I vividly remember the following picture: Seryozha had already left, I hurriedly put on my coat and thought about how I would have to crawl through the crack in the fence and run through the courtyards so as not to be late for school. I look into the dining room. There, Kolya is still lying, buried in pillows, with a thermometer under his arm, and his mother pulls on his stockings. Dad crawls on his knees near the sofa, trying to get Kolya's shoes out from under it with the handle of an umbrella.

Kolya and I constantly lost something, our books and notebooks were found under the beds. Kolya was not drawn to school, he was bored in elementary school. He willingly missed classes, was not conceited and did not worry about the dissatisfaction of teachers and the children's questions: "Why aren't you a pioneer?" I experienced my "non-pioneering", but not resentment towards my parents, but as the voluntary martyrdom of the first Christians, about whom I read at that time.

I asked my dad for permission to explain to everyone that I was a believer, I even often forgot to take off the cross, and my schoolchildren saw it. But dad forbade us to mention faith at school, saying that he could be fired from his job for our religious upbringing.

"You don't want to suffer, but you force the children," my mother said.

"Let them be silent," answered the father.

But to remain silent when you have an answer is a difficult matter. Silence showed that we either did not know what to say in our defense, or did not find the words to express our thoughts, or we were simply stubborn and stupid. To present oneself as such is a feat of foolishness, but is it easy to take it upon oneself for those who are accustomed to praise and like everyone to admire them? I, like Seryozha, had a childish pride, which was very difficult to overcome. At such moments, when we were "pressed", our parents simply did not let us go to school, which made Seryozha cry. "I'll complain about you to the principal," he once said to his parents.

But the winter was over, the red summer was coming, which always brought my father and me closer. He spent all his holidays with us, played tennis, croquet, volleyball, taught us to swim, took us on a boat. Dad composed children's games for us, I designed them with interest, and several games were even published by Detgiz. Dad received a lot of money for these games, so mom jokingly called them "the second salary". In winter, dad went to the skating rink with us and skated himself.

On the days of our angels and at Christmas, we had holidays and children of familiar believers came to visit. Classmates were never called, because it was necessary to hide our faith. In general, acquaintances visited our house constantly, there were many friends, and with some families we even spent the summer together at dachas. But parents gathered a solemn table for guests only twice a year: in December - on the day of St. Nicholas (father's name day) and on New Year's Eve (mother's name day). We didn't have wine in the house even these days, and we had no idea what a toast or a glass was. We did not go to visit. Mother baked pies, and otherwise only sweets and tea were served on the table, and on Easter - Easter cake and Easter cake from cottage cheese. We, children, did not see any other way of life and believed that this was how it should be.

In general, the ascetic repentant mood of Nikolai Evgrafovich left its mark on the family. Adults talked only about religious topics, dad never laughed, and if it were not for the noise and hubbub from the cheerful Kolya, it would be sad in the house. Mother was sometimes burdened by this eternal fast, she wanted to "go out" somewhere, and she was offended by her husband for not seeing her off. Once they went together to some family holiday, but quickly returned and remembered with horror the cheerful social company, which they both did not approach in any way.

Mother sympathized with my father's mood, but felt sorry for his body and often vehemently protested against fasts and feats of "self-mortification," as she called my father's table. Mom was offended that he refused delicious dishes, because they were meat. I remember that often my mother almost with tears begged my father to drink milk or eat something hearty, quick. Dad protested, and quarrels began.

This was repeated almost always when my mother was going to sew or buy a new suit, coat, etc. "In virtue have prudence," says the Apostle, "otherwise the striving for podvig and virtue can become a source of sin." And so it was with us. Seryozha and I felt very keenly when the spirit of the world left the family. Our children's quarrels did not touch our hearts deeply, we could even after a fight an hour later, again, like children, peacefully sit next to each other, laugh and discuss our affairs. But the silence of my parents, their gloomy faces, my mother's tears, my father's sighs – this deeply upset Seryozha and me, and we cried a lot and bitterly. There were no scandals with us, but dad withdrew into himself, was sad, endlessly asked my mother for forgiveness, and she waved it off and cried. We did not understand what was happening between them. As we grew older, we began to guess that my father strove for holiness, and his ascetic life was beyond the power of his wife. But then the cause of the quarrels did not reach our reason, we cried and demanded peace. This grief was the reason that taught me to pray for peace in the family fervently, persistently and relentlessly. And how joyful it was when I saw that the Lord heard my prayer! We found daddy and mommy sitting next to each other on the couch, clinging to each other with a happy smile and a cheerful look. We rejoiced, Seryozha clapped his hands, jumped, and Kolya said solemnly: "And I knew that they would reconcile." He did not worry about quarrels, apparently he was smarter than us and understood that misunderstandings between parents stem from the excessive jealousy of dad for the salvation of souls, facing the ardent care of a loving mother, her concern for the health of our father. However, these quarrels stopped forever only after Kolenka was gone.

Once there was an incident that proved to me that the quarrels between my parents did not shake their mutual love, which was as deep as the water of a lake that rippled in a gust of wind and remained calm and unchanged at the bottom.

It was Holy Thursday during Holy Week. Mom had been silent and sad for several days, dad was also sad, concentrated in himself, we, the children, were concerned about the tense situation and cried quietly. In the evening, my mother left without telling us where she was going and when she would return. It was unusual and difficult. Dad invited us to read twelve passages from the Gospel. Suddenly, someone knocked on the front door. Dad opened it. A young man in a hat entered, well-dressed and friendly, in ironed trousers visible from under a black expensive coat, in shiny polished shoes. He apologized for disturbing us at a late hour, said that he was going through Moscow, handed my father a letter and asked for a place to stay for the night. He sat modestly in the kitchen, waiting for an answer. The letter was from Father Sergius Mechev, who was arrested and did not know where he was. Father Sergius asked the Pope "how we are doing," sent his blessing and greetings to "all of us" and his family.

Dad recognized the handwriting of a priest he knew, but the sight of the stranger confused Dad. "From the camp, and how he is dressed! Has he been sent? Isn't he a provocateur? And what strange words in the letter: how are you! Yes, I have never had anything to do with Father Sergius! Won't I ruin my family if I let a guest spend the night?" my father reasoned and consulted with us. We shrugged our shoulders, but regretted kicking the guest out - it was very cold outside. Dad stood in a corner in my mother's room in front of the icon of the Mother of God, read the troparion "To the zealous intercessor..." to the end and decided to refuse. He politely apologized, said that he had nothing to do with Father Sergius, that he himself had urgent scientific work, that his wife was not at home and therefore he could not provide the guest with accommodation for the night. The young man bowed and left, begging to be laid down on the floor in the kitchen. Dad shook his head silently. Soon my mother, who, it turned out, went to church, returned. Dad showed the letter and told me about the guest. My parents sat side by side, anxious, frightened, discussing what had happened, trying to calm each other down, to support each other with hope in the Lord God. "How they love each other, and it's as if they've never quarreled," I thought.