When I witnessed what I describe in the following memoir, it never occurred to me that I would one day wish to commit it to writing. It didn't occur to me because I was in no way involved (due to ideological differences) in the preparation and organization of the rallies that led to the events described below. I believed that describing what happened on March 9 was the right and calling only of those who were closer to those events than I was. But in the more than twenty years that separate us from those events, I saw that, first of all, human historical memory is weaker than I thought; in the memory of most witnesses, as I noticed, those events faded, and along with the emotional charge, their recollection lost its precision. Secondly, I saw that the number of witnesses is gradually decreasing. A new generation is coming that does not know those events. Finally, I suspected that the fixation of what happened would not occur at all, and gradually a sense of duty to record it was born in me. This year, in 1980, after a serious illness, this sense of duty turned into a conviction, and now I am fulfilling my intention. In the following text, I have strictly distinguished what I saw from what I heard from others or what I concluded. This writing can be considered as testimony that I am ready to defend before any court.

(For the full text, see the printed edition: "Bloody Friday", Carpe Diem Publishing, 2019)

I will preface the narrative with a few remarks regarding the psychological and political situation in which the described events took place.

It is well known that Stalin was a hater of Georgia and remained a hater until he destroyed his homeland to such an extent that he left nothing noteworthy for enemy or friend except Atenuri wine, furnace bread, and Georgian dance. The motives for this hatred are not entirely clear. Perhaps he extended the natural bitterness that a difficult childhood granted him to Georgia because the relatively prosperous people who made up the environment of his childhood were Georgians. This explanation, of course, is insufficient; perhaps in his hatred of Georgia, he generalized his hatred for Georgian patriots (in his and his comrades' terminology — nationalists), who were his political opponents from the very beginning. This explanation also seems too narrow to me. The most widespread opinion in Georgia (and, as long as I can remember, it was always widespread) is that Stalin hated his homeland because he could not thrive in Georgia and never would have; he harbored a grudge against Georgians when, in 1922, the workers of the Tbilisi locomotive repair plant whistled at him. I don't think this explanation is sufficient either.

The main thing, perhaps, was still that he hated the very type of person that a Georgian patriot produces — open-minded and self-respecting, having an active nature and conscious of their own superiority, followed by moral rather than material motives, and, as such, an "idealist." The type of person on whom Stalin built both his policy and his worldview was exactly the opposite. Stalin, of course, knew this "idealist" type well and had found the only effective way to deal with him — destruction. When leaving Georgia in 1922, he left an instruction to "plow and replow aristocratic Georgia," he, of course, knew that the ranks of Georgian patriots were not composed of the nobility, but his formulation was probably not just demagoguery, because in those people whose destruction he ordered, he primarily saw indeed the "aristocracy of spirit and mind," people distinguished by nature.

Finally, it is known how Russified he was not only in action but also in consciousness — he identified himself with the material of his policy, the Russian people; the political interests of this people indeed required the conquest and trampling of Georgia — the main obstacle on the path to establishing themselves in the Transcaucasus — which Stalin accomplished. It is known (and was always known) that all the repressions of the Stalin era were spread more over Georgia than over any other. It is known that on the eve of the 1924 uprising, when Stalin was informed that the uprising was beginning, "we know the leaders and let us arrest them," he refused and ordered the release of the already doomed uprising, "Georgia has not shed blood in the civil war, and let it shed it now." Later, when Georgia was already prostrate on the ground to such an extent that the danger of its rising no longer existed, Stalin's hatred towards it seemingly cooled. His most active anti-Georgian policy belongs to the twenties and thirties. After the war, he often invited Georgian scientists or actors, was interested in the history of Georgia and the state of literature. But this did not prevent him, as soon as his power was threatened by Beria, from sacrificing Georgia to a catastrophe unparalleled in its entire history...

