Title: The Eleventh Plague

"Oh, oh, my God," an elderly man rushed to a gray-haired man lying in the snow. "Did you hurt yourself, can you stand up? It's so slippery! What an outrage, the public utilities completely neglect clearing the snow, at least on the sidewalks."

"My leg," the fallen man groaned, "something crunched in my hip and I can't get up. The ambulance arrived quickly."

"You could take him to the 3rd City Hospital," the elderly man asked the doctor, "my grandson works there as a doctor, he will organize everything quickly."

"A hip fracture," the traumatologist concluded after looking at the X-ray, "with displacement. This will take a long time."

"First they will put him in the traumatology ward, where they will set up a traction system," the grandson hugged his grandfather's shoulders, "and then they will put on a cast, and until a 'bone callus' forms, he will have to lie at home. Unfortunately, all this is for a long time, a very long time, and given his age... Does he have any relatives?"

"I have no idea," the grandfather shrugged, "I don't know him. I was walking by, saw him slip and fall. Please arrange things, grandson, so that they let me visit him. Maybe he has no one, and how can one not help an elderly person?"

"We will do it, of course," the doctor smiled, "just walk carefully yourself, you see how it happens."

"Well, how are you doing here?"

— the visitor greeted the patient lying on the bed, "I see you are not bored," he pointed to the leg fixed on a metal structure and a wire passed through the knee with an attached weight. Then he put a string bag with two apples and a paper bag on the nightstand, adding, "I brought you some sausage sandwiches and vitamins here."

"Thank you," the sick man nodded, "so it was you who brought me here yesterday? My savior, so to speak. And we are not even acquainted. Matvey Vasilievich Bychkov," and he extended his hand, "and what is your name?"

"Nice to meet you, Yakov Semyonovich," and shaking his hand, he added, "you can drop the surname. How are you?"

"Well, I'm just lying here. The doctors said it's going to be a long time."

"Have your relatives been notified?"

— the visitor inquired, "give me the phone numbers, I'll call."

"I only have a son," said Matvey Vasilievich, "they already called him. He should come."

"Well, that's good," Yakov Semyonovich nodded, "if you need anything, just say, I'll bring it. I, you know, live alone now. My wife died, but thank God, I also have a son and a grandson. They have their own families, but they don't abandon me, it's a sin to complain. I am a literary scholar, so to speak, a specialist studying fiction as a phenomenon of human culture; I used to teach at an institute. But I am already 68 years old and am now retired, although I still consult at my department. And what, may I ask, do you do?"

"We have a lot in common. I am also 68 and I am also a pensioner," the lying man shrugged, "a pensioner of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Lieutenant Colonel in retirement," he added, "so I have no one to consult. I served my time."

"I see," the visitor sighed, "tell me, can I visit you? After all, I feel a certain responsibility for you."

"I would be glad," Matvey Vasilievich nodded, "I am also a widower, and the youth, you know, are always busy with their own affairs, so counting on their visits..," and waving his hand, he added, "come."

"Grandpa," the grandson twirled a button on Yakov Semyonovich's coat, "a nurse told me here, in secret, that your 'protege's' son came and quarreled with him very much. It was about some 'pharaoh's tomb', mummies, the nurse didn't understand what exactly, but the son threatened that if his father didn't destroy some 'Devil's Crypt', he would publish compromising material about his past. Do you know anything about your acquaintance?"

"Absolutely nothing," the grandfather shrugged.

"Look here," the grandson said quietly, "be more careful with your new acquaintance. I don't like him, he's kind of shady."

"Well, let me at least wipe your back. How many days have you been lying here and haven't bathed yet. You already have an odor. Yakov Semyonovich," seeing him enter the ward, "at least you tell him. He doesn't want to wipe himself down, and the doctor will scold me."

