THE RED JACKETIn addition to drowning in the amount of work she had to do, Ulia was also feeling unwell, so she sent me to Harabets’ campaign office in Brest to fetch some documents.
She gave me clear instructions, her face twisted with pain and holding her stomach: “Go to such-and-such an address and find Ales Bakunovich. Tell him you’re my sister. He’ll give you a green folder. Bring it to me.
I gave her a quick salute, buttoned up the red jacket that Zarnitskaya had lent me and ran for the diesel.
I got off the train at the Palesie station and set off on foot for Harabets’ campaign office, totally wrapped up in my own thoughts. I wasn’t paying attention to anything in particular, until, when I was already on Kuybyshev Street, just a few metres away from the office, two tough guys in
