normalcy when unobserved, yet the moment we attempt to scrutinize it, a wave of trepidation overwhelms us. Its purposelessness, its chaos, invokes a visceral unease in me. In search of external, tangible evidence to affirm my mental equilibrium, I find my selves at a loss, particularly within these confining walls where such assurances are notably absent. In such moments, beyond my grasp, my mind would unravel as horses let loose at the sound of cannon fire. Clueless on how to tether such wild thoughts, I would find myself bewildered the instant they ceased bumping into the walls of my consciousness—a territory of my psyche uncharted and unimaginable. Drained of all vigor, my only recourse would be to to sleep. Upon awakening, I'd endeavor to recapture that elusive train of thought, to scrutinize the workings of my own mind. I would count, from one to ten thousand, in a futile attempt to order the chaos. Between the numbers, thoughts would rush through, like torrential waters in a raging canyon, unstoppable and overwhelming. The completion of the counting always eluded me, a bitter reminder of the chaos reigning within. In this chamber of interrogation, sanity is a scarce commodity. Many depart with eyes glazed over, haunted by dreams of their inevitable demise. It is only after this harrowing "processing" that they are ushered into the court, where confessions are extracted. Abiding by the rules and regulations, they undergo thorough trials before receiving their sentences. The lord of justice, with no recourse but to mete out capital punishment, finds the accused already dead and decayed, their emotional demise complete.Surveying the occupants of this chamber, save for the rodent-like figure, I would condemn the rest to the gallows without a moment's pause. The rodent, however, prattled on incessantly, perceiving every object as a link between Moscow and Siberia, be it the wind, the sky, or mere voices. Such is the nature of the mentally unstable—they are confined within a narrow set of thought patterns, like a dammed river surging against its barriers they deluge incessantly same thoughts. Two young security guards entered the room. "Quiet, Kulmich," commanded one of them in a firm tone. Rodent ceased his shrill. The other guard, though youthful in appearance, almost as if nature had blended the delicate features of a woman with the robust stature of a man. . With a commanding presence, he surveyed the room, his chest puffed out in a display of authority. What sort of influence his power can have over the inert and decaying yet still breathing forms. Power is most evident only in the resistance. As our eyes met, a sense of impending force washed over me, and instinctively, I lowered my gaze, adopting the demeanor of a defeated and haggard figure. The weight of his heavy boots lingered near me. His piercing gaze bore into me for what felt like an eternity. It was only when he finally departed the room that my shrunken sense of self began to expand once more. My heart raced, pounding in my chest. Meanwhile, Rodent Kulmich muttered to himself inaudibly, his lips moving soundlessly. In that moment, when I observed, the only noticeable contrast between us was the subtle movement of his lips, that notion sent shivers down my spine. We stepped into the communal bathhouse in an orderly fashion. The scent of soap and steam enveloped our senses, filling our nostrils. For a few moments, a hazy layer of steam obscured everything around us. As my eyes adjusted to the misty surroundings, I noticed the restless cluster of crimson-tinged bodies. The attire clung to my body in a manner both vulgar and absurd. Disrobing, I descended into the warmth of the nearby tank. The soap, steeped in the hot water, released a peculiar, yet endearing fragrance—a scent that evoked the freshness of the early year, stirring within me an awakening. I searched for a place to sit on the bench but found no space, as bodies were intertwined around me. Initially, the contact seemed a necessary touch. A bench was vacated, and I hastened to claim it, laying my back against its support. Once comfortably settled, I felt the warmth of the steam envelop me and the pleasant fatigue of sweat seep through. I closed my eyes. The once frozen blood in my veins began to thaw, coursing through me, while the deep knots of tension in my mind gradually unraveled. A feeling arose within me—an ache from the depths of my gut, a hiccup in my throat, a throbbing in my lips. It shattered any resistance I had left, and I began to weep. After what felt like an eternity, I regained my composure, my tears subsided, and I was left in a void state of mind. Rising from the bench, I noticed a man sleeping on the nearby bench, his right arm cradling his head. Our eyes met, and in his gaze, I sensed a flicker of recognition. He offered a friendly smile and said, "It's remarkable, isn't it? That even in this state, we are still capable of tears." His voice, tender and distant, seemed to travel from thousands of miles away—a journey I too had traversed. "Yes. Did you cry as well?" I asked. "I would not miss an opportunity to cry; it's a sort of cleansing, much like bathing, right?" "True," I agreed, feeling a sense of fulfillment. "Amidst this human cluster, we can cry without guilt. Within walls, tears often feel defiling and absurd."

"I never cry in solitude," he confessed. "I've commanded myself not to cry, and I won't break that directive." His resolution jolted me. "You must be..." I trailed off, then suddenly realized. "You're Bhukharin, aren't you?" He smiled. "Yes, that would be me." "Greetings, Comrade. I didn't expect to meet you here. I'm truly glad to see you," I said, reining in my stutter. Bukharin smiled warmly. "I am Andriyan Puroharov. I used to be a theologian." "You were, but not anymore?" "Yes, that was long ago." Despite my efforts to dispel the uncomfortable silence, I found myself unable to break the ice. "Didn't you write a book about the Industrial Revolution?" asked Bukharin. "Yes," I responded, surprised by the sudden surge of motivation within me. "The Cross and the Spirited Machine. He feels that book as an exaggerated relic now, like an outdated price list. But the fact that someone like Bhukarin, not only read it but remembered it—it's one of the most gratifying recognitions a writer can receive and a primary reason for writing. I maintained firm control over my emotions and remained composed. "Interesting book," remarked Bukharin. "You metaphorically portrayed the cross as the quest against the machines, like a shepherd's crooked pole. Shepherds are nomads, knowing only the journey ahead toward distant green pastures. You wrote that machines know only how to stay and settle in one place." "An antiquated concept," I remarked. "There's no such thing as a classification for books," he replied. To shift the conversation, I asked, "Comrade Bukharin, what are your thoughts on this era? Is it a doomed one, or merely a part of the cycle of events? Have we been living in a false sense of security without truly understanding our place?" Bukharin adjusted his wet hair. "No, Comrade Andrian. I don't have a firm standpoint to support your view. In fact, I no longer possess any solid logic," he admitted. "Why?" I asked. "There was a time when I fancied myself a philosopher. But that has completely turned upside down. Nowadays, in the place where I live, there is no humane movements, no substantial purpose to life. I am surrounded by white walls. The constant dim light blurs the line between day and night, and there is always the same pristine silence." “Comrade, are you confined in the torture chamber?" "Yes. My interrogation is set to commence in a few days. They intend to crush my consciousness before it begins." "No one has survived more than six months confined within these walls of silence," I remarked solemnly.

"Yes, the Walls of Silence," he agreed, a distant look in his eyes. "These stark, pristine white walls seem to absorb any words we have left. In the beginning, my mind was like a vast industrial setup, constantly emitting smoke, roaring loudly, tirelessly producing words. But gradually, those mechanical parts began to wore down. The intensity of my inner voice diminished, and soon, with no fuel left to sustain it, my inner machinery fell silent without any friction. Am I just rambling now, producing no meaningful words?" No, not at all, it sounds like dialogue from a drama."

"Yes, probably. Nowadays, my words are filled with metaphors. In this place, every surrounding object and every subjective thought are immaculately observable. All of these can be perceived as words and metaphors. I can only speak of these and think about these. When you began to talk, it prompted me to think along those lines." Bukharin let loose himself, letting out sigh. "Am I boring you?" "Please, continue talking."

"The mind is essentially a tangle of two types of movement: Logics and Metaphors. When one diminishes in intensity, the other gains strength. Each tries to override the other. While the philosopher pursues a chain of logics, the poet is bound to the chain of metaphors. These are extreme states. There are create peaks in this movements that can only be achieved at these extremes. Both philosophers and poets can reach these moments at the peak of their endeavors. Yet, it is only when these two movements—logic and metaphor—intensify and move together that the greatest moments of creativity are achieved. Nowadays, my mind perceives that the fictional words of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are greater than the poems of Pushkin and the philosophy of Marx. The latter two are merely projecting half-truths with undercurrents."

"Do you truly believe that about Pushkin?"

"Yes," Bukharin affirmed. "His poetic realm represents the pinnacle of the resonance era. We can observe how, in his state of ecstasy, he transforms words into metaphors. I recall his work 'The Bronze Horseman,' depicting the defeated and decaying soul of the common civilian before the might of power. "After the floodstorm and its aftermath, we may arrive at conclusions opposite to those reached by Pushkin's mind at that time. We won't rediscover them by searching within Pushkin's words alone. Marx's grand logic discourse endeavors to arrange everything he can grasp logically, constructing a monumental tower from which he ascends to examine the world. There may be a few sparrows fluttering at that height, but from Marx's viewpoint, we cannot perceive the perspective of those tiny sparrows. However, the greatest novelists and epic writers are unlike either of these. They can access both of these exceptional states of mind. These two states of mind collide with each other, each striving to dominate and absorb the other, delving into the depths of both perspectives as they progress through the fictional worlds of novelists and epic writers.

"His observations were enlightening to me. Until that moment, I believed that epic writers and novelists are merely synthesizes of  poetry and philosophy," I confessed to him.

"Yes, that's what has been said about them so far," responded Bukharin. "Philosophy seeks to comprehend and elucidate higher truths. Poetry imparts meaning to heightened emotional states. The fiction writer traverses the path between these two realms," quoting Dmitri Melokkov's insight.  The great novelists never simply borrow philosophy and graft poetic prose onto it. They do not burden poetic expressions with heavy philosophical contours. Instead, they are natural philosophers and poets, akin to military chiefs who deploy both air and land forces in a coordinated attack. For them, philosophy serves as the grounding for poetic expression, while poetic expression provides wings to philosophical ideas. Dostoevsky is born at the intersection where Pushkin meets Marx.

Comrades, have you written these words before?

I never considered literature in my learning before coming here.

Do you regret that?

Yes, absolutely. My deep attachment to philosophy led me to dismiss poetic expression as a frivolous weakness. Many Marxists, including Lenin, Trotsky, and myself, made this grave mistake. The only communist who did not err in this way was Marx himself. He could even wholeheartedly  accept a poet who rejected communist philosophy.

I glanced at his face. It didn't seem like that of someone counting his last days after months of imprisonment. Instead, he resembled a cheerful lecturer conversing with students on vacation at a hill station. I marveled at the strange contours of that image in that moment.

Soon after my own imprisonment, my mind, rejecting all logical arguments, transformed into a basket overflowing with metaphorical images. Like children rejoicing at the sight of a basketful of dolls, I found myself in an unbridled creative state. Some images and metaphors were indeed sublime. Some were meaningless. Others were terrifying. Most were simply absurd. 