"Matvey Vasilievich, this is the doctor's order, so sit up and don't resist. Do your job, nurse, and I will help lift the pajamas."
With a wet sponge, the girl began to wipe the back and chest of the disgruntled patient. Yakov Semyonovich actively helped her, holding the lieutenant colonel's torso in a vertical position, and suddenly saw a tattoo on his left shoulder.
Seeing the inscription, he turned cold. It was impossible to make a mistake. He had read it more than once. He knew every letter, every squiggle of this terrible word written on the shoulder, he had dreamed of it hundreds of times: "ICE AXE" (LEDORUB).
Yakov Semyonovich stared intently into Matvey Vasilievich's eyes and recognized him! Recognized him!! It's not for nothing they say that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. How many years have passed, the body's shell has changed, aged, but the soul has not. And the eyes haven't! Those terrifying eyes!

"How could I not notice that?"

— oblivious to the severe frost and stumbling at every step, Yakov Semyonovich trudged home, "how could I not recognize those eyes?"

"Grandpa!"

— his grandson's voice on the phone sounded muffled, "you asked me to let you know when Bychkov's son came. So, he is here, sitting with his father. His name is Oleg. You can come."

"Hello, Oleg!"

— as if accidentally meeting him upon leaving the hospital, Yakov Semyonovich said, "forgive my curiosity, I have a question for you - did you happen to live in Omsk? You look very much like one of my students."

"No," Oleg shook his head, "I was born in Norilsk, and when my father retired, we moved here, to Krasnoyarsk. I have never been to Omsk. Excuse me, I'm in a hurry."

"Everything fits," Yakov Semyonovich whispered as he entered the ward, "there can be no mistake."

"What, got sick?"

— the lieutenant asked sympathetically and put his palm to the prisoner's forehead, "oh, oh, and you have a fever too? Well, of course, you can't go to work. Are we not human, do we not understand? Tomorrow we'll process you to the 'kerosinka' (camp slang for medical unit), but for now.. Prikhodko!"

— he called the guard, "prepare a bed for the patient, he needs to 'bring down' the fever, otherwise he's burning all over." The soldier silently brought a bucket of water, poured half on the unfortunate man, the other half on the bunk.

"Rest, sick man," the lieutenant smiled, and laying the prisoner in the water, handcuffed him to the bunk. Then he opened the window, inhaled the frosty air and said cheerfully: "It's -40 outside, you have +40, altogether - it's zero! Amusing, isn't it!"

— then he added sympathetically, "so you don't feel stuffy, I won't close the window. Okay?"
The squad, returning from work, filled the barracks in complete silence. On the "bunk" lay a block of ice with a human form, frozen into the rough boards. Even the guards, in grim horror, averted their eyes, trying not to look at the bunks.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

— the entering lieutenant asked with curiosity, "Oh! We have a mummy lying here! Almost Egyptian, only in ice. They embalmed the Egyptian way, and we do it our way, the Siberian way! Everyone stand still," he ordered, "I'll be right back." A few minutes later the lieutenant returned in a strange attire. Below, as always, trousers with boots, and on top, on a bare torso, a leather apron was worn, like a shoemaker's. In one hand he squeezed a chisel, in the other a hammer. Approaching the bunks, he examined the lying man with interest and with the words: "Let's sculpt a statue and call it 'Amenhotep'," he began to chop the body out of the ice. A prisoner standing behind him read the tattoo on the lieutenant's left shoulder: "Ice Axe". Someone among the standing prisoners fainted.

"How sentimental we are," the "sculptor" grimaced, "maybe someone else got sick and can't work? You just tell me. But remember, only 'Ramseses' don't work for us, and various 'mummies'… Orderly!"

"Orderly Reznikov, Article 58-8," the prisoner standing behind him said quietly.

"Lift 'Amenhotep' and hold him vertically," the lieutenant said excitedly and, pulling a camera from his pocket, handed it to one of the guards and with the words, "now, a photo for history. We also know how to embalm," stood next to the body. After the guard took a couple of shots, he ordered the orderly:

"To the graveyard with our 'Amenhotep', to the 'valley of mummies', then report to me on execution. I will do the paperwork for now." And he walked out.

"Come on, guys, let's take the poor guy," the orderly said, "we'll bury him like a human being, otherwise 'Chaban' (camp slang for squad commander), he nodded towards the departed lieutenant, has gone completely feral. He'll feed the poor guy to the wolves."

