“Don’t worry,” Marya whispered, kissing his forehead. “My old bones will follow yours soon enough.” “Wife, you could sow wheat in the rock of Dzerzhinskaya Street, wait for it to grow, reap it, thresh it, grind it into flour, bake it into bread, and eat the bread and share it round, and even then, you could not catch me.” And then Ivan died in her arms, his last breath spiraling up to the ceiling like cigarette smoke.
