II
The car door closed, and Kolya’s view of
the melting wasteland outside melted away as the rickety thundering of the
train plunged him deeper in his thoughts.
He couldn’t believe it. He was
back home in Russia. The Mensheviks had
been easy enough to convince. They
accused him of defeatism, and he said he merely wanted to eradicate every
reminder of Tsarist rule, which for him included the reminder of the Great War.
They had tried to argue, but Kolya had
always been a master of persuasion, and with such simple minded Mensheviks, he
couldn’t help but feel that getting out of prison was like taking candy from a
bunch of babies. And now he was
free. At last, after 7 years of exile,
he had finally returned to his country.
Soon he would be back in Moscow, his home. But he couldn’t help but feel a nagging in
the back of his mind that nothing would be the same as it once was. Moscow would’ve changed in his absence, the
Bolsheviks had changed. Perhaps his
ideals wouldn’t even be considered in this new tango the Bolsheviks were doing
with the Provisional Government.
On top of that, he wondered how many of
his former schoolmates would have survived the exiles? How many would still be willing to make the
trek back to Russia? His mind trailed
off as the compartment door slid open for a stop, and he saw, far off in the
distance, a patch of ground in the melting tundra, and a man working to plow it
with a couple of ancient oxen.
“Hmph.”
He snorted as he thought to himself.
“The life of a Russian, the life of us all. All trying to squeak out a living, plowing
frozen land in the middle of the thawing tundra.”
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