Entering the ward, Yakov Semyonovich approached the bed and looked closely at the sleeping man's face. Yes, it was the lieutenant, only very aged. Deep wrinkles furrowed his face, gray hair with bald patches, rough cheeks. But it was undoubtedly the lieutenant, that very same "Ice Axe"! Suddenly the sick man opened his eyes and sat up on the bed.

"Oh, hi! I took a little nap here and didn't notice you coming. Have you been here long?"

"No, 'Chaban'," Yakov Semyonovich answered hollowly and looked him straight in the eyes, "I just arrived."
Matvey Vasilievich's face changed.

"We crossed paths somewhere in the past, do I understand correctly?"

— licking his lips, he uttered, "and most likely in the 'zone'?"

"'Norillag', citizen chief, 24th squad, article 58-6."

"I served in 'Norillag'," the lieutenant colonel frowned, "in '43, I think, but I don't remember the squad and I don't recall you."

"Of course," Yakov Semyonovich shook his head, "you can't remember everyone. How many passed through your hands, how could you remember some orderly Reznikov. But you must remember 'Amenhotep'!"

"After graduating from the NKVD school, I was sent to serve in the Siberian Corrective Labor Camp, or 'Siblag', in the Novosibirsk region. But, literally a couple of weeks after my service began, while fishing on the Ob River, I fell into an ice hole. They pulled me out, but I got double pneumonia and was sent for treatment to the medical unit of our camp. My roommate turned out to be a university professor, an Egyptologist specialist, who had been convicted under Article 58 as an enemy of the people. But, since the camp commander's son was studying at the university in a department with an in-depth study of the French language, and the 'enemy of the people' was fluent in it, the father assigned the professor as an orderly in the medical unit, where he lived and periodically gave lessons in French literature to his offspring. The professor, deprived of ties with the outside world, was glad for our communication and on long winter evenings plunged me into the mysterious world of ancient Egypt. He was so carried away that, sometimes, the lectures ended in the morning. I was especially fascinated by stories about the life of the pharaohs, and when the professor talked about the 'Ten Plagues of Egypt', the disasters described in the 'Pentateuch' that befell the Egyptians for the pharaoh's refusal to free the enslaved children of Israel, I lost my peace. I had no idea who the children of Israel were, but the 'ten plagues' agitated me. 'Plague of frogs', 'Invasion of midges', 'Baiting by wild beasts' — what nonsense, amateurism! Well, what kind of executions are these? And this is glorified through the ages?! It's downright offensive. And I developed an obsession to invent my own, eleventh plague. And I invented it! My 'swimming' in the ice hole gave me the idea! A 'cocoon' of icy clothes! Eh? How are they not 'mummies'? It's a pity the professor never found out about my 'successes'. I was discharged from the medical unit and only after some time did I learn that he died of a heart attack. So to speak, right at his workplace, while cleaning. Well, what can you say, fate, the punishing sword of justice... Although, one way or another, he had only one end. An enemy of the people!"
Yakov Semyonovich sat huddled on a chair, looking in horror at the narrator.

"Well, what are you looking at me for," the lieutenant colonel grimaced, "huh, orderly? Do you hate me? Or are you still afraid? Ahhh!"

— he leaned back on the pillow, "I know, I know! You want to take revenge. You think, I'll pour water on him now, open the window and freeze him like a mummy. I remember, I remember 'Amenhotep'! I don't remember you, I don't remember the squad, but I remember 'Amenhotep'. And do you know why I remember?"

— he chuckled, "because a lot of you, enemies of the people, passed through me, but there were only 12 'Pharaohs'. I remember them all," he smiled, "and I still have the photographs, so to speak, for history. But you won't be able to kill me," the lieutenant colonel shook his head, "you don't have the guts. What are you — a literary scholar? A specialist in human culture? A miserable intellectual! It's easy to kill a man, but to decide to do it is difficult. You need character for that, a spark, so to speak, courage! And people like you, humanitarians…," he waved his hand.

"What did you get your article for?"

— he suddenly asked harshly, "what were you sitting for?"

"58-6," Yakov Semyonovich answered automatically.

