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The Streets of St. Petersburg<br />
3:14 PM<br />
In the meeting room of the Naronaya Volya they were beginning the funeral of Yulian Krupin. It<br />
was not a simple matter to plan a funeral for a young atheist, especially one with parents who<br />
remained profoundly faithful to the orthodox church. But fortunately or unfortunately, depending on<br />
how one chose to look at it. the members of the Volya were quite experienced with such diplomatic<br />
delicacy; this was the eleventh funeral they had planned in the last two years. At a stage in life when<br />
most young people were attending weddings and christenings, the comrades of the Volya were far<br />
better versed in the ceremonies of death.<br />
Vlad endured the hypocrisy for as long as he could – the speeches from the men, the weeping of<br />
the women, Yulian’s poor, bewildered mother reminding him so much of his own – before he escaped<br />
outside. It was a mockingly beautiful day and he found himself walking down by the river. He took<br />
pains to turn before he got to the expanse of the Neva which led to the Winter Palace. He could not<br />
bear seeing it on this particular afternoon.<br />
He walked until his legs ached, his feet stumbling a bit in the marshy land by the river. The<br />
effort of pulling his boot from the mud with each step quickly exhausted him and finally he climbed<br />
higher on the bank, where he could sit looking up at the billowy clouds.<br />
A formation of geese flew overhead and their presence excited a cadre of men on the opposite<br />
riverbank, men whose presence Vlad had not noted until now. St. Petersburg fell from a bustling city<br />
back into a fetid marshland within the course of an hour’s walk and the Neva had always been a<br />
working river, drawing fishermen and hunters to its banks. Two men stood up from their huddled<br />
group and pointed their long guns toward the sky.<br />
The geese flew in a perfect vee, their symmetry so precise as to be militaristic. There is<br />
always a plan, Vlad thought. Even birds have one. The silence here on the banks of the river was<br />
almost deafening. He was aware of the pounding of his heart, and - even greater weakness – the<br />
sadness that lay there as well.<br />
A shot rang out, and then another. One of the bullets must have found its mark because the lead
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