Petya Pravda’s dead. He died forty days ago, as elongated and translucent as an icon. His mother found him in the morning, and straight away set up a wail that brought in the neighbours: Pyotr! Petya! My little Petya! And they hurried in, old Kolya hitching up his belly, stinking of hangover, Mari…
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‘In these circumstances man becomes like an animal: silent and bowed. You never said a word.’
My Grandmother, the Censor
‘Where do crimes begin and end, and who, decades later, can be held responsible?’