"Espionage," the lieutenant shook his head, "did you sit for 10 years?"

"I was at the front, I was shell-shocked, captured," Yakov Semyonovich exhaled, "escaped, fought my way to our own, and then was convicted as a traitor to the Motherland and a spy. Thank God they sorted it out after the war, rehabilitated me."

"You all say that," "Ice Axe" smirked, "I think they rehabilitated you for nothing."

"Listen," Yakov Semyonovich said in a breaking voice, "are you really not afraid? Do you really not dream of your victims? You have a son, he might find out about your atrocities. How do you look him in the eyes?"

"I fought against the enemies of the people," the lieutenant colonel declared, "and honestly fulfilled my duty. My chest is covered with orders, I have commendations for irreproachable service. Upon retiring, I even got a house in a village from the state. What should I be afraid of? I sleep well, and if I have dreams, it's only of ancient Egypt. True, I've never been there, but I look at the photographs of my 'mummies' and imagine the pyramids, tombs. And I raised my son right, our way, and he will even be proud when he learns about his father's contribution to world history and the 'Eleventh Plague' he invented. My name will remain through the ages. And you? What have you done? First you betrayed the Motherland, and then you spent your whole life reading other people's little rhymes and sorting through useless papers? And you lived your whole life in fear. You are afraid of me even now, because I have power, authority behind me. I am 'Ramses', and my place is in the 'Pyramid', and people like you are just 'mummies' and your place is in the 'valley of mummies', simply speaking, in the graveyard. So, well, that's it, I'm tired of chatting with you, get out. And don't even think about taking revenge on me, it won't work. You'll die yourself, eat yourself up, but you won't be able to kill another. I know you miserable intellectuals. One word — 'mummy'! A 'Ramses' is needed here, and you…, what should I call you?… Oh!… 'Ahmose'! Yes, yes," he exclaimed excitedly, "exactly 'Ahmose', from the 18th dynasty, the father of 'Amenhotep'! The professor told me about him, I have it written down."
Yakov Semyonovich left the ward with difficulty. His head was spinning, a sickening nausea rose to his throat, his chest hurt, his heart beat frantically.

"He is right," the old man whispered sorrowfully, "he is right, I am afraid of him. I cannot look at him, I cannot hear his voice." Pictures of the past treacherously surfaced in his memory - the icy camp barracks, endless hunger, the bare torso of the lieutenant with the tattoo "Ice Axe" on his shoulder, chopping a man out of an ice block with a hammer and chisel. He remembered, he remembered well the face of the unfortunate man, his open, blind eyes under the ice crust, his tight lips.

"Something must be done," he muttered quietly, "must…" A strong blow to his chest knocked Yakov Semyonovich down and darkness fell.

"Well, thank God, you've come to," the dear face of his grandson, "I am so glad. Don't be foolish, grandpa, come on, come back. Keep in mind, I won't let you die. Now everything will be fine."

"Borka," Yakov Semyonovich looked at his grandson, "what happened? Where am I and what are these tubes?"

"Grandpa, you are in intensive care," and sighing, he added, "already for 2 weeks. You had a heart attack, but everything is fine now. You will pull through. It's good that everything happened right here in the hospital and we didn't waste precious time. Remember, you were visiting your friend, and when you were leaving the ward, you fell. Do you want to tell me anything, huh, grandpa?"

"Later, Borka, later," and he took his grandson by the hand, "just remember, he is no friend to me," and taking a deep breath, he added, "he is 'Ice Axe'!"

