The Third Floor

Three revolutionary troublemakers who refuse to surrender are surrounded by the police: “On the street, spring sunlit shadows were turning green, and on the 3rd floor of an old stone house 3 people were preparing to die…”

“On the street, spring sunlit shadows were turning green, and on the third floor of an old stone house three people were preparing for an unexpected, violent death. Spring didn’t matter to them; on the contrary, they didn’t even understand whether they were dreaming or living. And each person’s attention—sharp as pain—was focused on their own weapon, and on what was happening below, on the stone, cheerful, sunny pavement.

In ordinary times they would, of course, have been astonished that the entire street—from the station to the market—was plunged into a terrible, suffocating silence, like in a dream… No people, no dogs. Everywhere, terrified windows are tightly shut, and the house facades listen, like sealed-up, unfamiliar faces. Mute trees spread webs of shadows. The air is still; dust on the road does not move.

And they would have noticed that the quiet emptiness of the street is cut off right at the old stone house—cut off cleanly on both sides, like with a ruler—where on gray sunny slabs white, strict soldier’s shirts with red epaulets move, and, as the cheery, sunny walls ring with echo, rifle shots thunder quickly and sharply.

The three people didn’t think so. Now it seemed that it was the way it must be—that otherwise couldn’t be. And they didn’t hear the silence—only shots. Each shot flew into their ears like a gust of wind and screamed, screamed to the whole world.

So terrible had never been before. Earlier, when thinking about death—and with a stirring joy in a sturdy, living body, looking around with a light, half-laugh—they would say: “E! Two deaths can’t happen!” Or: “From death you won’t escape!” Or: “A man is mortal.” They said it and didn’t believe. Now they knew—and that knowledge cost them their lives.”