After playing with their dolls, tired children go to sleep. Then, suddenly, they awaken. I imagined this 10x10 ft room as the measure of my mind. With precise steps, I would walk around this room twenty times, each time contemplating in 200 to 300 different ways. Most of these thoughts were discoveries I wished to share with future generations, arguments to support my decisions. I relayed my court trial arguments at least a thousand times over. At some point, bumping into the void, my mind would calm down. While my legs measured the eternal time, my mind arranged the images from the vast expanse of my thoughts. I was startled by the depth and complexity of my own mind. Do you know, in the beginning, thinking is an exciting affair? Once you become accustomed to it, you can continue living thinning just in a simple frame of mind forever. There is no end to it. When I came to this conclusion, I had a revelation. Thinking must be disrupted by poetic words, and then poetic expressions should be rearranged by the thinking process.

Bukharin let out a sigh, smilingly. "It seems absurd to me, having a literary discussion on the brink of death. We, the intelligentsia, unashamed creatures."

I laughed heartily.

Bukharin joined in, his laughter echoing through the room. "We are no different from these creatures," he said, pointing to two entwined bodies nearby. "No one here is going to live more than a year. Everyone knows it. Yet..."

"These homosexual bodies are beginner prisoners," I said. "They cannot bear the initial days of imprisonment. Most of them resort to chain masturbating in the first few days, daydreaming about extreme sexual fantasies. I've seen people masturbate more than eight times a day, fainting from low blood pressure. Some even died from it. They try to cheat time, treating it as the ultimate torturer. Humans have given lust this monstrous form just to cheat time."

"The theologian in you is still alive," Bukharin laughed loudly. "Do you masturbate, or are you like these fellows?"

"The forbidden sins of priests are done very privately," I replied. We both laughed together. "For some reason, I don't fancy women as much as Christ," I added amidst chuckles.

Bukharin laughed freely for a moment. "It's not just women who can be a mate to Christ," he remarked.

"What about you?" I inquired.

"I never turn off the lights in my room. I don't feel uncomfortable doing it with the lights on. Perhaps the women who approach feel shy," Bukharin blushed and chuckled. "Especially Anna. She's a very shy woman."

I felt a sense of regret, for Anna was not a fleeting image in my mind.

"Unlike these prisoners, I cannot escape my conscience. It’s simply impossible for me. The only possibility is that it could happen in a dream. There is no restriction on dreams," Bukharin laughed again. "If Lenin, Trotsky, or Svetlov were here, we might have managed it." We both laughed, rolling on the floor.

"Comrade, you spoke of the mind turning into a kind of frame. It’s dangerous," I said. "Without reason, the mind flows between ten or fifteen thoughts. Perhaps it’s natural for every human mind. Under normal circumstances, we could control it, avoiding that state. But here, in this place, we can never break that cycle, no matter the effort. It’s extremely hard to divert the mind once it enters that limbo. To escape from the torture chamber of words, hold on, comrade. Words are the weapons of the tormentor called time, aren’t they? Man finds daydreams and masturbation as escape routes, but they soon become another prison. Everything we do reflects time and thus becomes a form of torture. Eventually, daydreams form a concrete image. No effort can prevent that. At some point, the mind becomes a massive waterfall of daydreams and worthless words. Clinging to the grasses and bushes on that slippery green rock, we stand with terrified faces. Most succumb to dementia in that state."

"You used that image to describe sin, didn't you?"

I laughed again. "You have an inherent sense of mockery towards theologians, haven't you?"

"And you’re realizing that the mind and sin are synonymous."

My laughter shook me. I only stopped when I remembered where I was and the moment we were in.

"Anyone escaping from this place has a high chance of becoming a great creator," said Bukharin. "This place reflects whatever he wants to create. Dostoevsky was blessed with that."

I asked with a smile, "May I ask something?"

"Yes, go ahead."

"After everything is done, if you are released, what will you do?"

Bukharin was jolted for a moment. His face turned crimson, his eyes filled with self-pity and anger, and he laughed maniacally. His throat throbbed with the laughter, his shoulders shook. I felt a pang of guilt watching him laugh.

"No, you asked perhaps the right question," Bukharin replied in a deep voice. "In every perilous stage of life, man dreams about the future. In fact, even in moments before suicide."

I nodded. "You guessed it right. I imagine myself as a great novelist. What about you?" "I am going to form a new religion," I said. "Satan is the prophet of that religion."

"Is he?"

"I see what you're thinking. This is the extreme opposite state of our chagrin, indeed a true revelation. We never understood Satan. Who is Satan? He is Plato, Socrates, isn’t he? Those thinkers grounded their thoughts in the soil of this world. They revealed the most important aspect of life: power. Power is the essence of life. Desire and strength bestow power. Satan is the god of that."

Bukharin nodded.

"Christianity spread a huge discouragement to the entire civilization, comrade. It taught the rejection of worldly affairs and complete submission. It sanctified loss. Who is Christ? A defeated idealist. His defeat was inevitable. It is the defeat of an ideologue who sought to replace practical concerns with lofty, esoteric solutions. Christianity, with its powerful propaganda machine, has enshrined this defeat as the greatest ideology of humanity. What does the countenance of Jesus reflect? Sorrow, disappointment, solitude, rejection. In every home, the crucified Jesus weeps unceasingly, "Why, O Lord, have you forsaken me?" The people who worship him find joy and fulfillment only in defeat, submission, and sorrow. The Bible did not inspire the holy lords. Instead, it inspired Socrates and Plato whom read it in abbeys. They revered debauchery and power. Their god is Satan. Look at them—all captivating orators like Satan. European history is not a tale of holy priests spreading the word of Jesus, but rather a successful story of Satan. "What are you saying, Comrade? The natural longing of humans is for victory and rejoicing, isn't it? Desire and strength are his true longings, correct? Only the striving for power can bring these about. So, power is his ultimate ambition. Now, tell me, Comrade, to defeat this, we must spread the anti-Christ, Satan, to the downtrodden. Satan's desire and power must be the savior of the enslaved and marginalized. Churches have modeled all the governments that have ruled the people for the last two thousand years. By tightly holding the Bible, Jesus Christ, and the holy disciples in one hand, they managed to yoke the people and march them toward the altar. Only a Satanic force can combat this well-established power."

Bukharin said, "Your words are profound and clear in principle, Comrade Anthiran. I never doubted your oration skills. But the price you paid for this is immense, isn't it?" "Price? What is it?" Anthiran asked.

"I guess you must have reached this state only after ruthlessly extinguishing every emotion dear to your soul," Bukharin replied.

I was livid. I cannot fathom when and how that anger began to spread through my body, raging like a wildfire. I leapt up and shouted with the fervor of a zealot. I cursed him as an impostor. I shouted that his words, born from two thousand years of the church's priests and their incorrigible decorum. I hurled invectives at him, calling him a pimp for the ruling party, a coward, a betrayer of the people. Realizing those words did not bring me satisfaction, I struck deeper, telling him that he deserved his doomed state in prison. The day he dies in the electric chair, the day his brain turns to ash, will be the just punishment he deserves.

Bukharin responded calmly, his tone level-headed and at ease. "Comrade, have you considered why you, too, will end up in the same chair? What is the purpose of a life that concludes in such a manner?" I had never confronted such a profound void in my life. I couldn't even cry; words failed me. I fell to my knees, speechless. "So, all of this is meaningless, Comrade Anthirian," said Bukharin. "Even pigs are better than us. At least they behave naturally in the moments before their death. They don't betray themselves with talk of ideologies and philosophies at such times." Those words sounded like a voice from heaven. I couldn't breathe properly. If I could manage to grasp even a few random words, I could fill my mind with them. Is the mind nothing but a kaleidoscope, a collection of a few colored words, endlessly reflected and refracted into infinite shades?

We sat there in that same state for a long time. (Though perhaps it was an illusion; we were only allowed three hours for bathing.) A middle-aged man nearby was fidgeting, constantly getting up and sitting back down on his bench. "His name is Andrei Petrovich Grinyev," I said. "Former captain of a White Army battalion." "Why is he still in interrogation, instead of being shot and killed?" asked Bukharin. "Isn't that the usual procedure?"

"He was captured with injuries on the battlefield. They put in a lot of effort to save his life. Now, there will be a public interrogation followed by execution by bullets. There must be rules to occasionally follow proper procedure for executions, just to suppress those who claim it as injustice."

"He is a handsome man," said Bukharin. "He's a landlord. His father was the governor of Soorenberh Gubenia. The first round of interrogation is over. He was tortured extensively. There's a machine in his room that starts alarming the moment he falls asleep, emitting screeching and crackling sounds to wake him up. Stories have sprung up around him; he's become a legend. No amount of torture could break him. He still stands tall, calling the interrogation commissar a 'peasant gawk,' his loyalty to the Tsar unwavering." "He is a soldier," Bukharin said. "A spotless, pristine soldier. The monarchy has produced philosophers, rituals, superstitions—everything to create such soldiers. These rituals are maintained as sacred lineages. There have been thousands of such soldiers, morally unbroken, facing bullets in the chest." "So you are a soldier too." "I am not. He is the soldier. I saw him on the battlefield." "Is he?" "Yes, him. Death means nothing to this soldier; his death is just like any other," Bukharin replied. "The culture of the monarchy teaches that this is the greatest virtue of humanity. In truth, it is a senseless state, a futile impetus that belongs only to the meat bodies who confront the cannons mindlessly." "Comrade Bukharin, you are merely justifying the cowardly desire to live and the resulting apprehensiveness." "Why should we insult the desire to live? It is a natural longing, born of an infinite love for life. Comrade Anthrian, I relish living. Even in this state, this soil, wind, sky, and water bring me immense pleasure. I cannot relinquish these joys. Yet, my life is not solely about physical pleasures. My spirit, the master of these senses, has its own quests and discoveries. There is a continuous tension between the two, leading to apprehensions and compromises. I cannot march towards death like a Jesuit priest or a feudal lord. Nor can I defile my soul by doing anything to extend my life. Both are choices of fools whose souls are perpetually shrouded. Bravery is nothing but blind brute force." I could hardly breathe. "Comrade Bukharin," I said, coughing intermittently. "If you don't take a resolute stand in dealing with the charges that have imprisoned you, you will inevitably face a doomed dead end, won't you?" "I am neither a coward nor a warrior, Comrade Anthrian. I am perpetually anxious, imagining compromising and getting a chance by licking the boot. The only thing keeping me warm in this dead cold is the dream of a miraculous escape. I swallow the resulting bitterness and divert my mind to dreams of the sweetness of life. At moments, guilt-ridden, I embrace my ambitions and goals tightly, supporting them with my debates and feelings. This dual state perpetually swings within me. "Yet—" "Allow me a few more words, Comrade. You need not lie to me. I have already worn all your masks. Your detailed debates are evidence of your anxiousness. That landlord has ten sentences like a cross for the Jesuit priest." "Yes, indeed," I said, feeling a burden lift from me as if a passenger had missed the last train. You won't believe it—I was ready to die at any moment. "Yet, I am unclear about taking a resolute stand at this moment, Comrade," said Bukharin. "Until I saw that horrific scene at the Mikilai Railway Station, I was in constant compromise with myself. There was always a struggle to control my mind, which would cowardly rush towards compromise. In such state it is imperative to come up with logical reasons for compromises. We, the intelligentsia, are capable of easily rationalizing our concessions," he observed, noting his own mind's volatility. "I happened to visit that station by accident. Had I not gone there, I would not have witnessed that sight. I would still be a supreme member of the Soviet. At that place, many children perished and lay frozen in the snow, their lifeless eyes wide open like those of fish. Have you ever observed the haunting stillness of the dead?"

