ABSTRACT
Tortsov came into class and called Marya, Vanya and me up onstage and made us repeat the ‘burning money’. We began.
At first, everything went well. But as we approached the moment of tragedy I felt something give, I seized up, I felt tight . . . here . . . there. I got angry. ‘I won’t give in,’ I said doggedly and, as a help, squeezed something hard – as it turned out, a glass ashtray. The harder I gripped it the more I seized up, and the more I seized up the tighter I gripped. Suddenly something crunched. I felt a searing pain and my hand was wet and warm. A sheet of white paper on the table was bright red. My cuffs were red. Blood was spurting from my hand.