Before the war, everyone in Georgia hated Stalin except for his apparatus. For the peasant, he was the author of the collective farm; for everyone together — the author of repressions and all other horrors of the anti-Georgian slave-owning regime. An accurate expression of this attitude is an anecdote — a dialogue of kintos: "Why is Stalin the father of us all? — Because he made us all cry for our mothers (ruined us)." But after the war, this attitude loosened a bit. More precisely, another attitude mixed with it. The colossal figure of Stalin, the victor in the war, suppressed people's imagination. In him, they saw a brilliant Georgian dominating half the world, the incomparable personification of willpower and political insight, "the greatest commander of all times and all peoples," who through his greatness realized the self-affirmation of Georgians on the human stage. This perception strangely coexisted in the consciousness of the same person with the fear that arose from 1944 that it is possible to deport the whole of Georgia as a people unreliable for the Russians, or, say, with the bitter realization that if the catastrophic influx of Russians due to industrial construction continued, Georgia would soon no longer be Georgia. And yet, despite all this, the fact that a Dzhugashvili (factually: Egnatashvili) sits at the head — a man for whom Georgian life, food, drink, or folk song is a reality, for whom the evaluation of the role of Giorgi Saakadze is a problem worthy of attention, etc. — was a great hope for the politically exhausted Georgian. In Stalin and Beria, they saw a master who, if needed, will slaughter you, but if he doesn't need to slaughter you, will take care of you and won't let wandering dogs eat your flesh.

After the death of Stalin and, especially, the downfall of Beria, the situation changed. The Russian mass, which for some reason was convinced that neither collective farms nor repressions existed in Georgia, considered that it was time for Georgians to be held accountable for being in this privileged position. Since a Georgian ruled the Soviet Union, this mass believed that the current state of Georgians in this state — better, in their opinion, than what they justly deserved — was the result of Stalin-Beria's bias and it was necessary to worsen it. The official campaign directed at the abolition of the "cult of personality" gave way to the chauvinistic instincts of the Russian mass and created an active anti-Georgian consciousness. Hostile outbursts against Georgians who were in Russia for trade, in the army, or for some other reason, took on a systematic character. Analogous cases took place in Georgia if a Russian was given the opportunity. A characteristic case (as told): in a tram, below the Opera, a Russian colonel rudely bumped into a pregnant Georgian woman. When he received a remark, he replied: "Why should I be careful with her, so that another Beria is born?" A Georgian youth in the tram broke his tooth with a fist and jumped out of the tram.

Since the campaign to expose Stalin had an official character, it was natural that the growth of anti-Georgian sentiments associated with antipathy towards Stalin was perceived by Georgians as corresponding to the official course (and it indeed was such). Along with this, the mass of the Georgian people (unlike the population of Russia) clearly understood that the criticism directed at Stalin's personality did not mean a criticism or rejection of the social system or regime he created. Even a child in Georgia knew that Stalin was being reviled only because he was a Georgian, and no one seriously thought of shaking the foundation of the regime he created. Therefore, the criticism of Stalin, formulated carefully for now but carrying a powerful anti-Georgian emotional charge, was perceived by Georgians as unjust. ("If he is to be scolded, he is ours to scold; they should be kissing his feet"). At the same time, everyone knew that Stalin was not being exposed in what he was most vulnerable — he was called neither a "dictator," nor a "executioner," nor a "blood-drinker," but only his "lack of talent," "lack of qualification," his improper self-glorification and illegal seizure of power were talked about, but at the same time, Lenin was mentioned with praise, who in the eyes of Georgians — again unlike the Russians — surpassed Stalin neither in humanism nor, especially, in talent and ability. (On the contrary, by all these dimensions, he was inferior to Stalin). So the criticism of Stalin was given a somewhat hidden, unofficial, and unavowable air: he was, as it were, opposed with a hatred that could not be voiced within the framework of existing official ideology, but which because of this was all the more growing unofficially and more dangerous.

