My father is 83 years old, and he always calls his father a file. The last time he saw him was in August forty-first, when he was six years old, and his file was only thirty-two years old. On that last day, the recruits were accompanied to the gathering point: Here's how my father remembers: "Since the evening, they didn't go to bed for a long time, relatives came, and in the morning they woke up early, my mother baked cakes, the folder was sprinkled by the horse. Then we drove to the station by car for two hours. My parents talked quietly all the way. My mother did not cry. I was sitting at the folder on my knees, he tightly pressed me to himself, and I looked forward, on the road, on the pappines, and I remembered his brown socks... So many years have passed, and I think all the time that if somebody said to me then, “Kolka, you will never see your folder again” – I would turn to him and not tear away, I would only look at him and remember each of his lines... and I would remember all my life...”

That is all.