love u jon

They said the snow never melted at Krasnobor Gulag. I arrived in winter—cold, starved, sentenced for a joke. Commander Roosev ran Zone 9. Quiet man. No threats, no beatings—just a wooden spoon in his hand like a scepter.

On my third night, they gave us goulash. I expected sludge. Instead, I tasted fire and velvet—paprika, tender beef, something like memory. It was the best food I’d had in my life. Roosev stood by the door, watching. He didn’t smile, but there was something proud in his stillness.

Every Tuesday, the goulash returned. A ritual of warmth in a frozen hell. Rumors spread: he’d been a Viennese chef, smuggled herbs, grew garlic under his bed.

When I was pardoned, Roosev met me at the gate. He handed me a small tin.

“One for the road soldier” he said.

Inside: goulash. Still warm.

They demolished the gulag years later, but some say when the wind cuts through the pines, you can still smell paprika.

Comrade Roosev

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣤⣀⣀⣀⠀⠻⣷⣄
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⣿⣿⣿⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⣦⡀
⠀⠀⢀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢹⣿⣧
⠀⠀⠙⢿⣿⡿⠋⠻⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⡆
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⢸⣿⣿⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣄⡀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣿⣿⣶⣿⣿⣿⠁
⠀⠀⠀⣠⣿⣿⢿⣿⣶⣶⣶⣶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⡁
⢠⣶⣿⣿⠋⠀⠀⠉⠛⠿⠿⠿⠿⠿⠛⠻⣿⣿⣦⡀
⣿⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣿⡿

⢀⣿⣷⣯⣭⡷⠄⠄⢀⣀⠩⠍⢉⣛⣛⠫⢏⣈⣭⣥⣶⣶⣦⣭⣛⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄ ⢀⣿⣿⣿⡿⠃⢀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣎⢩⠌⣡⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⠄⠄⠄ ⢸⡿⢟⣽⠎⣰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⠄⠄ ⣰⠯⣾⢅⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⠄ ⢰⣄⡉⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠄ ⢯⣌⢹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠄ ⢸⣇⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠄ ⢸⣟⣧⡻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⡻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠄ ⠈⢹⡧⣿⣸⠿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠗⣈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠄ ⠄⠘⢷⡳⣾⣷⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣾⣿⣿⢀⣶⣶⣶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠇⠄ ⠄⠄⠈⣵⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠄

-rep gulagboy