You know, Stalin has turned out to be an enemy of the people,” I said to Genka as we went out to play in the yard. I remember very well how unusually mild the weather was for late October in Tallinn. I had just heard—most probably overheard—my parents talking about it at home. We were both of us six, and the year was 1955. “What are you saying? Surely not!” Genka was incredulous.

“Honest! I swear it!” I said. “Cross my heart, hope to die, he's turned out to be an enemy of the people!”

Genka was hesitating whether to believe me or not. His face still reflected his doubt as he picked up a stick and a piece of dirty old rag from the grass, hung the rag on the stick like a flag, and went into the street. I followed him, without understanding what he wanted to do. Solemnly carrying his homemade banner before him, Genka began to march along our Graniidi Street, proclaiming at the top of his voice: “Lenin is an enemy of the people! Lenin is an enemy of the people!”

Folk coming in our direction gave us strange looks. Some of them, it seemed to me, slowed their pace, and once, turning round, I noticed that one man was following us with his eyes. Of course, I didn't understand a thing—I only saw that we were drawing attention. Moreover, perhaps from the way my parents had talked about it, I felt that these matters were not to be noised abroad. Years later, recalling this incident, I thought that my feelings might even have been hurt by the profanation of Lenin's name: for a six–year–old Soviet child, this name was already surrounded by an aura of sanctity.

But in the first place, I could not bear being misquoted and misrepresented. I grabbed Genka by the arm and whispered into his ear: “I didn't say Lenin, I said Stalin!”

Immediately, without demur, he changed his tune and, still marching along the paved sidewalk with his banner, announced: “Stalin is an enemy of the people! Stalin is an enemy of the people!”

Passersby still stared at us, and I felt intensely uneasy.