[The snowstorm that piled a lot of spongy snow forced me to throw caution to the winds and follow the trodden paths. An agent demanded me to show my ID papers and as I had none brought me to the rural soviet of the communal farm named after Nekrasov, the one who always came to the defence of the miserable. But the appearance of people who were rigidly and stiffly sitting around the table was discouraging... I told them who I was, where I came from; why I got to the exile I don't know, and why I tried to escape is easy to understand. The people exchange glances, the portraits on the walls look severely... Then, the man in the centre stands up.]
"Each of us once tried to escape from the exile ... to no purpose. Be off, apron! We wish you every success...
I choked up of surprise... Not yet coming to senses I clumsily bowed and went towards the door. The portraits of leaders looked at me from the walls and were probably surprised not less than myself.