The search, the arrest, the inner prison in the Lubyanka, the days spent in the cell, the interrogations, Butyrki and the investigator interrogating me, appear clearly in the night's memories. Do not be surprised that I write the word "Investigator" with a capital letter.

A search of the room, thorough, long, rude. Books, papers, photographs were thrown out of the cupboards on the floor, things were shaken up and crumpled, the frightened faces of my mother, sister, father, a protocol was drawn up indicating the confiscated: the Gospel, letters (papers were indicated) of religious content. My letters, written to my mother since childhood, were called religious papers. I refused to sign the protocol, Witnesses signed the janitor Khabardinov and an old neighbor shaking with fear.

Painful farewell to relatives, heart-rending tears on their faces, rude shouts of the guards: Hurry, don't worry, don't pass on anything! Quickly! Let's go! Mom makes the sign of the cross and cries, I cried too, but I tried to restrain myself. You leave, perhaps forever, alive, but already buried alive, full of fear of the interrogations, prison, and camp that await you. It's still snowing and cold outside, it's dark (four o'clock in the morning), it's an internal prison on the Lubyanka, a man is conducting a humiliating search, although there are women from the guards dressed in uniform sitting in the waiting room. Stupid, indifferent faces, looking at you as if you were a thing, not understanding that you are a human being. I try to object, I ask a woman to search me. They answer that the women's guards are busy. They take away the laces, combs, ribbons and even force you to take off your bra, because there are also ribbons there. We walk through long winding corridors, bright, dazzling light everywhere. Stingy and meaningful instructions about behavior in the cell, you can only hear: forbidden, forbidden, forbidden. The door to the cell opens silently, and there is already someone in it. The door has closed, and I'm standing bewildered beside the empty bunk. A cellmate begins to greedily ask what is happening now in Moscow. A day, two, three passes; They don't call you for interrogation, the peephole in the door is scary for some reason, it seems that you are constantly being watched. I know I'm guaranteed a camp or exile, but most of all I'm afraid of interrogations.

In the year in which I was taken, I was usually sentenced to five years in a labor camp or exile, in other years the measure of restraint could be longer. Most of all, the interrogation was frightening, it was terrible because of the unknown, the unexpectedness of questions aimed at slander, loved ones, mockery, humiliation of human and female dignity, physical pain. The most terrible thing is if physical pain and humiliation break me, force me to slander and betray my family, friends, and spiritual father. Perhaps they will force me to confess that I am a member of some religious organization fighting against the authorities.

I turned all my strength to prayer, almost incessantly appealing to the Mother of God, begging Her to strengthen and support me, I spoke little to my cellmate, she was offended, but I prayed and prayed. Ten days have passed, we count the days by the lunches we bring, there are no windows in the cell, but the bright light is constantly on. Sometimes a terrifying cry is heard from the corridor: It hurts! Don't hit me, I'll tell you everything, you can hear someone being dragged away, and silence again. Perhaps they are being led for interrogation, or maybe it is just a frightening provocation. On the tenth day, they were summoned for interrogation, and they led me for a long time through corridors turning left and right. Doors, doors, doors, doors, one of them was knocked on by the guard, there was a dull sound: "Come in." Entered; Without raising his head, an elderly man was sitting at the table, the guard reported, the investigator continued to leaf through the folders lying on the table, and seemed to have forgotten about us.

Folders with files kept flipping through and flipping through, and I stood and prayed to the Mother of God.

The investigator finally raised his head, looked at the guard and me in surprise, saying: Why didn't you report that you had brought the arrested woman? I reported to you, but you didn't answer. The escort left, the investigator said: "Sit down," and again he continued to look through the files, probably more than half an hour passed, I prayed, and at the same time a thought flashed through my mind: this is a new frightening method of interrogation. After reading one of the cases, he raised his head, looked at me and began: last name, first name, patronymic, year of birth? I answered, rummaged through the folders and took out my file, a thin folder, and began to look through the documents sewn into it.

"Not greasy, not greasy," said the investigator, looking at me attentively. Do you have a mother, a father? Answered: Yes. The investigator's face was tired, his eyes were inflamed, apparently he had been systematically deprived of sleep.

What am I going to do with you? Twenty-four years old, my eldest daughter was, you went to church, prayed, and when it was closed, you began to pray in groups, and sometimes priests serve Mass at home, since two of them are still hiding somewhere. Your group of eight people looked in the folder and called out the names and surnames. They almost always gathered at Shvyreva's, less often at Slonimskaya's, do you confirm? I was silent. "Listen, Iya," said the investigator, "admit it or not, your sentence is guaranteed. I prayed, perhaps my lips were moving, or my inner experience was reflected on my face, but the investigator's face became soft, benevolent, and as if lit up. The new method of investigation, I thought, speaks softly, and then it will beat. But the investigator was still looking at me thoughtfully. I continued to pray.

The investigator stood up, came up to me and said with a hint of sadness: "You're praying! All of you pray during interrogations, I know. Well! Say, "Do you pray, and of course you are afraid of me?"

And I said, "I pray and I'm afraid of you." Suddenly, I felt that his hand gently stroked my head. What is this? I thought, and I shrunk, expecting a blow, a slap in the face, but an amazing thing happened, taking my face with his hands, looking intently into my eyes, said: Don't be afraid, not all investigators beat, and went to the table.

It's up to you, Iya, rubbish! You have been assigned eight years in the camp in advance, look, the head of the department wrote: A measure of restraint for all those arrested for eight years in the camp for religious anti-Soviet activities, and I saw a sheet of paper with the text pinned with a paper clip, which the investigator read: Forget about what I told you and showed you," I nodded my head. What are we going to do? Think with whom you are fighting against the OGPU; You are dilettantes, you want to hide, to conceal, you create fake conspiracy, you are lone handicraftsmen, and you are opposed by a huge apparatus, well-coordinated, technically armed, with unlimited human reserves, our people work in your midst, believers at the same time, but with the soul of frightened hares. We really know everything, or almost everything. Eh! Ahh Ahh You are children, and we have a tough, assembled device.

You think I want to deceive, to get a confession and bring you to the camp, and you will think about it in the cell. Why am I telling you? I feel sorry for you, still a girl, you look like your daughter Zinaida, who died. Let's figure out what I'm going to do with you. There's no need to go to the camp, you'll be lost, you'll be muzzled, you'll be raped, you'll be lost. The investigator pondered, I prayed to the Mother of God, asking her to avert his intrigues from me, I did not believe a single word he said. I thought it was a simple trick during the interrogation, but I didn't understand what he wanted.

Here's what I'm going to do: I'll split your case from the general note of my superiors and let you go on a separate case, without a group, that's three years of deportation, my dear, and not a camp with criminals and work in rafting timber. I look at you and see you don't believe it, and I wouldn't believe it if I were you. Conversations are conversations, but the interrogation protocol must be written. Sit and pray, and I'll write.