One foggy morning, just as dawn was disappearing, two riders rode up to Fiodr Semionovich’s farm. One of them was Tverskov. His face had grown thin, and he looked sour. The general sank down from the bed above the goat shed. He did not notice the old Cossack with them and understood what awaited him.
“Greetings, comrade," said the other officer. We've found you at last. I've come to tell you that your detachment has reached Mikhailov's. We've come to pick you up and take you to the northern front."
He glanced furtively at the door of the room she was in. She hadn't come out yet. Perhaps she was still asleep?
“Where is Fyodor Semionovich?
Tverskov stared into the distance, deliberately silent. The officer cleared his throat and dismounted.
“General, by order of the Committee we have executed the traitor Fyodor Semionovich Grotsky."
A terrible scream came from the small room at the back. It was a cry he had never heard before. He knew men's cries. But never before had he heard the cry of a woman's hatred. The door swung open to reveal the young woman in a thin linen dress. Her haggard, hateful eyes were fixed on the officer. She noticed the General's gun on the table. This time it was his cry they heard. A deep cry, from the depths of his being. He fell down and embraced her lifeless body, kissing her pale face. With a jolt of rage, he sprang to his feet and lunged at the astonished officer. In no time he had him by the collar and was beating him with all his might. He didn’t even feel the bones breaking under his feet. So, he hit harder, aware of his own groaning and moaning.
He thought he’d heard more screams, resembling those on the battlefield. In his head, he could hear the men from the steppe singing, the flies flying past his ears like stray bullets. He saw her again, alert an innocent, and remember the promise she had made to the icon. A violent jolt threw him over the body of the half dead officer. Panting, Nicolai Sebastianovich stood between him and the unconscious man. He dragged himself away from the haggard eyes of his lieutenant. Now, he was vomiting. His bloody hands sank into the mud and between sobs he vomited again. Soon he was coughing up blood, a reddish liquid slowly sank to the depths of Russia’s soil.
Once the fresh earth had covered the small grave, the sun has risen. Tverskov and the wounded officer were waiting ceremoniously next the horses. A soft light bathed the step around the abandoned farm. He looked into the horizon and lit a cigarette. At last, his soul was at rest. As calm as the dead, he had just buried.
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