In March 1954, during the days of Stalin's death (from the 3rd to the 9th, when he was buried; though in 1953 Stalin, by official version, became ill), people went to his monument on the embankment of the Mtkvari and brought flowers (a little bit was brought even before that, after the campaign to expose him began). This movement was neither planned in advance by anyone nor known. It was spontaneous and its only motive was protest. The participants, in total over those six days, would be several thousand and, possibly, more. The fact that the participants turned out to be many was probably unexpected for each of them. After laying flowers, the arrivals stood for a while in the garden in front of the monument and, thus, during those six days, there was almost a continuous silent rally here during the day — the first unofficial rally contrary to the government course in the Soviet Union since the Stalinist regime was established. This fact — that an unofficial gathering against the government course was happening and that the authorities could not prevent it (even if only thanks to the fact that they could not do so within the framework of existing official ideology) — those at the monument realized only when it happened, while the others, i.e., the main mass of the population, to whom it would not occur to bring flowers to Stalin's monument, found out when this six-day growing manifestation was already ending or finished. Despite this, the fact itself was euphoria-inducing and indeed induced euphoria. It became known to everyone and remained in everyone's memory as unique, as something opening some yet unclear perspective and raising questions. Everyone asked themselves what would happen another time, specifically — at this time next year. Therefore, everyone awaited the next March with nervous and fear-filled curiosity — both those who genuinely cared about the fate of Stalin's name (these were, of course, a minority) and those who did not care about it at all.

What happened was that the following year, 1955, the people at the monument were incomparably more numerous and the silent rally was also incomparably larger. It was already fully realized by participants and non-participants as a rally and a form of protest and resistance to the existing situation as such. During the year that had passed since March 1954, the campaign directed against Stalin became both broader and more conspicuously unjust in that the authorities scolding Stalin's personality were thinking neither of giving up the empire he created, nor the military-industrial complex built by his method, nor the dictatorship he created, nor the collective farm, nor any other basic form of economic or political regime. Anti-Georgian outbursts in Russia also did not decrease in frequency during this time but grew. The Russian mass, as much as possible (and, of course, in accordance with Khrushchev's clearly unexpressed spirit), was settling scores with Georgia for being ruled by its son without accountability for 29 years. The Georgian nation felt how the waves of hatred of an almost two-hundred-million-strong crowd were already licking its land, waves which no one knew when they would completely overwhelm it.

To this situation, which was already fully formed in 1955, new circumstances were added — the more and more growing and more and more official cursing of Stalin (the XX Party Congress). In the eyes of a Russian, this official position was reflected as history's final and irreversible verdict against Georgians, who, in his opinion, had no other basis and no other justification for either a "good" life or for life at all except for being Stalin's compatriots; in the eyes of a Georgian, this was reflected as a signal for launching a decisive attack against Georgia.

That is why March 3–9, 1956, was already awaited in advance as a struggle, and from the first day of this seven-day period (from March 3), a huge mass gathered at the monument on the embankment (15–20 thousand people). People were also milling around the rostrum on Lenin Square. Both there and here, a rally was held from the very first day: students, pupils, clerks, old teachers, citizens of various circles and professions were speaking. Among the students, there were fewer Tbilisians — their mass was mainly composed of those who came from the regions (the center of the movement was basically the Student City). Among the Tbilisians too (those who spoke from the rostrum), as far as I could judge based on what I saw or heard, were not the children of those more insightful circles for whom Stalin's true role in the history of Georgia was not a secret. But everyone sympathized with the rally — sympathized, first of all, because it was the first manifestation of the people's will and spirit in the Soviet Union, and secondly, because it was born from an explicitly expressed or unexpressed national feeling, a feeling of national insult.

The orators spoke about what a great historical figure Stalin was, how decisive his role was in World War II, and what an injustice it was, proceeding from this, his trampling by the official instances and their congress. In between, they spoke about the past of Georgia, its great cultural and political traditions, which made the emergence of such a large political figure possible, although I personally did not hear them touch upon what is most important in this regard, namely, modern times, including the XIX–XX centuries, which most determined the face of today's Georgian politician with his virtues and weaknesses. They spoke only about old centuries, which in this context would have significance only for national self-esteem...

