In the nineties, I published a part of this confession. My protagonist let someone read it, consulted with somebody else, and they convinced him that the publication of this story in its entirety would “show the Party in a negative light,” which was his greatest fear. After he died, they found his will. His large, three-bedroom apartment in the center of the city was not bequeathed to his grandsons but to “serve the needs of my beloved Communist Party, to which I owe everything.” They even wrote about it in the evening paper. No one could understand it anymore. Everyone laughed at the crazy
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