CHAPTER 9. THE UNSINKABLE DREAM

April 9, 1940.

“...Today I had a truly amazing dream,” the twenty-seven-year-old German paratrooper said to himself, waking up in agony. He was currently on his bunk aboard the heavy cruiser Blücher. “It left a truly bitter aftertaste, entirely similar to what the nature of the African lemon often gives the mucous membrane! The essence of this dream has bitten into me too deeply, and it's hard for me now to immerse myself in the confines of reality—is this dream truly unsinkable, unsinkable like our Blücher, like our Führer, like our Great Germany? Oh, what a dream it was! In it, I was talking to my cat, ginger-furred Stefan, who, while I sat at a writing desk in the gloom where only the dim light of a cheap candle occasionally flickered, was sitting in a sphinx pose on the surface of that desk. He told me about his dream: a dream where he, the ginger-furred cat, was a man. Isn't the nature of this dream exceptional in its sacredness? Yes... in our dreams we can be anyone and anything—a cat, a tree, a stone, a cloud. And animals, like us, can also exist in dreams in any form—why is the human form not one of those forms? So, what did he tell me about? As a thirty-year-old, exceptionally charming man, in those moments, the moments of his dream, he was wandering alone and slowly through the spaces of an entirely deserted museum. He was studying many paintings with special care, admiring their beauty, and with the help of these images he was trying to understand himself: room after room, hall after hall, image after image, thought after thought, feeling after feeling—he spent a considerable amount of time in this labyrinth of the external, which, in turn, was merely a reflection of his internal labyrinth. There, his eyes saw many things—the museum was great, but there were no people in it. The museum had a lot of beautiful things, but no connoisseurs who could see the greatest examples of the highest art. But does it diminish their value if the art is all there for just one person? If art has even one connoisseur, of course, besides the author, then that art is already successful!

My ginger cat Stefan is now telling me what was depicted in the paintings in that deserted museum... on one of the paintings, only two words were written in gouache: "Sin" and "Forgiveness"... what was its essence?... Stefan told me that if sins in our world were atoned for with words, and not with feelings and actions, then today there would not be a single sinner on earth, and every act committed would be, not just be called, a sin, because atoning for it would not cost the slightest effort... a little further on was an image of an extraordinarily furious mother of a child, holding a knife and killing the one who had recently taken her child's life... even if the murder of a criminal is clothed in the garb of justice, it will not become justice, but will be merely a murder... such thoughts were voiced by my ginger cat with his small mouth... a little further on, there was a painting that depicted a medieval ruler who held a knife to the throat of a city merchant... when you don't give rulers what they ask for, they usually put you against the wall, a knife to your throat, and take what they so graciously asked for earlier, by force—in the modern world, this knife is laws and law enforcement agencies... further on, there was a painting on which a thief's house was robbed—it depicted the emotions of the thief who was crying out for a swift judgment, for fairness, for justice... still further on was a painting that showed a politician's office, under whose table a trap lay, and he was sitting at the table, contemplating the nature of this act... in politics, when a trap is found, they never remove it, but instead think about how to use it against the one who set it... So, slowly moving through the confines of one room and immediately plunging into the abyss of another room, Stefan, in the form of a man, suddenly found himself in a room where a twilight gloom reigned in those moments—it was the only room in which there was only one door. Entering it, Stefan instantly noticed that the door behind him had closed... But who closed it, if this museum was empty and deserted? Moving further and further into the depths of the gloom, the extremely alarmed Stefan saw before his eyes twenty young girls, in whose hands were indescribably elegant candlesticks with candles continuously burning their own flesh. All of them were dressed in identical clothes, of the same height and build: their faces were hidden by uniform carnival masks. Silence reigned in the room. The way back was closed. The feeling of fear was intensifying in Stefan's soul. "Who are you?" Stefan asked, but received only silence in response. There was nowhere to run. He was cornered.

In these moments, a supernatural courage suddenly arose in him—a feeling that often arises in a cornered wolf or a lion: it is an unconscious, metaphysical, instinctive courage—a pre-death courage... "Show me your faces—take off your masks! Show me your faces—I want to see my killers face to face before death! Are you afraid to show your faces? But God created us with these faces—what is there to be ashamed of? Or are you ashamed of God?"

The row of twenty women instantly shuddered. The first of them took a step forward and took off her mask: it hid a beautiful young face—the face of Alexandra, his former beloved. Taking a step forward, she said only one word—"mercenarism"... Then the next one stepped out of the row, took off her mask... and what? This mask again hid Alexandra's face—the word was "callousness"... Then the next one stepped out of the row... and again it was her—"indifference"... "pride," "vanity," "greed," "temptation," "allure," "fatality," "charm," "youth," "lack of principles," "tenderness," "rudeness," "carefreeness," "cunning," "exceptionality," "passion," "picturesqueness," "completion"... Each of them looked like Alexandra, but each of them said a different word—which of them was the real Alexandra? He turned to them with this question, but their answer truly amazed him—each of them answered... "I"! Where was the real Alexandra? In mercenarism? In callousness? In indifference? In pride? In vanity? In greed? In temptation? In allure? In fatality? In charm? In youth? In lack of principles? In tenderness? In rudeness? In carefreeness? In cunning? In exceptionality? In passion? In picturesqueness? In completion? Each of them with special diligence proved that she—was the real Alexandra... A few moments later, from each candle that was in the hands of these mysterious daughters of Eve, a single drop of wax simultaneously fell onto the antique carpet that was lying idle on the floor of this room, as a result of which, these individual actions, in their totality, kindled a fire in this room. All the vices and virtues that made up Alexandra's being instantly burned, while Stefan's essence was indifferent to the effect of that fire—Alexandra was no longer in his life... none of them... Everything here burned to the ground, except Stefan, and this was the last moment that connected her with eternity—from this moment, she sank into oblivion... from now on, her lot is oblivion! Such was the dream that my ginger cat Stefan told me about in my dream... What is this? An explosion... a jolt... cries of "Fire!"... is this a call to a final awakening?.. but then is this dream really as unsinkable as it seemed to me before?.."