"Hello, respected Yakov Semyonovich! I really hope that you are already in good health and my letter will not negatively affect your health condition. I know the risk I am taking, but I can no longer stay silent. You turned out to be the only person involved in my fate, and if by chance, after so many years, you met my father, I considered it a sign from above. I am 35 years old, and all these years I have carried hatred for him inside me. Although, it is hard to call him a father. He met my mother in the camp. He a guard, a lieutenant of the NKVD, she a 17-year-old prisoner, the daughter of an enemy of the people. To violate her was no effort for him, but my mother got pregnant, and that was a problem. The connection of an NKVD officer with a prisoner was punishable, so some prisoner from my father's squad was blamed for the paternity, and a short time later the first 'mummy' appeared, which he called 'Thutmose I'. He made sure that the mother and child, that is me, were transferred to another camp, where 2 years later, she died of tuberculosis. I was sent to a baby home, and then to an orphanage. I don't know why, but my father took me from there and adopted me, giving me his surname, Bychkov. And although he treated me very harshly, even cruelly, I was grateful to him, because it was even worse in the orphanage. Once, in our school, there was a routine medical check-up, and the nurse conducting it recognized me by an unusual birthmark on my back. She was in the same camp as my mother, she also had a nursing infant, and when my mom lost her milk, she fed me with hers. From her I learned the whole truth. Since then, hatred for this man settled in my soul, but I tried not to show my feelings. Years passed, my father advanced in his service. One day, at our home, he and two colleagues were celebrating 'Chekist Day'. They drank to Stalin, to the Motherland, to the 'native organs'. They got terribly drunk, I couldn't sleep because of the noise and lay in my bed in my room with a book. And suddenly, to the laughter of the guests, I heard my father's voice, talking about some mummies, Egypt, pharaohs. I peeked through the crack in the door and saw that they were looking at some photographs and laughing merrily. Later I found those pictures in my father's desk. In some he stood hugging icy 'human statues', in others they were photographed without him. On each photograph there were some inscriptions: 'Mentuhotep', 'Amenemhat', 'Senusret', and others. I understood nothing, I felt sick from what I saw, I vomited for a long time. Only after some time, our school's history teacher explained to me the meaning of these words - they were the names of Egyptian pharaohs. Since then, I started studying the history of Ancient Egypt, spent days in the library; it became my life's goal. One day, quite by accident, I found my father's diary, where he described in detail his 'experiments' on unfortunate zeks, calling them the 'Eleventh Plague of Egypt'! Considering himself a genius inventor, he described in detail his 'research' on this topic - the time of 'freezing' of the body, dependence on the temperature regime, air movement in the room, etc. He described all his 'mummies', with the names he gave them. He dreamed of building a 'Pantheon', but not a 'Temple of all gods', rather a temple of one god, as he called himself - 'Ramses of Siberia', whose peace would be guarded by the 'mummies' he created. He wanted to enter world history, to be worshipped and for 'grateful descendants' to compose songs. I dreamed of his death. Hundreds of times I played out in my head various options of retribution, but I could not bring myself to do it. As this monster repeatedly instilled in me: 'It is easy to kill a man, but to decide on it is difficult, you need character, courage'. Perhaps he was right. I lacked character. Time passed, and based on his years of service, with the rank of lieutenant colonel, he was sent on 'well-deserved rest'. For 'valiant long-term service', by way of encouragement, the leadership awarded him a wooden house in the forest, previously confiscated from some 'underground businessman' serving his term in 'places not so remote'. Apparently, the businessman had something to hide, so the log house was built in a very secluded place, away from prying eyes and civilization. The house was heated by a fireplace, light was provided by kerosene lamps, and a wooden booth in the yard served as a toilet. But, according to the retired lieutenant colonel, everyday amenities bothered him little, as he lived a 'spiritual life'. My father was a withdrawn person, he had no friends or relatives, even I had only been in this house twice. But one day he ended up in the hospital with acute appendicitis, some documents were needed, and he asked me to bring them. Getting into the house, I felt inexplicable excitement and fear. But some forces compelled me to explore the premises, and I found a hatch, opening which I got into the basement. I lit a kerosene lamp and, overcoming some mystical horror, descended into the cellar. What I saw made my head spin. The room was a square chamber with a stone floor, in the middle of which, on an elevation, stood a chic armchair with intricate carved legs and armrests, upholstered in red velvet, on which an inscription, similar to Arabic script, was beautifully embroidered: 'RAMSES OF SIBERIA - THE GREAT'. Around the armchair, along the perimeter, small tombstones were arranged, three on each side, onto which photographs of emaciated people in ice blocks were 'soldered', and on each stone there was an inscription: 'Mentuhotep', 'Senusret', and others, 12 in total. I had already seen these photos, they are from my father's 'collection'. The lamp flickered with a weak fire, casting my shadow on the walls and tombstones, and suddenly it seemed to me that the dead were beginning to come alive. In terror, I rushed out of that terrible house. I don't remember how I got out of that terrible house. My thoughts were confused, only one phrase kept spinning in my brain: 'He must be stopped, he must be stopped!' And suddenly I realized that only I could do it. He simply wouldn't let anyone else near him. But how? Whom to tell, who would give advice? I end my letter with gratitude to fate for giving me the opportunity to meet you. I needed to dispel all doubts relating to his past, and you are a living witness to his crimes and a person to whom I can confess. A great stone has fallen from my soul, which had been pressing on my heart all my conscious life. Now my fate is in your hands, and what happens to me is for you to decide. Respected Yakov Semyonovich! I wish you strong health, the love of family and friends, and for me, please wish…. Wish me courage!"