"Never, ever." "You have never been on a battlefield, right? You can visualize it by reading 'War and Peace.' Tolstoy immaculately portrays the war scenes," Bukharin's fingers were shaking. "The frozen, final expressions of the dead and their body poses attempt to convey something. Those who have observed it on the battlefield can never forget it. Some corpses appear to beseech, some have a mixed expression of astonishment, surprise, and fear. Others seem to have tried to escape even in death, while some look as if they were fidgeting, attempting to utter something. A strange, leprous smile haunts many faces. Bitter grimaces, vengeful scowls, and mocking expressions can be found on others. A few corpses seem poised for attack, their eyebrows raised. It is very rare to see a resting, pleasantly smiling face among the dead. The captains usually walk around the field, conversing with these bodies. Tolstoy portrays Napoleon in the battlefield, speaking to the dead in a hauntingly romantic tone." Yes, I've read that novel. But this is your imagination." "At the Mikinai railway station, the dead and decaying bodies, victims of famine, all wore a single expression as they embraced the soil. They nestled tightly together, attempting to shrink as much as possible, like earthworms. Their faces bore the look of immense loss, as if they were holding onto something very tightly," Bukharin turned pale, trying to cup his face with his palm. His fingers appeared leprosy-ridden. I could feel the same coldness within myself. "Yes, I still carry that nerve-racking sensation. Even now, it lingers. When my thoughts and imagination are at rest, a sudden feeling permeates me, shaking my body. My conscious mind protests, insisting it is impossible. Resolutely, I find myself unable to compromise. At the same time, there is a mix of ecstasy, shuddering, and resultant exhaustion. Once these feelings settle, the sounds of life emerge, followed by memories of youth. Those undeniable memories of youth are the only saviors for humanity." "True," I nodded, my eyes welling with tears. "A man can endure any doomed state with those memories." "The chance to live in Russia's villages is one of life's greatest blessings," Bukharin said, his tone newly invigorated. "The dense forest paths, the streams covered in snow, the bell sounds of the ancient Mary Churches, the fragrance of freshly trodden fields, the twilight of evening, the door-knocking breeze at night. I would be fulfilled if I could live just a year in those villages, in the company of Anna." Bukharin gasped. "But there is no return to that, Comrade. Nothing can reverse this. The image of Mikilnai Station has cast a spell on me. That moment clings to me like a bad spirit. I cannot extricate myself." The forlorn state of words losing one another, with only desolate death visible in those rare moments. Without fear, chagrin, or anxiety, I simply observed that moment. It was unexplainable, meaningless, devoid of logical reasoning—a completely fissiparous moment. When we examine it closely with our mind, the self itself fractures away. The indescribable death itself turns void. In the truest sense, we can never explain death. The utmost we can do is walk consciously to the very next moment. That moment itself is the living moment. We can only see the various contours of death standing firmly within the living moment. The first alarm sounded, stirring the crowd into action. Security officials dispersed and began their tasks. "Comrade, you mentioned Satan, right?" Bukharin said. "That is true. Satan attracts us filled with sweetness, while Christ manifests in us like a burning fire. That soul burn never heals. We twitch in pain from that burn every moment of our lives, pulled towards death by that pain. Yet," Bukharin paused, filled with emotion, "let me say it like this. I take pride in this unhealable wound in my soul, as if a priceless ornament were hanging around my neck." "We need to return. There's not much time," I said. "Yes," Bukharin said, rising to his feet. "The magnificence of my pain manifests when I see the nauseating blind idiots." "But for him, his death is meaningful. He finds peace in accepting it. For us, it's the void, isn't it? In our last moments, we're going to face torturous emptiness, aren't we?" "I don't know," Bukharin replied. "I have surrendered my fate to this wound. I have no definite words to describe the last moments of my life. They may be empty or something else. Who knows?" I was seized by a restless unease, a pressing need to burst his colorful bubble. "Comrade, could this not be merely the inadequacy of words attempting to confront death?" "Perhaps," Bukharin said nonchalantly. "Let it be." The self-pity and solitude within me surged, breaking through the barriers. "Very well. All is well," I said, bidding him farewell. As I stood in the hot water, my body trembled with a sense of betrayal. I kept questioning what had happened to me. While applying soap, I realized that my soul bore no such burns. It had never happened to me. I am an unfortunate soul.I dried my clothes in the warm breeze blown by the machine. All those conversations and arguments seemed to shrink into nothing, like a fading dream, as I watched the clothes drying. When I put them back on, I felt like a different person. The nudity and the ensuing debates, in their excited states, now appeared as an absurd drama. As I walked with my head bowed, I felt weary, like a leprosy-ridden invalid.

I soon heard that Bukharin's interrogation had begun. Subjected to extreme psychological torture, he lost his sanity and eventually confessed to all the allegations. In the final stage of the interrogation, he was hanged to death. This news did not strike me with great force, as I was in the last stage of my own interrogation. My mind was slowly unraveling, and I felt a deep-seated bitterness emerging, transforming into a vengeance against all humanity. The fear, weighing heavily, dripped down exponentially, moment by moment.

 Chapter 5  - Frost

(Stage: A dimly lit room where people in frosty, ragged clothing lie asleep on the floor, half of their faces hidden. Outside, the howling wind carries the chill of snowfall. The shelter, made of wood and straw, creaks under the weight of winter. A lone fireplace sits in the middle of the room, cold and lifeless

(One lonely woman stands apart from the crowd, wobbling as she moves. She somehow finds a tumbler and tries to fetch something from a large bowl. "Oh God," she mutters as the tumbler clinks against the bowl. Another woman, sitting on the floor and tightly clutching her body, asks, "Katya, is that you?")

Katya: It is me. I am starved and parched. Trying to fetch some turnip soup. Look here, it has turned frosty. Anna: (Gets up and comes to examine the large bowl) Indeed. It's to be expected. What do we do now? If only we had firewood, we could heat it. Katya: You have no idea about Siberian ice. It's a daunting task to melt it. When the upper layer freezes, the middle remains a solid vacuum—it cannot be broken. Anna: (Sighing deeply) This hell made of snow. The rivers, lakes, oceans—all turned to ice. There isn't a single droplet of warmth here. Why did the Lord above create such a hell on earth? Katya: You called it hell, didn't you? Anna: What sin did we commit to be imprisoned in this infernal prison? Katya: Yesterday, one lunatic claimed that the method for calculating the balance of virtues and sins has changed. The regional commissars have been assigned to handle the calculations for each region. Did you hear the ravings of that madman? It was quite amusing for us to witness. Anna: There's no shortage of lunatics around here. Katya: They are all psych-traumatized cases. Spasms, tearing, knocking their heads against the wall are their symptoms. I get butterflies in my stomach upon seeing them. That fear turns into disdain. This particular lunatic is special. He's always in a state of bliss, with an indescribable prophetic look in his eyes. And what a voice he has! He sings like a ten-year-old child. Katya: Leave him alone. What about this? Anna: (Peeking at it) An unmeltable ice rock. What can we do with that? It wont seem to melt even if we burned everything burnable around here. (Sitting back, drained of energy) Katya, I am unbearably parched. I’ve been squeezing out milk from my blood to support Nikta, and now, I’ve lost all moisture from my body. Yesterday, a rat fell and died in the soup, so no one consumed it. Now, this ice... Katya: What if we could break this ice? Anna: If we managed to break it? Katya: We could warm it and consume it. Katya: How could we? There isn't a single twig of firewood. The sky has been dark since yesterday afternoon. Thick grey clouds are looming from the big mountains. There will be a snowstorm tomorrow. We can't foresee how many of us will survive or perish from the cold. (Heartbroken, crying) Death is the only savior to release us from this doomed state, this ice-cold weather, this relentless torture. (Soft sobbing turning into spasms) Never-ending torment. This grey desert stretches to the horizon—empty, nothing, a vacuum. (Falls to the floor, shrieking, hollering, slapping her forehead, her body twitching and writhing, slowly she settles back) Anna: (Without making any move) Katya… Katya: (From the floor) Nikita... Nikita has no one in this ice of hell. Anna: Katya, it has begun for you… Katya: (Trembling) What? What are you saying? Anna: The snow slowly permeates into everyone who arrives here. Soon, their minds freeze and harden. Then mild fissures begin to appear, and finally, they shatter. (Hesitantly) The way you cried… Katya: No, I am good. I am perfect. (Gasping) Anna, tell me the truth. I am in sound condition, right? Anna: I hope so. Katya: (In chagrin) My Nikta is helpless. Anna: It is crucial for us to survive. We are all innocent. We should not give in. This snow craves for us to die. Katya: Oh, my savior. Jesus Christ. Anna: It's not too late now. You must gather yourself. There's still some warmth in your heart. That’s your love for Nikta. You must keep it without losing it. If you lose it, that's the end. Anna: How many days, Katya? In this endless snowy white desert? Katya: It must end in some direction at some point, right? The world is not only this snow desert. There are cities with volcanic mountains. Newspapers are distributed there. Anna: (Letting out a sigh) Anna, I cannot bear the thirst anymore. Katya: Hold on. Let me see if I can break it. (She examines the surroundings, finally manages to fetch an ice breaker, and brings it.) Katya: Be careful. It might break the bowl. Anna: Let’s see what happens. (She strikes hard. The metallic sound resonates through the room, ear-piercing. She strikes again.) Katya: It’s the ice. Anna: Yes, there are vacuum-filled blobs of ice. (She strikes it again. The bowl slides down and rolls out. Anna continues to hit the bowl. Something like a plate appears, rolling out and settling.) Katya: Just look at this water—so pure, so clear. Anna: Siberian snow is famed for its pristine purity. Even the countless bodies buried beneath it couldn’t taint it. Katya: Do you really think you can break it? Anna: (Strikes the ice again, but it remains unbroken) I don’t think it’s possible. (She sits down, utterly drained) Katya: Even if you manage to break it, then what? Where’s the fire? Eating this ice will only freeze our insides. Death would be inevitable. It’s only been a week since Eliya passed. Anna: (Wearily) Yes.. Voice: (Two figures from the group) What’s going on? Is it dawn? Katya: The night has passed. That’s all. Elder: An ice rock... How did it end up here? Bearded One: Look how it glitters. Anna: Yes, this is our food for today. Elder: Don’t talk nonsense. Anna: There’s a snowstorm raging outside. No one can leave today. And without work, there’s no chance of food. lder Lady: (Getting up) Isn’t this our soup? (They approach the bowl, attempting to scoop and roll the contents with their hands.) Bearded One: How could this be our food? How are we supposed to consume it? There's not a single piece of wood to make a fire. (The army whistle blows outside. Katya rushes in, clutching the sleeping Nikita to her chest.) Elder Lady: He’s coming—the son of Satan. Iliach, stand up straight. Don’t argue, or you’ll get beaten. There’s no need to show that hatred on your face. Iliach: (Stroking his beard) Nikaivyna, don’t worry. If that were true, I’d have died many times over by now. This beard? It hides every feeling, like grass covering a grave. (Everyone laughs.) Voice from Outside: Camp number 1887, are you ready for interrogation? Iliach: Dead men don’t reply. (Everyone laughs again.) Voice: Silence. (A soldier enters, blowing a whistle, his Red Army uniform sharp and commanding.) Soldier: Order! Order! Form a queue! (The group hastily forms a line as commanded.) Soldier: (Gazing at the pot) What's this? Iliach: Soup, honorable Comrade. Soldier: (Inspects it closely, then smirks) Soup, you say? Well, no need to fret about solid food, comrades. You’re in luck. (Kicks the pot with a grin) This lump will last you a few days—perhaps even a week. (Whistles) Now, keep that line straight. (Counts the eight members, noticing three lying on the floor) Are those three still breathing? Iliach: You could always ask them yourself. Soldier: Good idea. (Whistles) Those who still sleep will be buried with full honors. (No one answered) Iliach: As you wish, Comrade. Their silence speaks for them. Soldier: Very well, Iliach. You run a tight ship here. The count never exceeds three. (To the corpses) Farewell, Comrades. Red salute. (He exits, whistling, his voice trailing off with commands.) Elderly: Son of the Devil.

