„Mommy, don’t worry, that was a long time ago,“ I beg, sensing that she is in a semiconscious state. I pick up on her mood, and I have a hard time finding the strength to whisper to her: „A lot has changed now.“
I don’t know whether I manage to get through to her, but I hear her give herself a mental command: „Be quiet! Don’t you dare contradict him!“
„How dare you?!“ rages Aleksey Ivanovich. „Has this edition been distributed to the departments? Or not yet?“
„Yes it has,“ Mama whispers in a dejected voice.
„Such efficiency,“ the party committee leader says sarcastically. „Just what we need! Usually they bring the newspaper late. Three days late…“
Mama keeps silent, knowing it is better not to argue with the authorities. The party committee leader stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and begins to rumble with renewed strength:
„Take the papers away! Throw them in the garbage! And you can thank God that no one else but me has seen this slander. Get going!“
Mama stands up reeling. She takes a step to the door and thinks with relief: „Thank God the flogging is over.“ But before she can grab the doorknob, she receives another blow.
„From now on, all poetic verses must be submitted to me. They can only be printed in the newspaper with my approval! We’ll have a talk with Boris Fedorovich at the party committee meeting.“
Mama slowly turns around.
„You’re free to go!“ shouts the party committee leader. Mama shudders and runs out of the office.
We return to the editorial office. Now Mama is nervous. She walks back and forth around the room, biting her lip. Then she dials the telephone. She puts down the receiver before she finishes dialing. She dials again. She puts down the receiver again. On her fourth attempt, she makes her decision. Without saying hello, she speaks haltingly, as if afraid that she might be interrupted at any moment:
„Zina, do you get visits from editors of factory newspapers?“
„Sometimes…“
„Could you tell me if anyone needs a literary editor?“
„What happened?“ Zina exclaims with alarm. „Are you looking for work?“
„Not yet. But… I got such a scolding… I think they’re going to fire me.“
„For what?“
„For the poetry. The devil deceived me, and I trusted Krugman. Anyway, remember what I asked you. OK?“
„All right, I’ll ask around,“ Zina says hesitantly.
Mama is even more upset, realizing that she cannot count on her friend for help. I try to distract her by pulling on the cord several times and calling sorrowfully: „Mama! Mommy!“
It is useless. She doesn’t hear me, or she pretends not to hear; there is no reaction. She lights a cigarette. She takes Krugman’s poem that she is preparing for the next issue, reads two lines, and without finishing it, tears up the paper and throws it into the wastebasket. Before she finishes her cigarette, she puts it out in the ashtray, paces around the room nervously, and starts smoking again. She grabs the „Student Literary Organization“ package from the table that contains poems by Gorkin and Soldatov, and without opening it, throws it into the wastebasket. I begin to choke and cough, and don’t remember anything after that. My memory fails me.
* * *
We are at home, and I am back to my senses. I hear the voice of Olga, and I am immediately on my guard, realizing that the conversation is about me.
„What are you thinking of doing?“
