Trilogy One
Inside the Iron Curtain - Ⅱ
02
My dear friend, I assure you that it is indeed a commendable and beneficial habit to immerse oneself in the continuous perusal of newspapers. By doing so, I not only surpassed my peers in terms of being well-informed about current events, but also excelled in my studies concerning the fundamental principles of our nation. It was a superiority that did not invoke envy from others; for every citizen has the obligation to acquaint themselves with the bedrock of our state. Miss Smirnov held me in high regard; it was in the year 1973, when she meticulously enunciated my name, "Valentin Vladimir Sokolov," word by word. "I hope you shall excel in your other academic pursuits as well, so that I may have the honor of recommending you for admission to Lomonosov University," she expressed. Her belief in my potential was mirrored by my own self-assurance. Meanwhile, Mr. Brezhnev's presence gradually diminished from the newspapers, leaving me unable to catch sight of that gentleman any longer. "Perhaps he is now plagued by concerns of receding hair, but that is of no consequence to me," I wryly noted during that time, yearning for him to forever remain youthful, just as I did during my childhood.
Soon, I successfully secured admission into college. There is naught worth mentioning about that period; the populace had lost all faith in the Leader, to put it frankly, and wearied of his leadership. It was a time of squandered opportunities and fruitless endeavors, where the rhetoric of reform gave way to an arms race. The young, eager for rejuvenation and hopeful for progress, were subjected to the machinations of a tedious world. I cannot recall vividly what transpired during those days. I devoutly submitted articles for newspapers and periodicals, akin to a well-oiled machine, frequently defending an array of current commentary headline. All the while, those dignified professors exhibited surface-level appreciation for my efforts, yet maliciously branded me an opportunist behind my back. The only lasting memory etched within me is the instance when Professor Anatolyevich, who held the utmost respect and wielded immeasurable influence within the institute, abruptly swung open the doors of the lecture hall, rudely interrupting the discourse. Clad in heavy military coats, he carelessly pointed his finger towards me – it was him. I was summoned out of the classroom, "Mr. Valentin Vladimir Sokolov, your active contribution throughout your university years has won high acclaim from the Party and from Mr. Brezhnev himself. He expects you to become a new driving force for reforms within our country. The youth possesses untapped vigor and vitality."
Within my heart, I comprehended that there existed only one plausible response, and bound by the established agenda, I could not refuse. That very night, I penned a letter to my family, procured a scarce Moscow tobacco for my father, presented my mother with a delicately woven scarf, and gifted my younger brother Akhmieff a couple of monotonous children's books – I doubted he would find them interesting. "This may merely be a temporary separation, or perchance, a permanent farewell. Please do not burden yourselves with excessive concern on my behalf."
As an amber streetlight flitted past the window, melding into an unbroken stream of luminescence, a surge of excitement intermingled with the sorrow of departure. Subconsciously, I grazed my lip gently with my teeth, for my efforts had finally borne fruit. "Will I have the opportunity to meet Mr. Brezhnev?" I inquired repeatedly to the stoic guardians. Their responses were monotonous and mechanical, merely accompanied by a slight inclination of their heads. Little did anyone know, except myself, that my thoughts had long surpassed Brezhnev. The time had come to finally encounter that gentleman. "May fortune favor me," and bolstered by this steadfast conviction, our automobile hastened towards the Kremlin as twilight descended upon the land.