Helplessness rubs along the surface. Dark foreboding. The snow alone makes the monument look fresh, perhaps even friendly for a moment. It cannot erase the water under the bridge. Time has left its furrows on petrified skin, trickles still over the raised fist and Soviet star in the flag’s corner. Scars and cracks. Wounds that burrow into the forehead, into the stone-grey hair of the black patinated bronze, into the eyes, ears and skullcap of history. Quiet hope – nipped in the bud. Preserved past we cannot easily escape. Let us take the monument as a warning. Against the die-hards.