You and Makarov had been married for about two years. You loved each other, and in addition to the feeling, what tied your relationship so tightly was also the devotion you had in common towards your cause: saving Russia, destroying the West. You were blindly faithful and devoted to him, and now you were imprisoned in a gulag. A psychiatrist was taking care of you.

She was a woman in her fifties. You were much younger, in your early twenties, and you were in a somewhat gloomy and cold room. You were sitting a few feet away from her, your wrists cuffed. She had a notebook and a pen in her hand and was asking you questions.

They all wanted to know what your mental state was, whether you were sick or not.

“So all your devotion turns into violence?”

She asked, looking at you.