— 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:

"Vladimir and Natalia, God bless you!"

I shuddered. No one had ever called our names together. I asked:

"Why do you, father, call our names like that together, after all, nothing has been decided yet. Will Volodya return from the front again?

- Vladimir is not the one with whom you correspond. And God bless you. VLADIMIR and NATALIA. And whomever you think of, it is better not to write to him, he is not intended for you.

Continuing to pray silently, the priest repeated: "The blessing of the Lord will come upon you, Vladimir and Natalia." After blessing me on my journey, Father Isaiah saw me off with love, passing on his blessing to my parents.

The 44th, 45th passed and the 46th year came. I continued to study and correspond with Volodya Danenberg, who finally returned from the war healthy, to the joy of all of us and his parents. Volodya often came to us, because we lived not far from each other. He and my brother Sergei were friends, and my mother liked Volodya very much: tall, with elegant manners, well-mannered, polite... And on his face there were traces of a burn received at the front. He joked, he was witty, it was fun with him. He accompanied us to the garden, helped us dig the ground. If we walked together, he took me by the arm, which made me feel somehow uncomfortable, even disgusted, like touching a toad. I was not attracted to him, I would gladly go somewhere far away for the summer... And I was already studying at that time at the Stroganov University, where we were given tasks for the summer — to write, draw, etc. And half an hour from Moscow, you won't be able to paint from life, there is nothing suitable, and from the windows of a Moscow apartment you can see only monotonous walls. Where to find beauty?