“Yes, there was a children’s home in the village of Tsybiknur. They organized it in the very first months of the Great Patriotic War for children evacuated from places where war was raging then.
Many years have passed since then. For those kids who were only twelve, thirteen, or so back then, now they are already approaching forty. Each has found their place; many have children about the same age as they were at that time.
Sometimes a letter arrives from afar. In the letter there’s a photograph: ‘This is my son, he’s nine, his name is Lyonya.’
Or suddenly there’s an unexpected knock at the door—you open it and see: a person who seems completely unknown to you stands there. ‘Do you recognize me?’
You look, and then, from the depths of memory, a familiar child’s face appears: ‘Is it really you, Arkhasha?’—‘Yes, yes, it’s me.’
Those meetings are joyful. We sit down and start remembering the years we spent in the children’s home. We can only hear our exclamations: ‘Do you remember?’ or ‘And do you remember, too?’
Back then it was a difficult time—tense, and for many truly painful.
But then the years passed. More than twenty years have passed. The hardships of those years have moved somewhere out of the way and even been forgotten. Yet I still remember the real friendship and deep trust that united us—caregivers—with our boys into one big, solid family of the children’s home.”