The apartment of the terrorists. One night.
The curtain rises in silence. Dora and Kaliayev are on the stage, motionless. Seated around a table, they are holding their hands, illuminated by candle.
I still see them. Every night…
They were here, all together. All the workers of St. Petersburg.
Kaliayev, din a immed state
United within the sorrow, of miserableness, equipped with the simplicity of goodness, deprived of everything.
Dora, look at no direction
With their wives and children near them, with Pope-Capone as a guide, holding banners, pictures and portraits of the imperial family.
Combining the incompatible, creating the incomprehensible; as our nation have always done.
They presented themselves at the Winter Palace in order to hand over a request to the “father tsar” …
Kaliayev, continuing the phrase and changing the tone of voice
… with childhood innocence . Time. Then the soldiers of death put out this flame of humanity.
Dora, emotionally moved
They killed hundreds of those poor souls.
What can we do?
To suffer with them.
But what could compassion do in front of crime?
We were unarmed, helpless in front of fate.
I would like to cover this wounded snow with my body.
Dora, hiding her eyes
My God, all this blood!
A red sun fallen upon the soil.
But what coyld we do?
To die for them!