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The final version of the poem, written is November 1933, which led to his arrest in May 1934 is as follows
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Mandelstam thrown into a common grave.

Pushkin buried in great secret during a night filled with snow. Frost crunched under the steps of his pallbearers.
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The same day, Nadezhda's package to Mandelstam is sent back with the note 'Return to sender. Recipient deceased.'

It was 27 December 1938.
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What could a single man do against the all- powerful dictator?
His well-aligned words didn't constitute an army.
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Only the arm that is raised during the distribution of bread is alive.

The cold, hunger, pain, no longer have a hold on him.

An emaciated body.

Hallucinations replace the absent flesh.
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He never shaved again. The beard that grew year after year made him look like a hermit, a prophet
Father Christmas,' a child shouted when he passed him on the street
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The papers confiscated during a search of their room are in Nadezhda's writing:

Sugar, tea flour, salt, soap, screwdriver, kill the rats...ink.'

The word ink' was suspicious. W hy ink for some-one who didn't write any more?
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Born a Jew, having become a Christian out of rebellion against the established order, Mandelstam went from chaos to chaos.
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I could not feel your image
in the fog, your shaky, painful image. Lord!`--I said by mistake.

And like a huge bird
God's name flew out of my breast.
A thick fog swirls in front of me,
and behind me there's an empty cage.
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A stone having rolled down from the mountain
lay in the valley,
torn loose of its own accord
or thrown down by a sentient hand . . .
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They no longer knew what to do with me. My worn-out shoes, my patriarch's beard, my worn-out cane weighed on their conscience.' He had fewer and fewer friends.
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Potential witnesses, members of a deportee's family were often killed. Denouncing one's father or mother was the only way to stay alive.
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His poems kept by his secret readers surged out of their hiding places.
The sound of the paper resembled applause.
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To eat: the final thought of the Soviet citizen tied to the execution pole, thinks the poet under his blanket who refuses to eat. and without hesitation allows him- self to perish.
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The Vladivostok transit camp, a passage to madness.
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All her horizons blocked, without the slightest ray of hope for the future, the great poetess preferred to leave the stage with a kick of the chair upon which she had climbed.
A kick to the world that had abandoned her.
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Tsvetaeva loved Pasternak who didn't love her back.

Tsvetaeva rejected Mandelstam who loved her.
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Distance: how many miles of it
lie between us now- disconnected- crucified_then dissected.
and they don't know--it unites us.

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Her poem dedicated to Pasternak goes back to 1925
Distance: versts, miles . . . divide us; they've dispersed us,
to make us behave quietly

at our different ends of the earth.
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That was when Tsvetaeva, back from France where she had been living in poverty, began to dig frozen earth looking for anything to feed her son, Mur, who mistreated her. Beat her.
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Nadezhda accused the food: Mandelstam lacked iron and she made him drink concoctions of rusty nails dissolved in wine.
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Only Party poets who ate from the hand of the regime published their works at that time.
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Searches, arrests, xecutions brought 700,000 deaths in one year. The famine organized by Stalin would kill just as many.

... this hard-living people-
giving birth, sleeping,
screaming, nailed to the earth.
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Arrests always took place at 6 p.m.
A time Mandelstam dreaded.
He became febrile. suffocated.
All footsteps caused him to panic.
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Learning of the suicide attempt, Pasternak intervenes with Stalin so the poet will be pardoned.
Stalin calls Pasternak to reassure him.

Mandelstam remains an undesirable in Moscow. And Pasternak did what he could.
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The photos of Stalin on the walls in Voronezh give Mandelstam goosebumps.

His moustache, his lips painted blood red. Those of a predator.

An fractured city. Blaring music.
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Voronezh: An enchanting landscape four months out of twelve sleet, slush. mud

Hunger the rest of the year. Voronezh glorified cruelty.
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'Mandelstam is lucky to be exiled, he deserves to be shot.' said Madame Pasternak who never tolerated her husband's empathy for the poet.
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Five metres from the door to the window, and back from the window to the door, one hundred times, a thousand times as if his feet were tied to a giant reel in hell.
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