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„That’s nonsense!“ screams the party committee leader, not yielding to her innocent charms. „I can understand Boris Fedorovich’s oversight. He’s a scientist, an associate professor. The party committee decided to appoint him to the post of editor. But you’re a professional journalist, which he isn’t. You need to look closely and recognize the difference between poetry and intentional provocation designed to undermine Soviet-American negotiations. Where is your sense of politics? You’re a member of the party!“

„Yes, of course…“ Mama mutters, not daring to contradict the authorities.

She is seized with panic. For some reason, as she weeps, she recalls that after Stalin’s death her father’s brother, a colonel for the KGB, was arrested and accused of fictitious crimes.

„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!“