[1946]
The funeral of Alexander Vasilyevich has ended. But some of ensemble artists stayed outside of the cemetery. To calming themselves down. To support each other through hugs. To talk whatever needed to be pour out for today.
One of them is Fyodor. He stared at Alexander Vasilyevich's grave from far away. To lost someone he respected, the one who indirectly built the shelter for him...
Then Fyodor opened Pravda newspaper that tucked on his armpit. Rereading the front headline, followed by the public obituary and condolences for Alexander Vasilyevich.
"...с глубоким прискорбием извещает о смерти талантливого..."
Fyodor's gut feels like punched hard once again. He bought the newspaper last morning. He read it many times until he know whatever the articles written for today. Include knowing whoever the one sending such condolences: Ministry of Councils and Ministry of Armed Forces...
The grammar was never wrong, too. He read thousand newspaper since he was a teenager. He has been seen this word for formal obituaries and condolence letters. Something that would be written in public, addressed to public figures and important people that influenced Soviet Union. It's not a special word or spell to begin with.
Yet still...
He look on his left and right. His friends are peeking on the newspaper. The collective sour faces are his first support. He was not alone to feel the same.
"Прискорбием. Unbelievable. They really dare to announce him like a dead dog," muttered Stepan bitterly. Semyon and Andrei shook their head together, too.
"Скорбим would be better. Our Maestro was more than that..." implied Anatoli, followed by Dmitry and Ivan's huff.
"They won't care. What do we expect from them, though," Vadim sighed as he rubbed his face that still wet.
Fyodor didn't want to comment. His friends already voicing them. And so, he put down the newspaper and ripped in front of them. Into two parts. Four parts. Eight parts. Sixteen parts. It's weird he got all of the energy to rip the thick papers without problem.
But the collective silent from them made him sure, the correct answer is only one:
"We won't hear such hollow attention anymore. It's already enough," concluded Fyodor to them, before he got up to seek the nearest trashbin.