Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

VOROShILOVGRAD

had probably been hanging there for a while, and then it was taken down, but the fabric had faded and molded around the outline of his face. Now a crucifix had taken his place; at a distance it looked as though somebody had crossed out the tenets of Marxism-Leninism once and for all. Most of our crew was already on the stage—the leader, whose handkerchief was now draped around his neck, was bobbing around them and explaining something. The locals took their seats all around us. Tolik came up to me. “What do you think? You like it?” he asked. “Is this your club or something?” I asked. He slid out of his heavy jacket, exposing a striped woolen navy shirt. He carefully leaned his gun up against one of the benches.

beheardoverhisheadphones. He just waved his hand amiably. Then again, maybe he didn’t even hear my question. Meanwhile, the locals were cramming themselves through the front door. I went up the steps too. I found myself in a dark hallway with a cool scent to it; the building appeared to be their town hall, or something along those lines. Various doorways could be seen at the end of the hallway— the locals who’d preceded us inside were bunched up around them. There was a rather large auditorium, given the size of their community, on the other side. The interior was modest—the room was lined with neatly arranged rows of wooden pews, and the stage was decorated with red velvet. Up above the proscenium I could see the clear outline of Lenin’s profile. His picture

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