"You're right," I said, "but I'm going to tease Seryozha all the same, because he's disgusting!"

This phrase infuriated my father. He jumped up and slapped me out of the office.

"So I shouldn't have said anything?" Father cried. "I won't love you, you wicked girl!"

I didn't cry, but my father's last words touched my heart. For half an hour I wandered thoughtfully, then came to my father, threw myself on his neck with tears and, kissing him, whispered:

"Daddy, love me!" I am not evil, but who will love me? Mom loves only Seryozha, and only you love me!

My father hugged me and apologized for being too excited. He always asked forgiveness, even from us children, if he happened to be irritated. My mother stopped my father, explaining that it was not pedagogical to apologize to a child, that we would take his example of meekness and humility for a weakness of character. Dad never punished us, and mom said: "Children make ropes out of you!" But my father answered: "Where love works, there is no need for strictness."

We loved my father very much. He went for walks with us, guided our childhood games, read aloud to us, explained pictures from the Bible, took us to church. At the age of four or five, we still did not understand the divine services, it was difficult to stand. But we stood patiently, trying to please my father. Boys often asked him: "Will you be home soon?" I asked less often than others, deserved my dad's praise, and he often took me alone with him. I was not bored in the church. I immersed myself in my thoughts with pleasure, remembered fairy tales, composed sequels to them. I was mentally transported to the wilds of forests, seas and mountains, which I had not even seen in reality. No one prevented me from dreaming in church, and sometimes I regretted that it was time to leave. Therefore, I always asked to accompany my father, and he did not refuse me. To be with my father for several hours was happiness for me, and I was not afraid of the crowding of the church, or the tram crowd, or the cold of a winter evening. In those years (30-32), the pope still traveled to churches, choosing one or the other, depending on where which priest serves. Weekends then did not coincide with Sundays, there was either a "five-day week", or a "six-day week". In this way, the atheistic authorities tried to erase the very concept of the Resurrection from the consciousness of the people.

I clearly remember the cold spring morning. The sun was still weakly warming, and the huge stones of some large temple gave off their winter cold and made me toiling and shivering. The church was empty. Somewhere in the distance, endless reading sounded faintly. Dad went somewhere ahead, and I sat alone for a long time near two or three strange old women. They sent me outside to bask in the sun. I went out, inhaled the pure aroma of spring with pleasure, but the cold wind pierced through me. I remember how my father came out to me, covered me with his clothes, tried to warm me up and asked me to be patient until the end of the mass. I did not protest, my soul was so bright and joyful that I remembered this day for the rest of my life.

In the following years, when we were schoolchildren, that is, before the war, my father no longer went to any church. His favorite churches were closed one after another, and the Pope called the remaining ones "Living Church" and did not go to them. At home, the icons were also hidden in a closet, fenced off with curtains. But my father prayed for a long time, both in the morning and in the evening. Mom forbade us to disturb my father, she said that he was resting or studying. Then we began to peep through the keyhole. If there was light in the room, we would quietly enter and often find Dad on his knees with a prayer book in his hands. Mom asked my father to lock the key, but he categorically refused, saying that children should always have access to it.

"Only he who does nothing is not mistaken," says the proverb. Therefore, in our upbringing, our parents made mistakes. I am writing about this to warn other parents and so that readers know that the "Dissertation" [Pestov N.E. Modern Practice of Orthodox Piety. - St. Petersburg: "Satis", 1994-1996] by Nikolai Evgrafovich Pestov is not the fruit of reflection, but really a life experience.

Dad spoiled us a lot. In the evenings, we looked forward to his return from work, because he gave us something every day, which my mother was very indignant about. Kolya's dad gave new postage stamps, me - an art postcard, Seryozha - a plywood animal.

For some reason, toy animals soon became Seryozha's property. He arranged them neatly on his shelf, he did not yet know how to count them, but he put them so close to each other that he immediately noticed if any toy was missing. "Empty space!" - he shouted, nervous and cried, because Kolya and I sometimes stole animals from him and forgot to return them to their place. Seryozha was capricious and very sickly, he suffered from a lack of appetite. When we were given sweets, Kolya and I immediately ate our share, and Seryozha hid his. He had his own wooden box, which we called "chest-locker".

Seryozha carefully pasted his "chest" with candy wrappers, colorful pictures and took it with him in the summer even to the dacha. The presence of this "chest" was the source of evil and sin, which early overwhelmed our weak children's souls. The "chest" was not locked, stood on the floor and was always filled with both fresh and dried, already two- or three-month-old sweets. Kolya and I, of course, sometimes wanted to eat, but we knew that it was forbidden to steal, and it was useless to ask Seryozha: he was greedy and only occasionally gave us small particles of sweets from the "chest". His mother praised him for this: "He is a good boy - he gives you his own!"

The presence of a "chest-locker" developed Seryozha's pride and greed, and Kolya and I, on the one hand, honesty (how else did we not steal?), and on the other hand, envy, condemnation and anger at our brother. "Miser, greedy!" - we teased Seryozha. "And you are gluttons, envious eyes!" - he answered us. These bickering turned into fights. But soon (I was then four years old) my parents entrusted our upbringing to strict, but fair governesses, and they themselves went to work. This had a beneficial effect; We became calmer, because the teachers did not single out any of us, but treated all three of us kindly and attentively. One of them was with us for a year, the other for more than three years, and we loved these women very much. They spoke German with us, and by the time I was eight years old, like my brothers, I was fluent in this language.