Katya: Natalia was among them. She was always reminiscing about home, poor thing. A well-read girl, too. Iliach: Ah, education. It has its perks, Nikolayevna—they tend to die quicker. (They all laugh together, a hollow, bitter sound.) Elderly: (Laughing) Iliach, you’ve got a sharp tongue. Iliach: The clever ones—they choose the storm and are blessed to die in their sleep. (The group laughs, the sound tinged with irony.) Soldier: Order! Silence! (A few more soldiers appear, some grabbing the corpses by their legs, dragging them away.) Soldier: Lucky for you, Comrades. Your work is done. A dangerous storm is on its way. (Kicks the frozen pot) And you’ve got your solid food, too. Truly, you’re blessed. Elderly: (Breaking down, crying loudly) Your supreme honor, our redeemer... Have mercy. I beg you, grant us a handful of firewood. We won’t survive without it. Soldier: Am I? I belong to the Russian Modern Council. (Chuckles) But tell me, old woman, do you have faith in Yagova? Elderly: Yes, your honor, I do. Soldier: Yagova is the god of fire. Pray to him. Elderly: (Smirking in confusion) As you command, your honor. You are truly merciful. Soldier: (Irritated) You wretched soul. *(He leaves the room.) Elderly: (Suddenly realizing, she dashes out, falling at his feet) Sir, the storm is imminent—show mercy, my lord! (The Soldier exits. The Elderly woman remains, weeping into her hands.) Iliach: Nikolayevna, seeing you beg like that shows you’ve still got some fire left in you. Don’t worry—you’ve got a whole week left to enjoy life on this earth. Elderly: (Angrily) Silence, you atheist fool! The Father in heaven sent us here to live joyfully. Are you cursing Him? Iliach: (smiling) As you wish. (The others are seated on the floor, huddled together. Nikita wakes up, crying.) Katya: (softly, consoling) Hush, hush, my sweet pie. Don’t cry. (Nikita pauses, her cries subsiding as she looks around at the people surrounding her. She reaches for her mother’s chest.) Elderly: Stop, Katya. Don’t nurse her anymore. You’ll drain yourself dry. Katya: Then what should I give her? Elderly: She’ll take your very life, dear girl. (Nikita, after feeding, kicks her legs and cries out even louder.) Elderly: (solemnly) No milk left to give? Katya: There’s nothing left in me, not even blood. This thirst is killing me. Iliach: (quietly) Then what now? Elderly: Come here, my little Tsar, let Grandma give you a peck on the cheek. Nikita: Get lost, you witch! You look like Baba Yaga. Elderly: Shall we cast a spell, then? (The Elderly woman puts her hand into a bowl, stirs it, and pulls out a small piece of something.) Elderly: Here’s your bread. Nikita: (hollering, rolling on the ground, then jumping up to snatch the bread) You’re my sweet grandma after all! Elderly: (her wrinkles deepening as she smiles) You sly little fox, my dear little fox. Nikita: (gobbling the bread, still unsatisfied) I need more bread. Elderly: You’ll get more tomorrow. Nikita: (relenting) I want two pieces tomorrow. (noticing something outside) Mother, come look at the ice! Wow! Can I play with it? Iliach: Santa Claus was here last night. He left that ice for Nikita to play with. Nikita: But Christmas is long past, isn’t it?

Iliach: He must have traveled a great distance, right?

Nikita: Is this really for me?

Katya: Iliach, don’t encourage him. He must sleep. If he stays awake, he’ll get thirsty.

Nikita: Go away. You always want me to sleep.

Iliach: If you sleep, you can dance in your dreams.

Nikita: (Caressing the ice) I know the ice dance. I know it well. (enthusiastically) Oh, my mad uncle.

Katya: Where is he?

Nikita: Look over there. (beckoning toward the door) The same as last time.

Katya: Why does he dash out in this severe cold?

(A noise comes from the threshold. Snow droplets cling to a crimson beard, a stout man with a bald front steps forward.)

Nikita: Insane Uncle! Sing that song!

Anna: (Startled) Aren’t you Osip?

Osip Mandelstam: (Unaware) Snowstorm... snowstorm imminent.

Nikita: Insane Uncle, let’s dance in the snowstorm!

Osip: They are bludgeoning me...

Katya: Who?

Osip: Mitya, Pulinin, and the others.

Katya: Why?

Osip: I had a piece of bread.

Nikita: Uncle, I just had some too.

Elderly: The same old story—stealing, getting caught, and being soundly beaten.

Katya: You can very well have your own bread, right?

Osip: It’s poisoned. (His eyes widen as he scans the room.)

Iliach: You’re terrified they’ll poison you?

Katya: Why?

Iliach: Because he’s a self-proclaimed poet. These are the same men who poisoned Gorky.

Anna: Osip, do you recognize me?

Katya: Do you know him?

Anna: He’s a great poet. A family friend.

Iliach: Oh, in that case, in this era, he deserves to die poisoned.

Nikita: Uncle, sing a song, please.

Osip: What is this ice?

Iliach: Our supposed solid food. Soup.

Osip: It’s frozen. Everything here is frozen. Words are frozen. Poems are frozen. Music is frozen. Even dreams are frozen. The snowstorm— (he looks fearfully at the ice)—how long has it been traveling from Moscow?

Nikita: Sing a song, Uncle.

Anna: Osip, I am Bukharina. Do you recognize me?

Osip: (Laughing loudly) Comrades, let us dance, shaking our limbs! This tear of the great revolution, frozen in the snow.

(Osip dances while singing, and Nikita joins him.)

Iliach: Worry-free, pure, happy souls.

Elderly: (Letting out a sigh) In those days, we danced in the spring and during the harvest. (Gazing out the window) Everything has turned ash-colored—the sky, the earth, the directions. Even the rare moments of dreaming are tinted with ash. (Gasping) This is the season for forage crops in the Steppe grassland. We sow the seeds long before the snow arrives. They hibernate beneath the snow, and when it melts, they begin to sprout and spread. In spring, the Steppe will be covered in green grasses stretching to the horizon. The grass shoots will look like the soft fur of a snow wolf cub, undulating in the wind. The land will glow in a lime-green hue. Sometimes, it seems as though the Steppe has goosebumps, as if it remembers the martyred soldiers. (His tone weakens) If my body is buried in the Steppe, that’s all I pray for these days. My only longing is for my body to become part of the black soil of the Steppe. My dreams would sprout again from the earth as plants, bushes, and flowers, shining in autumn. The fragrance of the Steppe carries the scent of all the souls buried here.

Iliach: I never knew you could speak so poetically.

Katya: Who else is left in the Steppe? All our loved ones are... (her voice falters) Stethnov was forced from his home and beaten to death with a gun butt. No one is left in the Steppe, Nikolovyna... The soul of the Steppe is pillaged.

Nikita: The Steppe is filled with soil—pure black soil. My mother once told me.

Iliach: Now there’s nothing left but the soil. Just soil.

Katya: But the seeds are sleeping inside the soil.

Elderly: The holy spirits turn into hawks, circling over the Steppe. They pray soulfully, circling over and over. At some point, reflecting the sunlight, they turn golden. (Tearfully kneeling) My Lord Jesus Christ, my redeemer... Will we ever have the chance to live again in that soil? If my body is buried in this snow, my soul will be frozen, unmoving, buried forever. There will be no redemption for it. Oh, my Lord, my soul’s healer... (The Elderly woman begins to convulse with a Siberian fit) Nikolai! (Shrieking and banging her head against the floor maniacally) I beg someone to break my head! There’s a bird inside, shrieking, hollering, scratching, and pecking—I can’t bear it! (She gets up and runs toward the wall, attempting to bang her head, but they all stop her. She collapses, her head rolling on the floor as she cries.)

Iliach: This Siberian fit is unbelievable. It’s a zenith state. We must gradually come down from that peak. The descent is an endearing experience—our nerves loosen, and a liquid warmth seeps through our bodies. The realization that we are still alive is almost ecstatic. New justifications for living begin to emerge. Vivid images appear in the imagination. (Smiling) Last time, I had a hallucination of myself drinking in a Moscow liquor shop, watching the Gypsies dance during a vodka session. And do you know who was sitting at

the next table? Comrade Lenin. Narrow-eyed, Comrade Lenin laughed and winked.

Nikita: What does Comrade Lenin mean?

Iliach: Comrade Lenin means liberation.

Nikita: What does freedom mean?

Iliach: How can I make you understand? You were born here. Here, death is the only freedom.