On the 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th, the rallies continued and their scale grew more and more. From the regions (Borjomi and this way, possibly even further), participants were added (mainly pupils). Other places of the city (primarily, the Station Square) were also flooded with people, although elsewhere, except for the two mentioned places (the monument and Lenin Square), a rostrum was not set up. This gathering was both a demonstration and a kind of performance of a ritual at the same time, because the victory gained in the March days of the previous two years — the hitherto unheard-of manifestation of public and national will before the eyes of the government and its punishing apparatus — was already accepted as a tradition and was already recognized as an honorable achievement. I remember one poem — simple and warm, which someone had composed about the demonstrations of previous years in that elevated and childishly pathetic style in which children's poems about Stalin were written before (and sometimes non-children's too), only this time sincere and free from falsehood. "It is cold, only the wind howls" — so began this poem. I don't remember the second line and its rhyme, but the third and fourth were like this: "It is cold, but who will leave the leader alone in the garden." Then it told how a little girl came and brought a flower to the orphaned monument, how others came then and that one flower turned into mountains of flowers. Little girls were reading this poem. In total, it was probably read from the rostrum at least a hundred times during those few days. Even now I am surprised what shift of attention caused me not to remember its second line or the whole poem!

Everyone knew that the final of this unequal, aimless, and perspective-less struggle was on the last day of this seven-day period, on the 9th. Therefore, as this day approached, the pace and scale of events grew. On the seventh, at both main rallies together (at the monument and on Lenin Square), probably 70–80 thousand souls were standing constantly. Some were leaving, others were coming. A certain number of activists, who were already naturally selected by this time (mainly from students living in the Student City, i.e., those who came from the regions), were constantly standing on the pedestal of the monument (or on the rostrum of Lenin Square) and leading the rally. On the seventh already, actions outside these two places began. Here and there in the city, pictures of Stalin were displayed. On the building of the headquarters of the Transcaucasian Military District (on Lenin Square), opposite the rostrum, several youths climbed the wall and hung a large picture of Stalin. The authorities did not offer resistance. On the contrary, when the boys were climbing the wall of the headquarters, a soldier stepped out on the roof and helped those youths in straightening the rope. The government did not offer resistance. It was either intimidated, because an overt manifestation of such a face and such a scale against the government course and will was not provided for in the rules and order of the system, or it was moved by some other motives. Repression needed a decision, and making a decision needed time, therefore (so it seemed) the tactics of action had not yet been chosen in Moscow, and in Tbilisi, no one had the right to choose tactics.

For those speaking at the rally, it was perfectly clear that they were opposing the government, that the government found it difficult to find an answer, that it was worried and even seemingly retreating. Accordingly, the people were emboldened and, as it were, thirsting for freedom. Such an episode is characteristic. A few years earlier, in 1951, when Stalin was still alive, proclamations were dropped several times in Tbilisi in cinemas during sessions. Whose business this was — "hired agents" of the USA, as was said almost officially later, or other instances preparing for mass repressions against Georgia (for the mass deportation on the night of December 25–26, which took place, and other, incomparably heavier measures, which did not take place) — a bell of fear reigned, people awaited a new, yet unknown kind of raid, which the unpredictable fantasy of the authorities (first of all — Stalin himself) would think up. Therefore, no one reached out for the proclamations dropped in the cinema either before the light was turned on or after, when Chekists with dogs were entering the hall and starting a search in the rows. What was written in those proclamations, no one found out. On March 7, 1956, however, from the step of a tram at the Kukia (Karl Marx) bridge, when the tram was turning at the 26 Commissars garden, some youth leaned out and with an open hand movement threw a pile of flyers into the crowd. The crowd greedily fell upon the flyers caught by the air... and snatched up the Ministry of Finance's appeals: "Keep your deposits in the savings bank."

Not everyone yielded to that optimistic illusion of impunity (and government passivity). The famous writer Levan Gotua, a man of about 60, who at that time had spent more years in imprisonment-exile than in freedom, was at that time newly returned from a concentration camp (as a result of Khrushchev's rehabilitations), where he was a participant and one of the leaders of a prisoners' revolt. He was, apparently, telling his acquaintances and friends at that time: "Whoever has contact with these boys, tell them to be careful. I know the nature of this government: they act like this when they intend to shoot." But no one turned out to be a cautioner, and even if they had, it is highly doubtful that this warning would have produced a result. What was happening demanded a finale. Consciously or unconsciously, everyone understood this (or almost everyone). And they also understood more or less that the only gain of this perspective-less protest could be nothing else than the shedding of blood and setting a seal on their protest with this blood.

