This was how the memory of that spring night had stayed with him. They worked in darkness, simply lighting the monument with their vehicle headlamps. A fine rain was falling that had the bitter smell of poplar shoots. The cast-iron statue of the Great Leader glistened like rubber. The pulley on the crane began to do its work: Stalin found himself hanging in midair, somewhat askew, gently swaying, staring hard at the people scurrying about beneath him. And already the workmen were tugging him by his feet toward the Zis's open side panel. The foreman of the team, close beside Ivan, grunted: "Sometimes we were lying there on our bellies at the front and they were throwing so much at us you couldn't even lift your head up from the ground. The stuff was whistling over. A hail of bullets like a shower. Then the political commissar jumps to his feet with his little revolver, you know, like those kids' pistols. And once he yells: 'For our Country, for Stalin, forward!'… then it grabbed us, you know, goddamn it! We jumped up and went over the top… All right, you guys! Steer the head toward the corner. Otherwise it won't fit in. Steady she goes…"

A fresh breeze could be sensed in the air, with something sparkling and joyful about it. In Moscow, it appeared, passions were being unleashed. Things were coming to the boil in kitchens at the highest level. Ivan even acquired a taste for reading newspapers, which he had never looked at before. All about them everything was relaxing, gaining a new lease of life. An endless procession of Fidel Castros, bearded and smiling, marched through the newspapers, as well as drawings of blacks with great white teeth, smashing the chains of colonialism, and the engaging faces of Belka and Strelka, the pioneer dog cosmonauts. All this added savor to life and caused joyful hopes to be reborn. As he sat behind the wheel, Ivan often hummed the song that could be heard everywhere: