Svetlana Alliluyeva. (№ 436466)

In the days before the funeral, I stood for long hours at the coffin and looked at the people passing through the Hall of Columns. They behaved differently. Who carried flowers, who looked with curiosity, many cried. I was frightened because my own feelings were contradictory: I felt pain and relief at the same time, scolding myself for being a bad daughter. For some reason I thought that if I had been born in the shack of an obscure Georgian shoemaker, how easy and natural it would have been for me, along with others, to hate that distant tyrant, his party, his deeds and words. Is it not clear where is black and where is white? But I was born his daughter. Beloved in childhood ... A strange thought ...