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September 26, 2016
On the hidden horrors of Soviet life.
From my first salary I bought myself a new suit. . . . Our work was no picnic! Whenever someone wasn’t dead immediately, he fell over and squealed like a pig. . . . You weren’t allowed to eat anything beforehand. . . . You shoot with the right hand, you see . . . I pushed through my demand for a massage of the right arm and the right index finger twice a week with my superiors. We were given certificates. . . . I have a whole cabinet of these certificates, printed on the best paper. . . . Everyone had only one thought: . . . we too. . . . I always had a packed plywood suitcase under my bed . . . and pistol under my pillow. To put a bullet in my head. . . . They will call Stalin a great man someday. The hatchet outlives its master. - - New Criterion
Posted by gerardvanderleun at September 26, 2016 12:37 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.