It was a secret spiritual community of monastic sisters united around the elder – Father Isaiah. I was then a student at the Polygraphic Institute. I was conscientious about classes, I did not want to miss them. I chose a day off for the trip - January 1, no one in 1944 celebrated the New Year. In the evening, the curfew began. Some patrols controlled the dark, empty streets, the windows of the houses were carefully draped, even a crack was not allowed. I left the house very early, the city was still asleep. Darkness, frost, deep fresh snow, not yet trampled by anyone. It's okay, the felt boots are high, you won't freeze to walk quickly. Without meeting a soul, I made my way to the station, got on the train, and went alone in the car. I count the stops. I went out, it was already dawn. I was alone again, not a soul around. But I remember the plan of the road, counting the glades, the houses. And the rooms on the fences are all covered with snow. I quickly found the right dacha, saw that the door was already opening and I was welcomed.

Wow, how nice it is to enter the cozy warmth from the cold! There is amazing order and cleanliness all around: knitted rugs, curtains, flowers on the windowsills, icons, lamps and the crackle of wood burning in Dutch stoves. Young friendly "sisters" are all in long dresses, in handkerchiefs. Everyone caresses me, takes measurements from me, offers embroideries, styles and various delicate colors of crepe de chine. I choose the color of young lettuce, that is, light green.

Then there was a service, singing, reading... Everything flashed by as if in a dream. We sat down to a meal, they treated me diligently... I was seated next to Father Isaiah, who was very attentive to me, asking me about many things. But what did I know? She never listened to the radio, did not read newspapers, had no acquaintances. In the morning, three kilometers on foot to the institute, in the evening - back. The church, the store, books and sound sleep - so days flew by. But now I was left alone with the priest. He remembers my parents, asks about my brothers.

"Kolya is killed," I say.

"No, he's alive!" I hear the answer.

I know that all pure, holy souls are alive with the Lord, that our Kolenka is among them. I do not argue.

"Do you have any young people among your friends?"

— No, I don't. All my acquaintances are either at the front or have disappeared,.. I correspond with one. He was Kolya's friend.

"Don't write to him, child, don't!"

"Father, I cannot leave him, my letters serve as support for him. He was near Leningrad during the blockade. It's already hard for the soldiers, and then suddenly the letters from me will stop. I used to write to Kolya, I tried to encourage him with the words of the Holy Fathers, whose writings I read. It is food for the soul.

"Well, write, only less often." After all, it will be hard for you when he returns from the front. They will say of you: "Here is the bride and groom." And he, child, should not be your fiancé.

"Why, father?" We have known Volodya since he was twelve, his parents and he are believers, they go to church. You rarely find such people, and I like him.

"No, dear, he's not a match for you.

Father was bent in half from old age, his long gray beard descended almost to the floor. Father Isaiah sat with his head bowed, but every now and then he looked at the icons, fingered his rosary, as if listening to an inner voice. It was getting dark, the lamps were flickering. I was silent. Father Isaiah, without looking at me, suddenly said: