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„You need to find someone more suitable for the editorial office. So far, you’ve managed to attract all sorts of riff-raff. Where did you find him? In the gutter? On a trash heap? You seem to have an amazing instinct for finding this kind of crap. It must be pathological…“

Stiffened and grown limp, Mama listens without objection to the insults that are pouring down on her like peas, one after the other.

„Kotlova, I hope this incident will teach you something. Choosing the staff for ideological agencies is a very serious matter. And what do you do? Everywhere you look, there’s this rabble of Schwartzes, Krugmans…“

The party committee leader becomes silent. I hear the rustle of a newspaper. Mama calmly waits for a pause, then figures that the dressing down is over, and it’s time to „make tracks.“ She stands up and heads dejectedly towards the door.

„Kotlova!“

Mama turns around at the shout.

„I’m not done with you! What kind of verses have you published in the newspaper?“

„Verses by our students, members of the literary association,“ Mama answers timidly.