March 3, 4… March 5, 1953... Grand… Unique… Immortal? The thing no one not only say but even think of happened... Ogre is ailing… Ogre is terminally ill… And now, Ogre is dead.
We heard the news in the morning. We were future head miners, foremen at the college course in the rescuers' building.
But how to react to the news? To rejoice? To grieve?
It was amusing and embarrassing to see our monitor, the head of mine-rescue squad Budnik, who did not dare make a decision. Every minute he runs up to he window, opens it despite the cold, hangs out and looks toward the city.
Now, a black flag, symbol of mourning, rose and flapped on the building of design department. And Budnik who has long ago acknowledged that «one should not dare have an opinion» felt his legs and started vigorously showing initiative - flags with crape, crape for portraits, etc.