Osip: (He raises his head from a drooped position, standing with a determined expression) Freedom is justice. You and I are equal. What belongs to us belongs to all. (With a wild, manic smile) Freedom is a trance. Freedom is a dance. Freedom is a song. Freedom, freedom, freedom! (He begins to dance)

Iliach: The gods have mercy on the mad.

Anna: There was a time when students would flock to Osip's house just to hear him recite his poems. (Tearfully) He has the innocence of a child. He lives in a world of his own. (A heavy, uncomfortable silence lingers. The snowstorm rages outside.)

Nikita: Water! I need water!

Katya: (Angrily) Drink my blood, you little devil!

Elderly: Why are you cursing the child?

Katya: My body burns with thirst. I might die at any moment.

Anna: If only we could break through this.

Katya: It's impossible to break.

Anna: (Grabbing a hammer) Let's find out. (She strikes the ice, but the hammer snaps in two)

Elderly: This is Siberian ice.

Anna: Oh, God. (She collapses)

Elderly: They say God placed a drop of warmth in the heart of the ice. Satan left a void at this ice’s center.

Iliach: Ice is a blessing. Soon, ice mountains will rise over us. We'll be frozen at their base, buried in history. Someday, people will dig us out. They'll find our last meal, our last steps. Perhaps your dead body will even grace their museums.

Katya: I can’t bear this hellish thirst any longer. Not for another second. Oh God, oh God! (Shouting) God, you are mercy personified—where is your mercy now? Does it even exist, or are those just meaningless words?

Iliach: Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.

Katya: (Maniacally) Stop it! Words, words—nothing but words while we’re dying in this icy graveyard. I’m dying, mother!

Anna: Wait, Katya. Let me find help. (Runs out, peeking through the door) Help! Help!

Iliach: The only help they can offer is adding another number to the burial list.

Anna: Just hold on a little longer, Katya. I’ll do something.

Katya: I can’t take it anymore, Anna. This thirst is killing me. I’m going to die.

Anna: Wait! (She strikes the ice with another hammer, and suddenly, the ice breaks into pieces. Katya frantically grabs a chunk)

Katya: (In a trance-like state) Soup... Water... (She bites into the ice)

Anna: Katya, for God’s sake, wait! Let me heat it first. (She tries to yank the ice from her)

Katya: (Still attempting to bite it) Soup... Soup... (She’s lost her mind)

Anna: Let me light the fireplace. Does anyone have a matchbox?

Katya: (After finishing the ice) Oh God, what a relief... like quenching a fire.

Nikita: Mother, soup for me?

Katya: What have you done? No one here should consume the ice. Nikita: where is my soup? Katya: (Her expression shifts) Anna... (in fear) My gut is burning... The pain is unbearable... (Grabbing her stomach, she collapses.) Anna: Katya, look at me! Iliach: She’s received her ticket to freedom.

Nikita: (Curious) Is she going to die?

Anna: (Dashing to the door) Help! Somebody, help! Iliach: Anna, you’re just easing your conscience. It’s no use. Sit down and be quiet. Katya: The pain... it’s killing me... It’s hell! (She hollers, writhing, her body shaking.) Elderly: Jesus, grant her peace. Nikita: (Watching her intently) Is she dying? Ivannich died just like this... (Katya twitches and shivers before becoming still.) Anna: Katya! Katya! (Trying to wake her) Someone, please! (Suddenly realizing) Katya...!! Nikita: (With interest) Has she died? Elderly: May her soul rest in peace. A good girl... (She applied sign of cross on her, and the others follow.) Move her to the side, Anna. That son of Satan won’t come until tomorrow. (A snowstorm snarls outside, darkness slowly falls. The ice glitters ominously in the night.) Elderly: They say ice has eyes... This is the Siberian eye. Iliach: Somehow, we’ve survived another day. We’ve bought ourselves one more day of life. It’s strangely satisfying. Elderly: But the night hasn’t come yet... The snow still enshrouds everything... Anna: It's only noon. Elderly: Whatever the time, let's go to sleep. Nikita: Granny, I’m thirsty. Elderly: Go to bed, child. In your dreams, you'll find all the water you need. Nikita: But I only dream of ice. Iliach: Let’s get some rest. (They all prepare for bed. Nikita approaches Katya to sleep beside her.) Anna: (Startled) Nikita! Nikita: What is it, Anna? Anna: Sleep next to Granny instead. Nikita: Why? Elderly: Your mother has passed away. Nikita: Didn’t I sleep next to Mikitin’s body the other day? Elderly: Pull her to the side. I don’t want to sleep among the dead. Iliach: I was thinking the same. (He drags Katya’s body to the other side.) Nikita: (Cheerfully) She’s not dead! Her head is moving. Anna: Leave her alone, Iliach. Don’t do that. Elderly: Are we really going to sleep beside a corpse? Anna: Don’t we do that every day? Elderly: But that’s when we don’t know... How can we, knowing? Anna: She’ll be here until tomorrow. Iliach: We can’t do anything about that. At least let’s draw a line between us and the dead. (He pulls Katya’s body further aside.) Anna: How cruel...

Iliach: Those words mean something in a place where the sun rises every day. Keep quiet and sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day. (All go to bed.) Nikita: (rolling closer to the elderly woman) Grannie, tell me a story. Elderly: What kind of story, dear? Nikita: The one about the Steppe. My favorite. Elderly: Ah, the Steppe... Its warmth is like a gentle embrace, spreading everywhere, making the land fertile and lush. (Gradually, everyone drifts into sleep. Anna remains seated quietly, as the ice begins to glitter more brightly. A strange bluish light emerges, growing stronger until the stage is bathed in an eerie glow.) Anna: (rising and looking out the window) The moon... The snow reflects it like a mirror. (paces the room, then sits back down) My thoughts are unraveling. This light... it feels otherworldly. (paces again, then sits) A bluish light... the light of lunacy. Arctic blue. (anxiously gets up, pacing once more) Katya: (suddenly sits up, stiff and cold like a frozen doll, a corpse-like smile on her face) Death is merely a change of cells in a prison. Anna: (fearfully, closing her eyes and then opening them) Katya, is that you? (Katya's body lies frozen again.) Anna: (grabbing her head, trembling) My mind is fracturing, a cacophony of terror. (glancing at Katya from the corner of her eye) This isn't Katya... it's a corpse. Can a corpse speak? Oh, God... is this a hallucination? (closes her eyes tightly, clutching her head, her face contorted with fear as veins tighten) Katya: (rising, touching Anna's shoulder) Anna... Anna: (shaken, eyes wide) Katya, is it really you? Katya: (with that same frozen smile) Come closer... there's no cold here. Anna: (screaming, shrinking against the wall in terror) Iliach! Grannie! Osip! (Katya once again lies motionless, like a frozen corpse. The snow begins to turn her crystalline.) Anna: (desperate, pleading) Katya!! (In the distance, the howling of a snowstorm grows louder.)

nna: (desperately) Katya!

(A blue light fills the stage.)

Anna: (slowly coming to her senses) No... just a hallucination. Strange, haunting images... (rises and looks out the window) An endless expanse of snowy blue... a boundless prison of ice, stretching to the horizon. There’s no escape from here. (shakes her head) My vision is failing... all I see is this arctic blue. (slaps her head) Maybe... this is reality. Everything before might have been a dream. Empty... void. (pulls her hair violently) Oh, dear mother... (she begins to have fits)

Iliach: (opening his eyes and sitting up) She’s reached the climax of her fits. It’s amusing how quickly women reach their peak. (turns away and goes back to sleep)

Anna: (maniacally, pleading) Mother! Dear mother! (runs towards the wall to bang her head, falls, gets up, and bangs her head violently again. As she attempts to do it once more—)

Voice: Anna!

Anna: (stopping, startled) Who’s there?

Voice: Anna, please don’t!

Anna: (ecstatic, recognizing the voice) Nikita! Nikita!

(A bluish apparition, like smoke, appears in the air—Bukharin approaching.)

Anna: Nikita! Nikita! You’ve come! (she runs towards the apparition, then stops suddenly, startled) But... Nikita...

Bukharin: I’m here, Anna. I just needed permission.

Anna: Permission?

Bukharin: Yes, Anna. I have guards.

Anna: (looking out the window) Snow wolves... are these your guards?

Bukharin: Yes, it’s my fate.

Anna: (frantic, desperate) How are you, Nikita? Have you seen my state? Why did you make me promise to live in this hell? I can’t bear it any longer... let me come with you. Let us be together, always.