Exceptions, possibly, were only those who were leading in this demonstration: those on the rostrum of Lenin Square and, especially, on the pedestal of the monument. These activists hoped that they would influence the official evaluation of Stalin with this protest, and, possibly, they even naively believed that the prestige of Stalin and Georgia was one and the same today. It is not excluded that those instances that wanted the movement to go exactly into the channel in which it indeed went, and not another channel, also contributed to the reinforcement of this belief. For that someone, in any case, it was at least desirable that the goal of the movement remained within the framework of Communist ideology and phraseology and did not go beyond a petitionary form.

I don't remember, on the morning of the 7th or 8th (I myself did not attend this event), a powerful demonstration came from the Student City (where, as we said, the center of the movement was) towards the monument. Factually, this was the entire population of the Student City. On University Street, by some chance, they were overtaken by the car of the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the KP of Georgia, Vasil Mzhavanadze, a semi-Russified general brought from Russia two years earlier, uncultured and of few words. The car tried to break through and overtake the demonstration. It was stopped, Mzhavanadze was taken out and forced, amidst the shouting of slogans "Long live Stalin," etc., to walk those five hundred or so meters that remained to the University (the demonstration stopped there for a short while before going towards the monument). The militia general, Minister of Internal Affairs Janjgava, who accompanied Mzhavanadze and shared his fate, was, as they said, tearing his flesh with spite and demanding to settle scores with the insolent ones, but Mzhavanadze forced him to silently get out of the car with him and walk with him in the demonstration. I emphasize: this fact became known then, and not later, when Janjgava became one of the participants in giving the order to shoot the demonstrators or was considered as such. Today he is in the ground, in the Pantheon of Public Figures.

On March 8, another fact occurred, which, along with the one just described, possibly determined the government's decision to carry out a mass shooting (though it is very doubtful that even without these two special events the fact of the mass manifestation itself would not have been sufficient for this decision). In Tbilisi at that time was the old military minister of co-religionist China, Zhu De, who was staying in Krtsanisi. The activists of the demonstrations decided to turn to him with a protest and a request for help in the matter of justifying and restoring Stalin's name. One part of the rally broke off and went towards Krtsanisi. Since it was far, they stopped the city buses and demanded to be taken to Krtsanisi. On Leselidze Street, the way was blocked for the demonstration by military cargo trucks placed across the street and by cadets of the Tbilisi Artillery School, Russians by nationality. The demonstrators took away their automatics and smashed them right there on the trucks. The cadets did not try to shoot, the demonstration arrived in Krtsanisi and reached Zhu De's residence. By what motive Zhu De avoided their request, I do not know exactly.

These two episodes became, possibly, the immediate cause for Moscow to take the decision on the evening of the eighth (as was believed among the people after the shooting) to carry out a mass shooting in Tbilisi. It was decided that from March 10 (if they couldn't calm the city on the ninth), Tbilisi would be bombed from the air district by district, starting from the Student City, for which medium-radius bomber aviation units in Azerbaijan and the Rostov region were ordered to be ready for combat flight, while Georgian military personnel were temporarily isolated from those units.

On Friday, March 9, I arrived at the monument at about 10 o'clock in the morning. Both at the monument and on Lenin Square, the rally was radio-fied since the 5th or 6th. I know how this radio-fication happened on the square. The protesters entered the Pioneers' Palace, brought out loudspeakers from the radio cabinet, and set them up on the square. How it was done at the monument and with whose equipment, I do not know. The government did not prevent the radio-fication. It is noteworthy that even at night, when no more than 1500–2000 souls remained at the monument, they did not try to tear down the radio network. On March 9, when Mzhavanadze was speaking, there was even such an impression as if the government had taken the radio service of the rally upon itself.

