And on the altar of Christ and God She is ready to bring Everything that makes her road beautiful, What was shining on her way.

I was in my tenth year when I recited these lines from Nadson's poem "The Christian Woman" at Christmas. The image of a girl burning with sacrificial love for the Savior, forgiving everything to her executioners, already captivated my heart.

By the beginning of the war, all the priests who visited our house were either arrested, exiled, or disappeared from who knows where. But until 1940, we had a table in my father's study that served as an altar, and there was also a bedside table that served as an altar. But not all the guests knew about it, and they did not reveal it to the children at all. We tried to kindle the fire of faith and love in the hearts of the children, but outwardly we should not differ from others. Holy Communion was not to become a habit, it was approached, as it should be, with fear and trembling.

Daddy

I remember my father from the first years of my life, that is, from 1927-28. Dad always breathed affection, silence and peace. He was loved not only by his relatives, but by absolutely everyone: neighbors, colleagues, acquaintances - everyone who knew him. He was equally courteous to the servants, to the old woman, to the simple worker, and to the ladies, and to his employees, and to everyone with whom he had dealings. With the manners of a gentleman, reserved in all circumstances, Dad rarely raised his voice and never lost his temper. If he happened to be irritated (and a child's frolic would not make anyone lose patience), then dad hurried to go to his office. He came out only after calming down, praying, and then he only began to carefully analyze our children's quarrels and complaints. Dad talked for a long time with us, three children, but in general he preferred to talk to the interlocutor one-on-one. "Where there are more than two, there is lost time," he liked to repeat the proverb. Father never shied away from our upbringing, never excused himself with studies and work, and devoted a lot of time to the children, fighting for our souls as well as for his own.

The first evil feeling that appeared unconsciously in my childish soul was jealousy and hostility to my younger brother Seryozha, who was two years younger than me. At the age of three, I could not understand why Seryozha was carried in my arms, fed with a spoon, and I had to eat myself, I had to give my brother my toys, I had to endure his crying. I don't remember what I did, but I remember that my mother raised her voice at me, reprimanded me sternly, scolded me for a long time, even spanked me, but I was very pleased with all this, I did not cry, but I was glad that I managed to attract attention to myself and distract my mother from Seryozha. The meaning of my mother's words did not reach me. Only when my mother pushed me aside, not wanting to caress me, did I begin to cry bitterly and inconsolably. Then my father came, took me in his arms and comforted me with infinite patience and love. Usually I could not calm down for a long time, and sometimes my father had to hold me on his lap for more than an hour, and I continued to sob convulsively and snuggle up to my father, as if asking for protection. "Let my father at least have lunch," my mother turned to me. "Leave it, Zoechka," the father said, "you can't drive the child away from you if he asks for affection."

I remember how I grabbed my father by the thick whiskers and silently turned his face to me, not allowing my father to look at the interlocutor. Those around us laughed and said, "He's jealous!" — "And what kind of word did they invent," I thought, "it's my dad!" How good I felt with him! Through my father's affection, I came to know Divine love—endless, patient, tender, caring. Over the years, my feelings for my father turned into a feeling for God: a feeling of complete trust, a feeling of happiness to be together with my Beloved, a feeling of hope that everything will be settled, everything will be fine, a feeling of peace and tranquility of the soul that is in the strong and powerful hands of the Beloved.

Often I fell asleep sweetly in my father's arms. If sleep did not overwhelm me, and I did not want to get away with it, then my father resorted to cunning. Dad called his elder brother Kolyusha and asked him to play soldiers at his feet. Kolya arranged his reels and cubes, began to frolic and beckon me into his company. He quickly succeeded, and I voluntarily went down to the floor. I have always been friends with my older brother, but our dislike for Seryozha grew every year. The enemy was in a hurry to find a loophole in the weak, immature soul of the child, who is not yet guided by the mind, but lives only by feelings. Jealousy, envy, malice quickly seized us and alienated the grace of God from us. Often there were fights between us, children, accompanied by screaming and roaring. Seryozha turned blue and "rolled up", as his mother called his condition, and Kolya and I received spanks and slaps on the head. When dad returned from work, mom often complained to him about Kolya and me. I remember when I was already six years old, my dad talked to me for a long time one-on-one in his office. He was sitting in the chair opposite me, I was on the couch. It was so cozy, a green table lamp softly illuminated the office, the door was tightly closed. Dad explained to me for a long time that Seryozha is often sick, that's why he is nervous, capricious, weak. Mom is forced to give Seryozha more delicious food (that is, testicles and caviar), which she is not able to give to me and Kolya - healthy and strong guys. We should not be jealous, because we walk, run, and Seryozha lies in bed so often. We must feel sorry for him, as well as parents, we must give in to him. Dad asked me to pull myself together and not tease my brother. I listened attentively to my father, agreed with him on everything, but frankly admitted to him that I was unable to overcome my feelings.

— Ты все верно говоришь, — сказала я, — но я все-таки буду дразнить Серёжу, потому что он противный!

Эта фраза вывела папу из себя. Он вскочил и со шлёпками выставил меня из кабинета.

— Значит, я все зря говорил? — вскрикнул отец. — Не буду тебя любить, злая девчонка!

Я не заплакала, но последние папины слова задели моё сердце. С полчаса я задумчиво бродила, потом пришла к папе, со слезами бросилась к нему на шею и, целуя его, шептала:

— Папочка, люби меня! Я не злая, но кто же будет любить меня? Мама любит только Серёжу, а меня только ты любишь!