I was ten years old, I don’t remember exactly, and it doesn’t matter. “It shattered.” A bell at the door. I open. Picture of oil. Two drunk men hold our completely drunk neighbor on top. They look at me, I look at them. Then one asks, Is this your father? I said no, above. And they dragged him up the stairs. The next day I told this story to my companion, who lived on the floor below, and it turns out he was also presented to Uncle Sasha for identification. Then we asked a boy who lived even lower. They were also brought to them, missing only the first floor. The men probably remembered that their companion did not live on the first floor, and remembered that the apartment was the first on the stairs, and the floor was forgotten.