In 1941, when we returned to school on September 1, we were told that the school was being taken as a hospital and that we would no longer study. Everyone was somehow confused, no one knew what awaited everyone ahead. The enemy was advancing quickly, institutions were evacuated, most of the children had already left Moscow with their parents. But we were fourteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old, and we did not consider ourselves children. Many of our peers went to work, we were enrolled in the self-defense headquarters, instructed to be on duty at night in the attic of our house and alternately in the office of the house management. It was like a new game for us. My brothers climbed on the roof during the shooting, collected pieces of shells, which fell noisily on the iron. The guys brought home these fragments in their hats, boastfully calling them "our trophies". Mom begged the boys to keep a low profile, but we, the children, had no fear of death. In the evening, after reading another akathist to the saint, we went to bed in fur coats, without undressing, so that we could quickly jump out of the house if it began to collapse from the bomb. Day and night "alarms" buzzed three or four times a day, but we did not react to them. It was funny to us when we saw our neighbors running with knots to the bomb shelter, only to return back in half an hour, and then run again in panic. We firmly believed that by entrusting our lives today to St. Nicholas, or St. Seraphim, or St. Sergius, we could be calm and sleep soundly.

Kolya was waiting for conscription into the army, and Seryozha and I began to study externally, which allowed us to have a working food card. With this card, we received a hundred grams more bread every day than dependent children. The university teachers who did not leave drew up external programs so that a student could go through two grades of school in a year: the 7th and 8th, like my brother Sergei, or the 9th and 10th, as I was supposed to do. But the buildings were not heated in winter, the children were hungry, sick, missed classes and many dropped out after a month or two. New students were recruited, the program was started from the beginning, but everything was repeated, since the "turnover" did not stop. As a result, by spring, we had barely finished the 9th grade program. Weak, exhausted from hunger, we fearfully awaited the upcoming exams. It was difficult to study, until late in the evening we ran around Moscow, going to every store to buy a card, otherwise by the 30th the products marked on the card were gone. And if you managed to find a store where they gave something, then you had to stand in line for hours in the cold. But we were happy if, having heroically stood in line, we brought home a bottle of vegetable oil or a bag of cereals, etc. It was necessary to get bread early in order to be in time for classes later, and white bread was only available in the morning, and during the rest of the day they gave only black bread, in which a lot of potatoes were mixed. And yet, we endured the hardships of wartime with enthusiasm, with joy, with pride that God sent us these trials, gave us the opportunity to share the sufferings of our people. And we did not suffer yet, we were young and cheerful.

The war reflected on the faces of parents with concern. In the first autumn months of the war, when the institutions were evacuated, there were few people left in the capital and everyone was looking for something to do. Mom got a job in the cooperative to weave "string bags" (bags), but the norm to get a "working" card was high, and we all had to help her. Dad also mastered weaving and in the evenings he worked hard as a shuttle.

At the end of 1942, when winter came, the commandant of our house No. 20 ordered the following: all the remaining tenants (from the twelve buildings) were to temporarily move to building No. 1. It was pointless to heat the empty buildings, the inhabitants of which were almost all evacuated. But even in building No. 1 (the largest, eight-storey), almost all the apartments were empty. They appointed a commission, began to remove the locks, make an inventory of the remaining valuable property of the owners who had left, and began to settle other tenants in empty apartments. We suffered the same fate. They gave us two adjacent rooms in a shared apartment. In the third room lay a paralyzed woman. My mother began to energetically transfer to the third floor of building No. 1 those things that we needed for the winter. We quickly moved in and were satisfied, as we got into a warm apartment, and in our old one it was already freezing.

Just before Easter, my mother received a telegram from Uglich. Grandfather was sick, he called his daughter to say goodbye. Mom quickly got ready for the road. She brought with her tobacco, vodka, that is, those products that we received on ration cards, but did not consume, and they could be easily exchanged in the provinces for potatoes, cottage cheese, etc. She asked us to pray fervently, since the road was difficult, the front was close to Uglich. We promised to pray and, indeed, persistently demanded help from St. Nicholas, an assistant in labors and roads.

We celebrated this Easter without my mother. It was the last Easter when Kolya was at home. On that holy night, it was allowed to walk in the streets, and during the war it was forbidden. Kolya went alone to matins, my father and I got ready for mass. Kolya returned home all wet, sweaty, with someone else's shawl on his shoulders. He said that the church was so crowded that the crowd swayed like one person, now to the right, then to the left. At the end of the service, when they began to go out, Kolya was carried out into the street, and on his shoulders was someone's shawl. My brother was very tired and lay down to rest. We were all very sad that day without mommy. But there was something to break my fast with: before the Feast, God helped me get butter on ration cards. We hid it during Holy Week, and on the Bright Day we thanked the Lord for the oil. In that hungry year, this was a rarity.

But then my mother arrived, brought cottage cheese, eggs, bread, potatoes, etc. There was no end to the joy, especially for me: I was relieved of the worry of what to feed my family.

From my mother's stories, I understood that, indeed, she traveled miraculously, with the miraculous help of St. Nicholas. My mother got from Moscow only to Kalyazin, passenger trains did not go further, because it was already close to the front line there. My mother still had about twenty kilometers to go to Uglich. What should I do? But the Lord helped: my mother prayed and asked to spend the night in some hut. Mother told the hostess about her trouble, that she did not know how to get to Uglich. "You have not been brought to me by God," the woman answered. - My husband works on a steam locomotive. Tonight the military personnel will go to the front, they will pass by Uglich. If you want, your husband will hide you in a coal box, and drop you off near Uglich." Mother, of course, agreed, gave the kind hostess something and began to wait for the night.

The fireman took his mother to the locomotive, hid her among the blocks of coal, and said that he would agree with the driver on where it would be more convenient to drop her off.

"Please, stop the train for a second." Mom said. "I'm carrying a load, I can't jump on the move.

- How can you stop the military personnel for no reason? The fireman answered.

We began to drive up to Uglich. The train went quieter and quieter.

"They're changing the clocks here," said the stoker, "that's why we're slowing down." And you, as soon as you jump off, walk along the path and do not look back, do not give the impression that you have stepped off the locomotive.

"Stop me for a second, I can't jump with the load, high!" - my mother begged.