"Grandpa!"

— the grandson smiled, "another letter for you. What are these secrets of the Madrid court? Is it a woman? Keep in mind," and he wagged his finger, "amorous agitations are contraindicated for you right now. Think about your heart. I tell you this as a doctor."

"Borka," putting the letter in his pajama pocket, Yakov Semyonovich smiled, "don't talk nonsense. It's from a colleague from the department, asking me to correct an article. I'll read it later. Let's go drink tea."
When his grandson left, he nervously opened the envelope. Inside was a newspaper sheet with an article. Crime chronicle.
As the editorial board of our newspaper has learned, the Investigative Committee has closed the case regarding the fire of a private house in the forest belt of the Solnechny settlement. We remind our readers that in January of the current year, a fire occurred at the house of citizen M.V. Bychkov, who was living in it at the time of the incident. As the investigation established, in the house with stove heating, there was no electricity, and the premises were illuminated by kerosene lamps. Citizen M.V. Bychkov had been discharged from the hospital the day before, where he was undergoing treatment due to an injury. He lived alone in the house and was moving on crutches at the time of the incident. The investigation concluded that the fire occurred as a result of careless handling of fire. Due to the fact that no criminal element was identified, the case was closed due to the lack of corpus delicti. The intensity of the fire was so great that the house burned to the ground. According to the investigator for particularly important cases, Captain N.I. Nefedov, unfortunately, the victim's body was burned so severely that it was impossible to identify him. Comrade M.V. Bychkov was a resident of our city, a retired lieutenant colonel of the Federal Penitentiary Service, awarded orders and medals for irreproachable service and having given many years to the Federal Penitentiary Service. It should be noted that this building was allocated to Lieutenant Colonel M.V. Bychkov by the FSIN department for irreproachable service upon retirement. We express our sincere condolences to the deceased's son, who, in turn, decided not to rebuild the house, but to plant trees on the plot.

"I don't understand," the lieutenant colonel raised his eyes to the man who had entered the room, "and frowning, looked at his son, "who is this? How did he get into my house?"

"Meet him," Oleg stood next to the stranger, "this is my 'milk' brother, Nikolai. You know nothing about him, but we were fed with the same milk, his mother's milk. When the girl you raped, my mom, lost her milk in the camp," he whispered, "I was fed by Nikolai's mom, who, like me, was born in prison."

"And my father," Nikolai entered the conversation, "who returned from the war an invalid and was convicted under Article 58 because he was in captivity for three months, perished in the camp where you, 'sparing no effort', fought against 'enemies of the people'. And I don't rule out that he served his sentence in your squad and you turned him into a 'mummy'. Huh, 'Ice Axe'? After all, that's your favorite pastime? 'The Eleventh Plague of Egypt'?"

"What?"

— Bychkov choked with anger, "what did you say? Where from…?"

"Yes, 'Chaban'," Oleg frowned, "excuse me, I cannot call you father," and pulling a notebook from a dresser drawer, threw it on the table, "I found your diaries. And you will have to answer for everything."

"I'll kill you, bitches," the lieutenant colonel wheezed and shook his crutch, "they didn't lock up enough of your kind! Who are you raising your hand against? You, 'dung worms', despicable 'mummies'! What is this?"