Bukharin: This is an endless snowfield, Anna. A world of wolves. Anna: My wish is with you always. Bukharin: We will both roam restlessly, without redemption. I have a faint hope of faith, so long as you live. Anna: No, Nikita. I’ve lost all faith. Forgive me, but you've overestimated my strength. Bukharin: In your world, there are still days and nights. Things change. There are people. Above all, time still moves forward. Anna: Nikita! Bukharin: You cannot even imagine the doomed world I inhabit. Anna: What hope do I have left in this world? Sacrifice, love, justice, mercy—these words have lost all meaning here. Bukharin: And yet, those words remain in your memory, undeniable. Anna: Don’t try to reason with me. (Furiously) I can't bear it any longer. This cold place has broken me into pieces. I quit. Bukharin: (In a sorrowful tone) Live for me, Anna. I beseech you. Anna: Nikita, Nikita, oh God, what kind of torture is this? Bukharin: Even now, you call on God with hope in your voice. Anna: I have no idea what you're talking about. Bukharin: Anna, snow is cruel, but it cannot bury everything forever. It may take centuries, but it will melt eventually. When I was alive, I never fully trusted in the notion of justice. As a philosopher, I believed in the power of thought and knowledge. Justice was beyond the reach of my intellectual pursuits. (Bukharin walks slowly, lost in thought) Anna, justice is not practical. It is not a form, nor a faith. It is a feeling, one that we may never truly comprehend. Bukharin: Justice, like sunlight, is bestowed upon all humans on Earth, a gift from the universe. Like the wind, it binds everyone. Human life is fleeting, and even the knowledge we hold is impermanent. But justice endures. Anna: (Infuriated) Your words don’t give me comfort. Forgive me, Nikita. Bukharin: I understand your turmoil. You, too, are driven by knowledge. But the pursuit of knowledge can build a wall that separates us from justice. Selfishness drives us further away. The closer one stands to justice, the more innocent they must become. The words of the Son of God are not meaningless. Unless we become like children, we cannot approach God. We must sustain the thirst for justice. Justice is as primal as hunger, as natural as thirst. Only by understanding nature can we understand justice. Only by living deeply within nature can we grasp its essence. (Bukharin’s apparition begins to levitate like a mist, moving toward the center of the stage.) Bukharin: But I was a child of knowledge. I devised plans to dominate nature, ready to wage war against it. That was a war against justice. Now, looking back, I see it clearly. Throughout my life, my Redeemer stood beside me, whispering the words of justice in my ear. Love, justice, sacrifice, mercy—these are not just words; they are profound feelings given by our Redeemer. These words cannot be destroyed. They lie dormant like seeds beneath the ice. When they bloom, they will topple even the mightiest mountains of ice. Believe it, Anna. Believe it. I rejected the words of God, using logic to evade their meaning. The Redeemer grieved as he watched me turn away. When I was consumed by pride, he tried to restrain me. When I gambled with the lives of millions, he tearfully pleaded with me. I cast aside the love of Jesus. Now, I see only the traces he left behind. He waits for me at the edge of this snowfield. I am a lost lamb, and my Shepherd waits for me, far, far awayAnna, these wolves won’t leave me. Don’t let my faith be doomed. Anna, Anna... Anna: Nikita, I won’t let you go. Bukharin: (As if being pulled violently) Anna, don’t abandon me! Anna! (Nikita disappears from the stage. The voice, "Anna, don’t abandon me," fades away along with the wolves' howling.) Anna: (Shouting) Nikita! Iliach: (Startled) Who was that? Anna: Nikita. Nikita was here. Iliach: Who? Bukharin? What an imagination. Anna: In that bluish smoke, he walks alone, sad and solitary, surrounded by a pack of snow wolves. Nikita... Iliach: Pink elephants... very well. Your ticket is confirmed. Anna: No, Iliach, get up and see. His shoulders droop, his walk filled with sorrow. My dear Nikita... Iliach: Shut up and sleep. (He goes back to sleep.) Nikita: (Settling with a sigh) Nikita... Perhaps just my hallucinations? Nikita: (Getting up, startled) Mama! Mama! (Looking around quickly, finding Katya fumbling with her blouse.) Anna: Nikita, what are you doing? Nikita: I’m thirsty. Anna: Leave her, she has passed away. Nikita: I’m thirsty... soon I’ll die. Anna: Come with me, I’ll get you some soup. Nikita: Where? Anna: Wait. (Takes a hammer and strikes an ice block, shattering it.) Nikita: Wow, it broke. Anna: Wait. (Takes a piece of ice, places it in a glass, and tucks it inside her coat as she sits by, bending close.) Nikita: Anna, you’ll die from the cold. Anna: No. Wait a few moments. It will melt. Nikita: Where’s the fire? Anna: The fire glows inside. Nikita: Really? Anna: Yes. This is a special fire. An untamable, fierce flame. Nikita: I need that fire.

Anna: I’ll give it to you, for sure.

Chapter 6 - Glacial Poems

These poems were written by Siberian prisoners—perhaps by many of them—and were sent to Veerapadra Pillai through letters written by Osip Mandelstam. Pillai translated the poems, but in doing so, he took considerable liberties, causing the translations to lose the distinctive style of Mandelstam's original work.

This Century We were never meant for this century, Where great minds, Dream of grand words, Only to awaken, startled, in this turbulent time. To them, millions of souls are but a rivers, Their courses Shaped and reshaped by artificial dams. An animal, Chained, its skin torn by the whip. A book, Turned inside out, rewritten and reviewed. Brothers, With hearts doomed, their tears flow through us, Yet we are never seen. The greatest things possess the power, To obscure all else. Prophets, saints, wise men— Even they are subject to time, A dreamless, shapeless, formless, merciless time. When humans were beasts, That was the time when we were all meant to die. Betrayed, tortured, Spat upon, scavenged— Like a bundle of flesh, screaming in agony, We die and decay in the earth. Perhaps then, there is meaning, A weightless existence, unlike now. Anteater Measured Walk of the Anteater With solid legs and drowsy eyes, It moves in weighted slowness. Its cold tongue Sifts through anthills, Its breath, a frost That crumbles tiny homes. Inside the mound, Lamentations stir, The blind mad frenzy of life. But to the anteater, This is but a mundane scene. It knows the truth: Death looms, a vast, anxious shadow. Thus, it finds the meaning of life, In a level-headed, steady walk. The Land of Zion After a long, arduous journey, I arrived in the Land of Zion. In this holy place, Why are the angels’ seats so rigid? Why does the messenger of God, With trembling knees, Hold the black scepter and weep? Our Father, exalted upon His throne— Why is there not a trace of a smile? I have prepared a song, To be sung here, Born from centuries of dreams, Forged in the death of comrades on battlefields. From every drop of my solitude, I’ve woven this poem. Am I permitted to sing it? For I cannot sing without dancing. But without Him descending, From His throne, With cross and thorny crown, How can this dance be complete? Comrades, Here, in the Land of Zion— Am I allowed?

Two birds

The falcon, mighty bird—its eyes alone Trace the secret paths of air, While the earth, beneath, is but a crumpled rug. The sparrow, small and spry, prances on tree limbs, Dreaming of the sky, a distant gleam, A light upon the ocean's edge. Two birds—the sky is just as far for both. Light of Morning This morning brings a sliver of light, The cold has shed some weight. Over my frozen thoughts, a mild warmth spreads, Shrouding tender flowers in their bloom— So delicate, like blood-touched foam, I dare not touch, Afraid they might melt and disappear. Fungicide flowers, unable to bear fruit or vegetable, (Only over death do they claim life). Yet I find myself elated, Rubbing my hands for a spark of excitement, Lifting my collar against the fading cold. “Well, my friends, we have some days left still,” I repeat, Striving to craft a new day from these words, From this morning light. I don’t know its reason, Yet I imagine it came for this purpose alone. Scars When noble thoughts emerge within me, I must forget my hunger. When I wake from dreams so radiant, The bone-chilling cold must not beat me down. How ignominious it is to be human— A tiny weapon diminishes us, A small ray of desire Turns us away from angels. What remains after that? Aside from these lingering dreams, We are all crucified souls, Dying without resurrection. These dreams are the nails— Not five, But thousands— And these, my holy scars. Epic An epic full of lament songs, Unwritten by anyone. Each line for each soul, Each letter evoking The sorrowful of memories. If such an epic were ever penned, I would not place a full stop. Only commas, tearfully scattered, And ellipses, filled with boundless joy, Would attempt to grasp the elusive full stop. In this epic of lament, Mountains, steppes, plains, thorns, and flowers Would be absent— Only snow-covered horizons, Deserts stretching wide, The wind fidgeting in cold, silent spaces. In this epic of endless grief, One line may be recited again and again, A single line spoken without pause, Carried by soft, hapless sobbing. Condolence songs are like shed leaves— Meaningless and void, Barring the barren trees For all others to witness.

Soil

I met a mother who was Buriing her own infant, Taking fistfuls of soil, Dropping them in the pit, First over delicate legs, Then the tiny hands. She caressed the small, round face, Taking another soft fistful, Spreading it slowly, Gently, tenderly. “Mother, Would you take the whole world To fill this void?” In the Laps of the Mountains The misery is like mountains, Shapeless eyes filling with feeling, A distant blur, yet always present. Snow-covered peaks descend, Cold and high, like canyons deep. Like misery, the mountains are silent, They embody utter solitude, Buried in snow, they hide themselves. Atop a peak, I would sit, Eyes closed to the world. In the moonlight, Like misery, the mountains are brave, Leaping over the thoughts that cling to their heights, Reaching for the unbelievable, If only for fleeting moments. At dawn, the mountains Melt into illumination, Rainbow-embellished, Blushing crimson before my eyes. Now my dreams are veiling screens, Dark, gothic images that linger— My faith is not capable of Rejecting these fearful visions. Yet the mountains remain, For without them, I would have no Partner in this vast snow desert.

The Sound of Snow Melting Time lingers, an undisturbed silence, A silence heavy with unheard sounds, A collection of whispers unspoken. In the stillness of this cold night, Far in the dark distance, Frozen lakes and rivers stand resolute, Yet beneath their surface— Cracks form, Slowly giving way, Until they break, Crushed, At last. The snowwind still howls, Like a cruel sorcerer, Turning to stone all it touches. Those who dare glance back, from the safety of distance, Are transformed into statues of salt. It casts veils upon every direction, Slowly devouring the mountains in its cold embrace. The snowwind traps our thoughts, Forcing the same bleak reflection over and over. When we try to smile, our lips and cheeks crack, Leaking blood, wounded. In our handshakes, Our barren fingers scrape like dry twigs, The snowwind is a mystery, Unfathomable, incomprehensible— The breath of a mighty, unseen force. But why, on this earth, Should rivers crack and wail? Why should deep lakes fissure from within? For what new lives are stirring beneath? My dear, Long, long ago, Yes, somewhere in the distant past— Is this the seed we buried? Tell me, is it? You needn’t say yes, But in this cold, Could you simply whisper yes? Ash Colour Whose colour is ash, truly? I saw it in the faces of the frozen corpses that day. The forest floor beneath the pines—ash-coloured, The snow, ripened with time, merely an extension of it. Do you remember, dear? When I kissed you for the first time, How the trees throbbed like greenish flames? Ash Colour This sky, this soil, This wind— Every thought that rises, All are cloaked in ash. Moldy bread, barren soups, Wet boots, The policeman's whip, Even the horse he rides— I see them all in ash colour. But why must the funeral box be ash too? Why do mushrooms bloom over the graves, And they too, wear the colour of ash? By lying in my ash-coloured bed, Dreams of brilliant flowers on the far side of the earth Attempt to reach me, but all I see Are visions draped in ash. The train windows, veiled in snow, Breath evaporating into droplets, And your last kiss, That soft farewell you left upon my skin— Did your lips, too, appear in the colour of ash, my dear? My dear, my words have run dry. Even God, in His deep silence, seems to decay. Soporous Innocents' blood— It bears no color, no scent. None awake has time to notice it. Innocents' blood, Seeping slowly into the soil, It lingers as a mystery. The curious roots recoil in shock When they stumble upon it. Innocents' blood is dangerously potent. It seeps into the pollen of these flowers, The tender flesh of the spruces. The very brain of life itself. Even the bees, in their search for honey on these hillsides, Know the weight of the deep silence That guards this secret. Dear Friend, Beyond the glass of your window, What is this palpitating force That presses, threatening to break through? You, ignoring it, begin your meal, Wrap yourself in a cozy bedsheet, Douse the lamps, And drift into sleep— While that force outside swells into a great sound. Innocents' blood, By night, reaches its fullest strength. Even the greatest tyrants have knelt before it. Philosophies crumble to dust beneath its weight. Yet sleep, like time, Has the power to cloak it all, To wrap even the unspeakable in its quiet embrace. At illuminating daybreak, snow droplets glitter On the other side of your window, Eyes fixed upon it— Unblinking, watching you, Only for a few moments. By midday's warmth, they will melt, Falling to the soil, disappearing, rotting away. Have you ever wondered? How easily we fall asleep? How many devices have been crafted to lull us? The softest beds, carpets, Cozy sheets, perfumes, melodies— Bright hopes for the future, prayers, And above all, the logics That justify it all.

