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“Of course, I’m ready. It’s my duty, comrade Andropov.”
Jazz record still played, and that meant their conversation continued less than twenty minutes. As a farewell General Secretary just tiredly nodded and closed his eyes.
Though, in a month’s time General Secretary Yuri Andropov had died. The academician watched on the TV screen his coffin being solemnly carried on a gun-carriage through the snow-covered Red Square, and a lump rose to his throat. He felt that most important purpose of his life would never be accomplished now, and as a Communist he had lived his life in vain.
Another one and a half years elapsed. One more Secretary General accepted the office, the next one in a queue of elderly Politburo members, but he also died very soon. Much younger Gorbachev was given the office, with a mutual hope on vigor in his veins, but that, as it turned out, was a dubious decision. The last in the party’s history Secretary General started his perestroika, that is a “reconstruction”, and the great Communist state, or as US President Ronald Reagan named it, an Evil Empire, started to slide slowly and inevitably down to the abyss of ideologically opposing Capitalism.
One hot summer evening, when academician got out of his Moscow apartment for a walk with his dog, from the car that was parked by the doorway appeared a stranger and approached him in twilight. The academician noticed him only when the stranger called him by the name.
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