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It had been two hours since they had placed him in his new cell. It was
far away from the others where he had been before, and it was unbearably
quiet, giving his thoughts an echoing quality as terrible as the silence. He
only spoke his thoughts aloud sometimes to break the silence, but as it was
no better broken than whole, he mostly sat quietly.
He knew that they were going to shoot him. They had not told him so
in so many words, but the new cell and their refusal to answer his desperate
questions was indication enough that these were his last hours. When they
brought him a double ration of food, he was sure of it. He could barely eat
the food, but its presence in the cell tortured him; it was a sign of his
defeat. It was some kind of universal custom that they always fed you a
little extra before they killed you.
Now, he was only waiting. Should he write down a few last words to
send to his wife? No, no, what good would that do her now? She needed him at
home to support their family of six; his last words were of no use to her. He
felt a pang of sorrow at these thoughts. Why had he been so selfish? He had
been part of a radical political group that had been rounded up and thrown
in jail for conspiracies against the tsar. And what had all those
conspiracies achieved? Nothing, he thought grimly, it would have been better
to have stayed home with his family and lived out his life happily. He didn't
even know what had become of his comrades; maybe they had already been shot
or maybe they were out of jail and fighting for the cause. It made no
difference now.
His thoughts were interrupted by heavy footsteps in the hallway and
several men appeared at the door to his cell. "Rodion Mikhailovich
Golovin?" a man with a dark moustache asked in a tone that indicated
that he already knew very well that he was correct, and he had already begun
to unlock the cell when Rodion Mikhailovich replied.
"Yes, I am he." Two hours ago he would have asked where
they were taking him, but he had become so resigned to his fate that the
thought to question it did not even cross his mind.
"Come along then. On your feet," the man demanded rather
unnecessarily as Rodion was already standing and waiting for the guards to
pull him out of his cell. They marched him down the hallway and up some
stairs and then he was pushed through a door into the cold, gray sunlight.
The reflection of the sunlight on the snow hurt his eyes, but he continued
marching with his head down although he could barely see where he was going
and his vision had become spotty. It was a rather warm day for Siberia,
and Rodion Mikhailovich took a moment to notice this and to think that he had
never liked the cold. If he had to die in Siberia, at least his teeth would
not be chattering out of his head, he thought.
They reached a little walled in area and entered it through a gate.
Rodion Mikhailovich tried not to look up, but he could not control his neck
and it lifted his head to look around him. They were headed right for the
post. Behind it there was a wall dotted with bullet holes. His heart was
beating steadily, but he could feel the fear trying to grasp and crush it. As
he felt the fear of death tightening around his heart, he suddenly wanted
to lash out at the guards and scream and cry for mercy. But he didn't do
this. Instead he stood still while they tied him to the post. His let his
eyes glaze over and stare into the air. He was no longer taking in the day
around him; he just wanted it to be over.
When they placed the blindfold over his eyes he suddenly panicked.
His right arm tried to free itself and rip the blindfold away as though this
spasm were a reflex, but the ropes were tied so tightly that his arm barely
stirred and the guards didn't even notice it because they were already
walking away from him. In the few minutes that followed, every second seemed
like an hour to Rodion Mikhailovich. At first he did begin to cry, but his
sobs soon gave in to thoughts and reflections on his life. He could barely
remember his childhood, but it seemed a happy one. He thought of his youth
and of his wife, and their first meeting. He had loved her right away for her
quick wit and clever jokes. They had been at a ball and he had asked her for
nearly every dance, digressing only when his mother suggested that he was
being quite obvious. But he didn't care. Apparently his wife had not been
particularly beautiful, but she made riveting facial expressions that so
affected him that he asked her to marry him within the week. Their marriage
had been idyllic and they had five children together.
He recalled that their only problem had been his political
activities, and it was only then that they began to argue. His wife was never
terribly disagreeable, but even if she did not say anything to him, she had a
way of making him feel guilty, even when he didn't know why. She often agreed
with his political leanings and he had thought that she had been jealous
that she could not participate in the political group, because she was a
woman and had to take care of the children. But now, as he waited for his
execution, it seemed to him that she had only been concerned with his safety.
She had often said that she needed him there with her and the children and
that their life together was more important than political change. He
couldn't understand this. Before she was a mother she had been willing to
put her life on the line for what she believed, but since her children had
come along she had changed quite a bit. It was only now, standing with his
back to the post, that Rodion Mikhailovich understood his wife. He was too
old to change the world. He could only teach his children to be intelligent
and to fight the system in their own ways, but his family needed him more
than the movement needed him. And he regretted every moment that he had
not spent with his children. He thought of Masha, the youngest, only two
years old when he left, perhaps she would not even remember him. And here he
was, dying for the movement that he had mentally relinquished. If only he
could take it back…but it was too late now. He wished that he had more
time, but knowing that he did not, he simply raised his blindfolded eyes to
the heavens and asked for forgiveness. He asked for forgiveness from God, but
also for forgiveness from his family. He prayed then for his family
although he could not remember when he last prayed. Only three minutes had
passed since he had spasmed for freedom, but now he was ready for the shots
to hit him.
But instead of hearing the order to fire, he heard a man's voice
yelling, "Stop, stop! You are not to fire on this man by order of the
tsar." To Rodion Mikhailovich, the voice sounded very far away, but it
sounded like it was coming from all directions, surrounding him in a wave of
impossibility. But he was sure that he had heard it. He blinked under his
blindfold and waited. He could hear voices talking rapidly back and forth and
then the crunch of the snow under thick boots coming closer and closer.
They removed his blindfold and the light seemed even brighter and more
blinding than before. It's a warm day for Siberia, he thought, and
smiled.
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