Liberation

It is easy to kill a child. Killing them cruelly is even easier. You can tear them by the legs, Bury the axe deep into their mouths, Or drag them away, bayonet raised. It is easy to kill a silent child Rather than one who speaks. Easier still, the milk-drinking infant, Than the crawler who recognizes your face. It is easier to kill a named child Than an unnamed soul. Nowhere does a civilization grow Without the blood of children. The angel that craves the innocent Always chooses the child first. By killing the children, We attain our might. For we cannot conquer societies That cradle and raise their young. Our machines hum in fear When we approach, And the Volga, the Aabu, The Yenisei, and the Lena Must burn. You must practice killing a child. You must unlearn so many words, And learn so many more. Words must become mantras, A wizard must stand beside you with this staff. Look closely into your eyes, Clear of any other thought. I am the way, I am the life Behold, where have we arrived? A new world, where might alone rules. What else is revolution, If not liberation? Yes, my friend—liberation. Smile

oh Liberal equalities! oh Noblest of global goods! Never recognized you. And if, by chance, one happens to see you, They drop their heads in shame, Covering their mouths with the tip of their dress, Tears overwhelming their faces. You may recall it— Hanging stages, somber cortèges, Battlefields where children starved.

Beloved angels, We severed our brothers' heads, Plucked their sinews like strings, and sang your praise. For centuries, we worshipped you, Yet your arrival never came. You must have lost your way. Someone found your footprint Beside the corpse of a dead, decayed child. Another saw it at the door Of the forsaken sacrifice's home. And yet another, On the threshold of a woman, Raped and driven mad.

None have ever seen a trace Of you sitting among us. Are you too among the hapless souls? Have you witnessed these horrors, Even in your darkest nightmares? Oh, Liberal Equalities! Oh, Noblest of global goods! You must cross this path, just once. You may return whenever you wish— But take our children in your hands, Hold them close to your heart. Please, shed a single tear. (Be careful—this fragile bundle of sorrow May crumble at the slightest touch.)

Oh, Liberal Equalities! Oh, Noblest of global goods! By remembering all we have lost, Perhaps we may summon a smile— Even as we swallow our unbearable grief.

On Both Sides

In the anxiety-laden dark of night, Amid the hollows of this vast snowfield, Tender sprouts emerge, Gathering into colossal, abstract dreams— Thunderous, space-filling visions. History watches, Subjectively, Occasionally shedding a tear. On the other side, Power observes, A frozen smile concealed Behind the erected mouche. Words of God

With these meaningless, dissolving words, To whom do we speak as we form this language? My Redeemer will never hear it— This language will never reach You. For in it, we cannot confess our sins. It is not the language of Satan either. This language lies beyond the grasp Of intellect’s logic and the tears of poets.

My God! We beseech You, arms outstretched Like withered branches in a snow-covered field. Come, learn the language of freezing snow. Forgive our sins, and in return, We will forgive Yours.

Spotless Death

I wonder, how do birds die? Do they fall mid-flight in a moment of breaking, Their bodies twisting as they plunge to earth, While their souls, still aflame, soar upward— Or Resting on beloved branches, do they sit, half-eyed in fading light, As feathers loosen, one by one, And hearts slow to a final beat? Whatever it may be, no one sees the dying bird, Not even its kind, who turn away— A spotless, holy death. Oh, my Son of God, my Redeemer, Here, in this tortured camp, In this biting cold— Cease the birds flight above me. Let me die blessed, unseen, Without the sight of another falling bird. Letters

In towns where posting letters is banned, Thousands of words are composed— Hanging heavy in the air like clouds. When a wind caresses them, They fall as rain upon those who wrote them. Those Frozen words settle around their creators, Who sleep in the grip of the biting cold. In dreams, they feel the warmth of a distant wind, And see their words fly like light across the sky. They dream of the moment when some soul will consume their words, And weep upon waking. But the next day, again— Breaking through the tightening shackles of snow, They begin again, Writing letters to a world that cannot receive them. This Drama

When each fragment of your faith shatters, You gather the broken pieces, Trying to arrange them— To rebuild what was lost. Against your cold father, frozen deep within you, You try to restore your inner child, To awaken your old arguments. In a trembling state of mind, you watch— Are you searching for the past, the present, or the future? In his present, the earth beneath your feet holds you, And the sigh you release in your solitude Is not the sign of abandonment, But the mark of a father who never believed in you. Sometimes, the smile that escapes you, It isn't gifted by a dream of the future, But a sign that your son— Would never, ever lose faith in you.

To Whom?

To whom are these poems written? The sun still rises, As if a luminous rock amidst snow, Even in this biting cold, Its smile sinks deep into my bones. Flowers bloom, Yet fall away at my touch. I gather the fragments of faith, Collecting the bits and pieces shattered By the distant wailing A small child begs for a piece of bread— He does not ask, To whom I write these poems.

Chapter 7 - Encounter with the buried spirited woman - Ranil Gunasinghe

( Sinhala - English Writer and Marxist - Excerpts from the

"Postmath of Snowmelt" article collection book )

To reach the village of Darkisk, one must journey 200 kilometers from Moscow—a journey that demands patience as relentless as the Russian winter. Even in the days of the iron curtain, I traveled through many such villages of Russian communal life. My purpose was to examine the communes, to meet the workers, and to engage in conversations. These itineraries were arranged meticulously, with a guide—always "the one who knows everything"—by my side. Typically, he was a quiet, courteous man, steadfastly devoted to the Party, deeply worried about the fate of world civilization, and genuinely concerned with the fate of communism in my own country.

The journeys were rigidly planned, allowing for few surprises, yet life managed to slip in its unexpected, small delights. Once, a commune farmer was overjoyed to meet a fellow communist from Sri Lanka, a writer no less. He gathered others, and together they sang a workers’ hymn—a heartfelt ode to the unity of Asia. They hadn't rehearsed; rather, in the quiet hours after work, music became their solace, their bond. Traveling through Russia in those days felt like reading the same book over and over. Yet, each time, I found myself drawn in, compelled to read between the lines, uncovering hidden layers. The truth always has multiple facades; such a strong belief should be the fundamental quality of any true intelligentsia.

I no longer hold that belief. Outside Moscow’s National Tourism Board, licensed and self-proclaimed, unlicensed guides jostle each other, shouting “Dollar, dollar!” as though the city itself were in some fevered trance. The unlicensed guides offer all manner of earthly pleasures for as little as eight dollars, and the European travelers, eager to indulge, select guides with ease, their negotiations brief and settled at a single point of barter.

Signs in English, French, and other European languages warn travelers against falling victim to these guides. Yet, most tourists are not here for history; they seek something else. The mindset of most tourists there resembles a scene from a sordid French tale: a man bringing a prostitute to the grave of his late wife for a fleeting indulgence. Some others content with fleeting thrills, intoxication, and a touch of harmless vice. They gather before the remnants of Lenin and Marx statues, posing atop shattered chest and head part for photographs.

The supposed guides betray their nature through their demeanor, attire, and speech—they are no guides at all. As N.K. remarked, prostitution is not only government-recognized but officially encouraged to aid the economic situation. Begging and petty theft fill in the gaps. For a reader of Russian novels—especially one enamored with Tolstoy—the name Natalia might evoke a blossom of life and innocence. Now, it’s no more than a codename for a ring of vice, or so they say.

Guides may be ubiquitous, but none had proven useful; the service I required seemed both rare and unusual. “Gentleman, are you a communist from the East?” asked an official-looking man. I hesitated before answering, uncertain how to respond. “Yes… almost,” I replied. “You might try Praikka Street. There are still remnants of the old socialists there,” he suggested. I was in Moscow for two days, though it was hardly my first visit; I had been here more than fourteen times. I had come during the snowmelt of the Soviet era, during the formation of new republics, and countless times afterward. I had witnessed, firsthand, the great fall. But the real question was not how Russia collapsed — it was how it had managed to sustain such an unsustainable system for thirty long years. For two decades, I observed symptoms of decline: agriculture neglected, uncultivated land stretching across fields, marketplaces bleak and joyless. The production units that once thrived were losing lifelines, bound by layers of oppressive regulations, bribery, and ritualistic bureaucracy. The cracks began to show in the 1960s, visible to those who read between the lines of official news. Some of you may remember my articles on the subject. Like many other Marxist thinkers, I believed that the issue lay not with communist ideals but with the flawed structure of socialist planning. The unchecked state violence and relentless exploitation of resources managed to extend this decline over three decades. When the fall finally came, what remained of Russia was a lifeless shell, a society drained of vitality. “A lifeless skeleton, gentlemen,” a college professor remarked grimly. “This nation has been dead for years — the flesh has merely rotted away.”

Today, the only constant is the chilling climate. On one side stands the frozen rigidity of those in power; below them, in an unfathomable depth, lie the common civilians. This was the Moscow I witnessed. The vast divide between the ordinary citizen and the ruling elite had seeped into the very body language of the people, imbuing them with an alert, watchful tension. Everywhere, an unyielding, almost oppressive order held sway. On the other hand, a society seemingly severed from its past ventured without restraint into the unknown. To sustain themselves, many had turned to brothels and crumbling dens of vice. Dollar became the reigning mantra on both sides of this stark divide. Even in the corners of Moscow’s main squares, one might encounter a young girl named Natasha beckoning for fleeting pleasures, or a mother, whose child’s face had turned blue in the cold (like Dostoevsky’s Nellie), pleading for a dollar to survive. As night fell, the city’s spirit grew wild, with a frenzied nightlife overtaking restraint. The Lust-driven escapades turners as cliche in Paris, became routine in Moscow, almost fashionable, and sex toys filled street stalls. "Had these outlets existed before," a professor friend of mine remarked dryly, "perhaps Perestroika wouldn’t have been necessary."

As if there were no tomorrow, Russians roamed the streets in a feverish trance.

Finally, I managed to secure a guide, just as I'd hoped. Her name was Catherine Vasiliayeva—a name reminiscent of the old Tsarist queens. But she insisted I call her "Cat," the European way of shortening Catherine. In Russia, she'd be known as "Katya." She had once been a teacher in Ukraine, but they’d closed the schools there and driven out all the Russians. Through her mother's cousin, who held a government post, she’d managed to bribe her way to fetch a guide’s license with a sum of six hundred dollars.

"You know, at this moment, it’s the most sought-after job in the city," she said, though her words were somewhat difficult to follow.

The government paid her a small salary in rubles, administered through the local tourism office.

