Shevchenko remained standing on the porch, watching the retreating vehicle for a long time. Now he had no one to unburden his soul to and listen to music with.
Life is a continuance of endless partings with someone or something, he thought. You part with your parents when they pass away, with childhood, with your childhood playmates, and then with youth, with your first love, with shattered dreams and the dear places where you dwelled, with the graves of parents, with freedom, and, finally, even with I the hope of ever being a free man again.
Back home, he met a sad and agitated Lavrentiev.
“Things are going badly for you, Grigorievich,” he said as soon as Shevchenko crossed the threshold and started taking off his sheepskin coat. “You’re in a nasty mess. The major, you see, ordered y