— he choked, looking deep into the room, "this…this…"

"Well, there you go," Nikolai said with satisfaction, handcuffing Bychkov to the carved armrests of the beautiful armchair, upholstered in red velvet, with an embroidered inscription resembling Arabic script: "RAMSES OF SIBERIA - THE GREAT".

"Just don't worry, 'Ramses the Great', by morning we will return you along with the armchair to the 'Bunker'. So, everything seems to be according to your protocol, right, 'Ice Axe'? Oh yes, the windows! We have to take into account the air movement and the room temperature, because everything has to be according to the rules, your rules! We must respect the inventor. Oops!"

— Nikolai sighed, opening the windows, "what air. It's -40 outside, and you have +36.6, almost the same. Amusing, isn't it?"

"You won't be able to do this," the lieutenant colonel wheezed, "you don't have the guts. You…."

"Yes, 'Ice Axe'," Oleg whispered, "you turned out to be right. I 'don't have the guts', and I lack 'courage'. But he…"

"By the way, allow me to introduce myself," Nikolai entered the conversation, "investigator for particularly important cases of the Investigative Committee, Captain Nefedov Nikolai Ivanovich, veteran of the Afghan war. And what is interesting," he nodded, "is that I will be the one leading the case regarding the fire of citizen M.V. Bychkov's house, that is, your house, 'Ramses'. And, the investigation will establish the fact of careless handling of fire, therefore, due to the lack of corpus delicti, I will close the case. Of course, you will be buried with appropriate honors. At any rate, I will try to make everyone think so. Your body will be so 'severely burned' that even identification expertise will be impossible. And only Oleg and I will know that you, 'Ramses of Siberia - The Great', will sit forever in the 'Pantheon-Bunker' you built, on a beautiful throne, surrounded by the 'mummies' you hate. You wanted this, didn't you? And when you meet them in the 'best of worlds', I don't think your meeting will be pleasant for you. And considering my hatred for you, believe me, I will have enough 'courage'. Thanks to our state, I have rich Afghan experience. And now, I will be your judge, and in memory of my father and other 'mummies', I will judge you by human laws. You wanted to go down in the annals of history as the inventor of the 'Eleventh Plague of Egypt'?"

— and he picked up a bucket of water, "well then, enter! From all of us, 'mummies'…"

"Grandpa," the grandson was indignant, "what is this? What are you hiding from me? Another letter for you. Who keeps writing to you all the time?"

"Borka, don't chatter," Yakov Semyonovich smiled, "better go to the store for some sausage, I'm kind of craving a sandwich."
Opening the envelope and seeing the photograph, the old man shuddered. On the beautiful armchair upholstered in red velvet sat "Ice Axe" with a bare torso, clad in a leather apron and squeezing a hammer in one hand, a chisel in the other. He looked through the ice crust with open, blind eyes and a mouth drawn tight by a spasm, as if wanting to say something to the tombstones surrounding his chair.

"Grandpa, what are you burning there?"

— the grandson looked at the handful of ashes in the ashtray on the table, "a colleague's article?"

"He's no friend to me, Borka," Yakov Semyonovich suddenly uttered an incomprehensible phrase thoughtfully, and looking sadly at the ashes, added, "he is 'Ice Axe'!"

Dear reader! I want to add a few words. Many years ago, sometime in the late 70s, I worked as a surgeon in the city of Kishinev, and one of the patients told me a true story that he had witnessed. According to him, he spent 15 years imprisoned in one of the Siberian camps and they had a guard, with the rank of lieutenant (in prison slang - 'Chaban'). To prevent, as he believed, the simulation of illness in order to obtain exemption from work, he applied a special 'treatment method' for the 'sick' from his squad. By his order, the bunks were flooded with water, and the unfortunate one was offered 'bed rest' on the ice. He called such 'patients' 'mummies'. So, of course, in my narrative, I made up something, added some details of my own, but essentially, I described a true story. And lastly. A certain role that forced me to remember this sad story was played by the current war in Ukraine. The Author.