Written and illustrated in gouache by Masha Khoruzhik
Based on true events that took place in the USSR in March, 1953

On my way to the communal bathroom I overheard the news on the radio. Forgetting about my plans I flew back into the bedroom.

“Stalin’s dead!!” I whispered into Boris’s ear as I flung his blanket off. With round eyes he jerked it back over his head.
“I never heard it. You didn’t tell me anything,” he denied in fear.

 

 The funeral lasted three days and three nights during which people marched to the House of Union as if to reassure themselves that their tyrant father left them after all. Among the moans and tears and fainting that surrounded me I blamed myself for pretending to fit in. On the last day Boris and I joined the procession  like everyone else, out of unfathomable fear. There seemed to be no end to the crowds and the air was cold and thick with anguish and anxiety. 

Very soon the crowd around me became so dense that it was hard to move. Not far away I could see trucks blocking the main road to the House of Union. In front of the trucks there were soldiers on horses, and in front of them  was another wall of soldiers. Yet the street was at an incline and the blockade at the bottom of the pit was compressed between the trucks and the mass of people gravitating down toward the House of Union.  I was pressed tight against the comrades in front of me. I don’t know when I lost Boris. He probably chickened out and fled before the crowd closed in, although it did make me sick in the gut. 

 

Now it was hard to breathe. There were cries for help but scared soldiers stood still, stupefied. Some of them pulled out children onto the truck, saving them from getting trampled.
“Move the trucks!!” people yelled. A soldier was crying helplessly for no such orders were delivered from authorities. Suddenly the street shook with a rumble of three loud signals as Stalin’s coffin has entered the mausoleum. Frightened, one of the military horses shook off the officer as the soldiers in front scattered. The crowd rushed in between the trucks and trampled over each other.

  With this sudden wave I was tossed hard against one of the trucks and fell to the ground. I rolled under it, joining two youngsters and an old man. Blood dripped from my temple. We sought sanity in each other’s terrified, confused eyes. On the old man’s coat I noticed something that I wish I never saw. Caught on his buttons was glistening flesh. 

We were laying there for hours until the crowd dissolved. The empty streets were trashed with lost shoes, hats, glasses, and other belongings. On my way home I found Boris.  He was slumped against a gate, barefoot. His ribs were crushed against the bulging iron grating.