As I said, I arrived at the rally at 10 o'clock in the morning. There were so many people that it was difficult to get closer than the tram tracks at the monument. It took me about half an hour to reach the slope going down towards the monument square, from where the pedestal was visible. When I arrived, someone was speaking into the microphone with hesitation and in such Georgian that I first thought he was Armenian, more precisely — not a Tbilisian, but an Armenian who came to Tbilisi for seasonal work, who could master neither literary Georgian nor even conversational. Only when I saw the rostrum set up on the pedestal did I discover that this orator was Mzhavanadze (later, over the years, he learned Georgian again). His speech, which lasted about half an hour from the time of my arrival, did not have a particularly complex content. "Go home, children! Believe me, go home" — he was sincerely pleading and also expressed this thought (I no longer remember with what words): "Go, or else you don't know what will happen." The meaning of this tone of his (I say with emphasis: the perfectly noticeable meaning of the tone) was not entirely clear then (and no one gave a reaction to it), but later it became clear: Mzhavanadze knew that the shooting was already decided for the ninth, and he also knew, it is possible, that the relevant forces were aimed not at dispersing the rally, but on the contrary, on provocation and intensification (Mzhavanadze himself was probably allowed to speak only for that reason), but he did not dare to say, "they will shoot you," because his chair would be sacrificed to this and, probably, his head. Whether this statement would have worked, I cannot say (I think rather that it wouldn't have), but that nothing else but this would have worked must have been certain for Mzhavanadze and, probably, was.

After Mzhavanadze's speech, the government did not address the people anymore. At the rally, to which an official tone was given by the speech of the Secretary of the Central Committee, film operators were now walking around (I knew one of them, Shaliko Shioshvili, by face. Two years earlier he accompanied us to a summer ski camp at the Kazbegi meteorological station). The operators were also climbing the rostrum and filming the mass from all sides and in all sections. It was believed that they were preparing material depicting this magnificent story — the rally held for Stalin's memory — for the newsreel. I emphasize that I do not conclude from this at all that for obtaining pictures of every speaker and the film depicting his speech, which was later presented to them during the investigation, the search organs used the work of these film operators. On the contrary, I remember (I don't know from whom) it being said that another filming was happening from somewhere, from a place invisible to the protesters. It is believed that the so-called mass suggestion, mass hypnosis, mutual following and mutual fooling of people sometimes take on strange forms. Somewhere in the corner of its heart, the hundred-thousand-strong rally indeed believed that it was recognized by the authorities and the latter had retreated to such an extent that they even intended to demonstrate it in the newsreel.

The rally continued. Many were speaking — some dully, uninterestingly, and "reactionary," and some with talent and vividly. The former were guided by that lackluster and simple scheme, according to which only one word, "greatness," should have been the determinant of Stalin's identity and essence, while the name, prestige, and glory of Georgia were the same as Stalin's. In such speeches, the record for lack of taste and mediocrity was the speech of the Gori Theater, at about 3 o'clock in the day, when they presented a scene of Stalin and Lenin's meeting from the play "The Spark" and some spectators demanded the actors to embrace each other. Justice requires it to be said that this scene did not have success in the main part of the mass, perhaps also because at this time the atmosphere of the rally was already strongly heated and this servile-submissive scene no longer corresponded to its mood. Some orators were speaking truly well — vividly, boldly, sharply, and even movingly. The latter were two or three times more than the former and as time passed, this proportion grew larger and larger. One orator stayed in my memory. He was young, older than student age, in a brown coat, slightly taller than average, with curly hair, "stout" and black-haired. He took a small paper from his pocket — a pre-prepared plan of the speech, and several times looked into it during the fifteen-minute speech. He spoke neither about Stalin's merit before the Soviet state nor about his merit in the matter of victory over Germany. He spoke about political greatness as such, about a man's talent, willpower, and courage, which are needed to obtain such a great success. Reaching out to those who scold him and mock him today (reaching out only by allusion, without specifically mentioning cursing and Khrushchev's name), he used such a metaphor: "Whoever denies political greatness as such, and the role of a person's distinguished qualities in it, he is not an eagle, but a sparrow flown into the eagle's tail, which has followed the eagle to the height it reaches and then pours mud on the one who raised him." The greatest ovation went to this young man's speech, at about two o'clock in the day.

