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... y comrades, I suddenly remembered what had happened a while ago.
Borosilov, who was now pounding vodka shots and making his head explode, had been unhappy with me back then.
“Koba, do you… need me dead now?”
“What?”
One evening, as we were having dinner, Borosilov looked me in the eye and said that out of the blue.
The other comrades froze. T
hey all seemed to know about the last letter that Bukharin, who had been purged, had sent to Stalin.
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