Lamentation over the executioner. We spoke to Russians who were crying for Prigozhin

In front of the Wagnerian headquarters in St. Petersburg, a crowd of candles burns. The flowers the Russians bring here make a colorful carpet. Drinking alcohol in a public place is strictly prohibited in Russia, but the police officers patrolling the place sit in a police car and overlook the bottles they open.

Suddenly, an elderly woman approaches a group remembering Yevgeny Prigogine. She carries two carnations. A few sober men run up to the woman and almost carry her on a carpet of flowers. The woman leans forward, clears her throat, adds flowers to the others, and says to the men who helped her through the crowd: “Thank you, sons, God bless you.” A good man died, a righteous man.

“Would you like to make him a snack, mother?” Someone is listening carefully.

“A drop.” I rarely drink,” replied the woman, holding out a glass.

“I’ll be 94 next week.” The woman picks up a glass of vodka and takes a sip. “Relax,” he says, grilling Prigozhin, adding, “It’s a pity he didn’t come to Moscow and tell Putin the truth.

“So you think Putin killed him?” Another person in the crowd gives the woman alcohol at this point.

“No,” the old woman shook her head. “Putin is good. I voted for him. But everyone around him is lying. And he hears them. Had he not listened, the war would not have happened. Prigozhin could have stopped them, but they did not listen to him. Too bad he didn’t come to Moscow. Now there is no one to count on.

Under the flowery mountain, someone fell to his knees again. The men’s cries were heard again.

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