Two more episodes stayed in my memory — one only curious and the second not at all insignificant. After the speech of the Gori Theater or at that very time (I cannot say exactly), a dove flew down and sat on the monument's bare head. The ecstatic mass, lightened by this ecstasy, greeted this event with a cheer. Following the flying dove with their eyes, they noticed a slowly crawling fighter plane high in the sky (no one had paid attention to its sound before). Here and there sober people appeared, who saw symbolism precisely in this usual attribute of the city landscape, and not in the dove. "People, are they going to bomb us?" was noted here and there with irony.

The second episode was not at all harmless. I said above that the decision to shoot the demonstration, as became known later, had been taken on the evening of March 8, and on March 9, the course was already taken towards sharpening and deepening the situation. At one o'clock or half past one, a chestnut-colored, smooth-haired, long-nosed, tall man of about thirty (or a bit more) climbed the pedestal of the monument. He spoke Georgian (obviously), but seemed to find it a bit difficult. He seemed to hesitate, seemed not to have a completely correct accent, leaving some unnatural pauses (very short ones) between word and word, syllable and syllable. He was not looking for words, he was speaking, and at this pace of speech, finding words, even for one who knows Georgian poorly, should not have been difficult. He had a sharp voice, an energetic and seemingly emphasized intonation. In short, his diction was suitable for such a wide rally. He wore a blue gabardine coat ("plashch") with many pockets (common at that time). His right hand, in accordance with the manner accepted at Communist rallies, he sometimes pointed towards one side, sometimes towards the other, independently of the content of what was said, as Lenin was played on the screen and parodied in everyday life. He began his speech like this: "Comrades, I have just come from Leningrad and the same thing is happening there. News came from Yerevan. The same is happening there too." In short, from this man's speech, it followed that the entire Soviet Union had risen to protect Stalin's memory and the government was almost facing a choice: to yield or to resign. The rally, which had lost its ability for criticism, did not approach this news with doubt either, and, of course, this information also acted in the direction of inflaming passions. This should not be understood as some irony on my part towards this rally. I remember personally my reaction to hearing this speech. Contrary to all logic, all that I had heard, seen, or knew from other sources about this world before, the feeling of the impossibility of this story did not arise in me. Mass suggestion (subordination, inspiration), I repeat, apparently can do much, and here not logic, but the "degree" of mass mood determines belief or disbelief.

I will precede the narrative and say: that night, already after the final shooting, at about half past four or quarter to four, I was also arrested. Just like everyone else who was in the street at that time, I was released after a week, on Friday, March 16, at about seven o'clock in the evening or a bit later, just like the majority of prisoners, namely, those who had not spoken from the rostrum. Of those who spoke from the rostrum, not one was released earlier than four months. But on the second or third day after my release, I suddenly heard the familiar sharp, emphasized intonations and familiar unusual pauses between words and syllables on Rustaveli Avenue. Right there in front of me, walking from Lagidze Waters towards Lenin Square, crossing Tsulukidze Street, was that blue-coated orator, in the same coat, without a hat, together with someone else, and talking with a slow wave of his hand. Clearly, this man was a provocateur, sent to inflame the rally's passion during the preparation stage for the shooting. Otherwise, it would have been absolutely impossible for this man, as one who had spoken an inciting speech from the rostrum, not to be arrested (if they saw him), to be released if arrested, and if they didn't see him, to walk himself on Rustaveli Prospect in the same coat in which he appeared at the monument. The question is only, what was the purpose of this demonstration of his personality a few days after the shooting? Was this trick intended only to show that the rally's orators deserve no trust at all?

About 18–20 years later, I caught sight of that man again and recognized him. He was standing in front of the Central Committee building on Chitadze Street together with two other men. I had no means of establishing his identity. Whether he was Georgian or a Georgian-learned non-Georgian agent (such exist, obviously), I do not know either, rather, I think, he must have been a hybrid.