It was as if I had found the key to a room where I could now be with my Savior. Without a church in the village, I yearned for Him, I could not find the words to talk to the Lord, I did not know what to say to Him. And here the familiar events of the Gospel rose before my mind's eye, and their images were accompanied by an appeal to Christ. I kissed a tiny, tattered book, pressed it to my heart. Through her, I found communion with God, I became happy.

When my father arrived, I said to him:

"Daddy!" I found your book, I liked it so much that it's a pity to part with it.

A joyful smile lit up his father's face.

"I am very glad that you want to have her, she is yours now," my father said, kissing me.

"And what about you?" I asked.

"I've got another one like her...

I was surprised, since a prayer book was a rarity in those years. Twenty years have passed since then, but Pavla Fyodorovna, who came to us in Grebnevo, revived the memories of the pre-war years. Her voice, a soprano singing prayers under the birch trees, entered my heart forever. I loved her, quiet, affectionate, gentle, I loved her son, who looked like a mother. In Moscow, we continued to meet, their family came to pray in our secret church (in my father's office). And twenty years later, in Grebnevo, Pavla Fyodorovna confessed to me that she had made plans for my happiness with her Seryozha. Then, as carefully as I could, I made it clear to Pavla Fyodorovna that we, children, had never even thought such thoughts. First of all, Seryozha was three years younger than me, I always had leniency towards him, as if I were a younger brother. But it is common for a girl to look for support in life, moral strength, and strong convictions in the person of her future husband. This was what won me over in my Volodya. And his desire to give his life to serve the Church, to God, was what united us forever. In the tall and gentle Sergey Khvatov there was not a shadow of the determination and grace-filled burning that I found in the heart of my future husband. Seryozha did not follow the spiritual line, although he remained deeply religious, and his father Ivan even served as a deacon after the war. Now, twenty years later, I hugged and kissed dear Pavla Feodorovna, thanking her for helping me with the housework, taking care of Fedenka, saying goodbye to her and asking her not to forget me in her holy prayers. And, apparently, the prayer of this righteous woman was a drop that overflowed the cup of God's mercy. It was poured out on us by the fact that the Lord sent a man to help us.

Natalia Ivanovna

The person who came to the aid of our large family was small, skinny Natalia Ivanovna - a disabled person of the 1st group. After a hip fracture, one of Natalia Ivanovna's legs was shorter than the other, so she walked with a stick, with difficulty rolling her whole body from side to side. Father Vladimir often brought us woolen socks, mittens, etc. Father used to say: "Pray for the sick Anastasia [5], she is the one who binds you. And when you see her, thank her!" But I visited my husband with the children once or twice a year, where could we thank someone. When we left, we were always surrounded by a dense crowd of women, they looked at us as if they had never seen us, asked how old they were, what their names were, thrust gifts into our hands, kissed us... We hurried to hide in our car, which was taking us away, often without my father. Father always had other things to do, and he did not like our visits very much. And the children did not like to be in Losinka, although boys were allowed to wear sticharions and serve there, which was already forbidden under Khrushchev. The guys said: "As soon as you get up at your dad's, stand for the entire service, without moving from your place." Yes, my father was strict. But I was afraid that strictness would push children's hearts away from the church. I have heard the opinions of some children: "The church is a place where children suffer by standing for hours." God forbid, let not such a concept be formed among the children of believing parents. And then the priest Orlov said to my priest: "Mine are already twelve and fourteen years old, no one can lure them to church." To prevent this from happening, I never forced children to stand in the Grebnevsky church under duress. As soon as I notice that the child begins to spin, sigh, beggingly ask if the end is soon, I immediately let the child go outside: "Tired? Go run, sit on a bench, and if you get bored, come back." The older ones had to be sent outside to look after the kids. But in the church fence I demanded behavior appropriate to the place: not to shout, not to run around on a bicycle, not to start noisy games, not to hang on fences, on benches, not to roll in the snow or on the grass, etc. I told the children: "Rest, but walk as before the Lord God, so that you will not be ashamed to return to church again." And the children returned to me twenty minutes later, whispering questions:

"What do you say to Dad about us?"

"I will say that we were in the church, we stood as long as we could," I answered.

I often left the church myself to check what the children were doing, to call them when they began to anoint them with oil or sing the magnification of the feast, to read the Gospel. I always let the children out to read the canon, but I called them back to "My soul magnifies the Lord." They knew the prayer "More honorable than the cherubim," and it gave them pleasure to sing along with the choir.