Soviet Milk

by Nora Ikstena

Dead, dear child, your dear papa.’

Beneath him, on the stained day bed and all over the floor, newspapers displayed the faces of smiling workers and stern Politburo members. He was lying among words that promised five-year growth in a single year and extolled the superior morality of the people who were building Communism.

Thus he lay: one of the many who had surrendered quietly, dying in an obscure corner because he could not adjust and swallow humiliation, shame, dishonour and disillusionment.