"I donate that to the beggars. At least it can buy someone a meal," she shrugged.

"And beyond the rubles? What else do you live on?" I asked.

"I get paid in dollars by the tourists," she replied, a glint of humor in her eyes.

"But they must ask for more than just guiding," I ventured.

"Well, yes. Small adjustments," she smirked. "Europeans—hasty types. They don't linger."

Cat was well known around Moscow’s tourist attractions, particularly in the slum quarters where children gathered, begging for food, and people scavenged through dumps in search of discarded breads and then the grand Mother Mary churches.

The socialist I sought was a poker-faced elderly man, once a proud member of the Red Army. In his later years, he had served as a commissar in a Siberian rescue camp before retiring on a pension—a pension now so devalued it couldn’t buy even a single glass of vodka. His house, without a fireplace, was bitterly cold. Even indoors, we both were forced to wear heavy Siberian coats.. He had enough gold left to scrape by for a few more months; after that, he said, suicide was his only remaining option. A loaded pistol lay within easy reach.

He eyed me with a touch of irritation. “A socialist is not some exhibit to visit,” he muttered.

I told him simply, "I came here to see the widow of Bukharin."

“Did you say, Bukharin?” he repeated, his face twisting in disdain before rage overtook him. “A traitor to socialism. Communism perished because of such treacherous blasphemers!”

To him, the flaws in implementing socialism had been many, but none as grievous as allowing Gorbachev’s rise to power. “Gorbachev should have been seen as a weed and pulled out early, without mercy. That was Comrade Stalin’s greatest mistake. And for Comrade Brezhnev not to remove Gorbachev—it doomed us.”

He paused, his face grim. “These two failures alone led to socialism’s collapse,” he said, then gave me a probing look. “And look at today’s world! The young are wasting away—lost to drugs, unchecked decadence, and rampant lust.”

I asked him politely, “Hasn’t there been a long enslavement to drink?”

“Vodka is Russia’s national drink,” he snapped, his voice filled with indignation. “But now? Now, it’s morphine and brown sugar that plague the streets.” I didn’t respond.

He shook his head slowly, as if lost in thought. “I am still in awe of Comrade Stalin’s foresight. He knew socialism could never be toppled by its enemies. No, if it ever fell, it would be because of traitors within.” He paused, his eyes distant. “During the great purges, I admit I felt a chill at what I saw… but now I understand. If he hadn’t taken such a resolute stand, Russia would have fallen to this ruin in the 1940s itself.”

He called me "young man." Secretly, I’d hoped he might use the old term, tovarishch. Once, that word was as common as air, spoken everywhere. For some, it was uttered with exaggerated, syrupy sweetness, a term of artificial camaraderie. For others, it was wielded like a blade—a word the powerful used to call upon the common folk with unyielding authority.

I addressed him as tovarishch just once. He didn’t respond, but I saw the effect: his eyes narrowed, as if I’d struck a nerve, the word piercing him like a needle. Yet, despite his hardened edges, I knew he was a good soul. Perhaps in this new world, tovarishch had turned into a term of mockery—a relic, an uncomfortable reminder for the old commissars.

The journey to meet Anna was daunting, an endless stretch over broken roads that seemed to go on forever. By the time we reached the village, my back was aching, and standing upright felt almost impossible. We had passed wave after wave of abandoned wasteland.

“Are all these the old commune farms?” I asked.

“They’re state-owned now,” Cat replied. “People can lease the land for farming, but no one’s interested. It takes capital to invest, and even if they managed that, selling crops is a nightmare. Most of what they’d grow would vanish to theft or bribes. To sell just one bundle of radishes, they’d have to pay bribes at at least eight checkpoints. With so few transport vehicles, piles of radishes are left to rot in villages everywhere.” She gave a faint, relieved smile, realizing she’d escaped all the chaos of farming when she secured her guiding job. “Pig farming is more profitable, anyway. You just raise them, eat them yourselves, and avoid all the farming headaches.”

By late morning, we arrived at the village community hall, a massive stone building from the early days of the first Five-Year Plan. An inscription by the gate announced that seventy households had once resided here. A twenty-foot compound wall enclosed the premises, and the towering iron gate was rusted, as if untouched for years. The algae-stained walls made the place look like an abandoned castle. In the garden, vegetables grew in patches, and several stables housed pigs that roamed freely as meat stock.

We climbed the cracked stone steps to the 70th house, each step creaking ominously underfoot. When we knocked, a young woman answered the door.

Vaseeliya Egorevna was a worker from the nearby industry and a widow of an industrial laborer. Production had been poor for the past month, leading to intermittent shutdowns that forced her to stay home. She was a lanky woman with a rigid face, distantly related to Anna Bukharina and likely over thirty years old.

Anna was currently resting, not in the mood to entertain visitors, as she had informed earlier. Yet, when a ten-dollar exchanged hands, Vaseeliya’s demeanor shifted dramatically, as though she would turn on Anna herself for that sum. Anna, who had been earning copyright fees in dollars from her interviews and speeches. It was clear that Vaseeliya's concern was bound solely to that money.

With insistent, whispering urgency, Vaseeliya made Anna prepare herself. A few minutes later, Anna emerged, dressed in a white-collared sweatshirt and an ash-colored overcoat, moving slowly into the waiting room. She was seated in an old chair

Anna was 79 years old but looked far older. Her face was etched with deep wrinkles, like the creases of a decaying turnip. Her mouth sagged, resembling a worn-out leather pouch, and her eyes were sunken, darkened like overripe cherries. Her body quaked, her head and limbs trembling erratically, giving her the look of an old, sputtering machine. She clasped her hands tightly between her thighs to steady them, though her forearms still quivered. She stared at me, her gaze hollow and devoid of any emotion. I felt at a loss, unsure where to begin. Everything seemed absurd and meaningless.

In 1986, after eight long years, the Soviet Supreme Court accepted the re-appeal of the Bukharin case. The letter Anna Bukharina wrote to Gorbachev had gained worldwide fame, serving as the catalyst for reopening the long-closed matter. She appeared in court, presenting the confession her husband had entrusted to her before his death. With unwavering precision, she repeated this confession seven times, word for word. On that day, she stood like an epic heroine, embodying both tragedy and defiance. Masses gathered to witness her testimony, and tears fell freely from those lining both sides of the courtroom. The crowded corridors overflowed with people, their movements captured repeatedly on television broadcasts. Security was heightened to ensure her safety. Throughout the trial, Anna's posture exuded unyielding bravery. She never faltered, answering each twisted question with meticulous recollection, turning her responses into a scene out of an epic tale. The press devoted pages solely to Bukharin that day. Old photographs of Anna, unearthed from forgotten archives, were published widely. She struggled to keep up with the flood of interview requests, reluctant to delve into the torment of her years in the Siberian prison. She longed to forget those memories, but to quell the rampant rumors, she revealed some details.

For thirty grueling years, she toiled with commune farmers, enduring repeated rapes and molestations. Survival often meant eating raw turnips and Cucumis melons for days on end. Out of 170 prisoners in her camp, she was the sole survivor. She witnessed countless corpses and, most painfully, the death of her foster son, Nikita, who was bludgeoned before her eyes. Officials even barred her from placing a handful of soil on his cremation site. She survived perilous bouts of pneumonia three times and continued to suffer from severe arthritis.

Even in the direst of circumstances, she would recite her husband's confession repeatedly, committing it to memory, while chanting the names of the seven disciples, drawing the empathy of the Catholic world. Her story spread across the globe, often exaggerated and retold in numerous versions. Of the estimated 20 million people sent to Siberia, none had maintained the same unyielding spirit and precise memory as Anna. Where most lost their minds, she stood as the only survivor of the Siberian torture camps.

As Cardinal Federic Gardner once said, "Her life is the example of the soul’s victory over the flesh," a phrase that became synonymous with Anna Bukharina. People began to see her as a holy figure. Catholics flocked to her home in Moscow, longing to see her, touch her, and kiss her garments as if seeking blessings. When Bukharin was declared innocent in the final verdict, Anna responded calmly, devoid of excitement, to the sea of cameras and hundreds of watching eyes: "Justice never fails. Because justice is the word uttered by our Redeemer." Only from the purest of souls could such words emerge. Then, as if the froth of a wave settling, everything changed abruptly. The nation crumbled. The ruble’s value plummeted, and the liberal market ushered in an era of unchecked freedom. Poverty, brothels, crime, and the worship of power multiplied overnight. Anna, once the symbol of resilience and purity, began to fade into history, like a forgotten page in a dusty book. It is the fate of the greatest, the martyrs, the sacrificers, and the holy ones—to be sealed within the pages of history, stored away on shelves so that the common person might continue with their life. The elderly lady sitting before me now seemed like one of those rare, invaluable old books—faded, touched with the red dust of time, her presence as delicate as a lithographic drawing.

To break the ice, I asked, “Are you comfortable here?”

“No complaints,” she replied, her voice steady. “The only complaint is that she can’t visit the Mother Mary church daily. She chants her prayers seven or eight times each day,” added Valessa. Perhaps she assumed I was Catholic.

“Are you facing any financial difficulties?” I inquired.

“No,” Anna said. I was surprised at the sharpness of her response, evidence that her hearing was still strong.

“People have forgotten you now,” I ventured.

“Yes,” she said, her tone firm and unyielding.

“Does that worry you?”

“What?” She tilted her head slightly.

“Being ignored,” I clarified.

“I get regular money. She takes care of me well. Good girl,” Anna said. She remained expressionless. “Yes, times have changed,” she said. For the first time, a faint smile appeared—a small victory in finding the right words. It became her answer to most questions that followed.

Finally, I summoned the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at me, though shame bit at me as I spoke. “Do you feel that your sacrifices have been meaningless?”

For the first time, my question seemed to break through her aged veil, and I saw the pain surface in her eyes. Tears welled up, and she whispered, “Fifty years. Oh God, such a long time.” Her voice cracked, and she began to sob. I felt guilty and ashamed for asking.

As I stood to leave, she suddenly spoke again. “Did you ask about the meaning of all my suffering?” The words resonated deeply, making me pause.

“Our Jesus was charged with a crime He did not commit. They crucified Him, and He was resurrected. What meaning was there in His suffering?” Her words struck me like a cold wind down my spine.

“What meaning could I find?” she continued, looking up at the sky. “He knows. In this world, He is the only one who knows.” Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. As I left, her final metaphor echoed in my mind. Christ resurrected. Truth will resurrect. But then reality settled in: once the truth is framed, glorified, and enshrined in churches, people return to their daily lives. Statues remain as silent relics on the shore of history. So, what is the meaning of sacrifice? Perhaps there is none, or perhaps it holds an unfathomable, enigmatic meaning that eludes our understanding. The thought circled endlessly in my mind.