"Look! It's Misha! Misha's here! Mom, Dad, Misha's home!"

Bronislava's shouting made Father rise his head from the wood pile, adjust his glasses and smile. He was seeing it now, his son's imposing figure approaching. The girls were the first to greet him; Mikhail dropped his bag to hug them one by one. After giving them a moment to chirp like little birds and fill their brother's face with kisses, he finally approached.

Father and son watched each other in silence, until Mikhail opened his bag and handed his father the diploma. Father read it and then rose his eyes to Mikhail, his mustache curving into a grin.

"Did you have a good trip, doctor?" He asked.

Mikhail's smile grew wider. "Yes."

"Come here, my boy!" Father finally broke the solemnity of the moment and embraced Mikhail. It was comical, how tiny he was compared to his firstborn, only reaching his chest. Since he couldn't reach his hair to ruffle it, he grabbed his chin affectionately. "Ah, when you showed me the draft I knew they couldn't have any objection! I was afraid at first—trying to show these brutes some beauty, something in the past that is worth preserving! How did the checkpoint...?"

"Konstantin Alexandrovich! Why do you bother our son with those issues from the very moment he arrives?" Mother intervened, her arms crossed. She interrupted Father's discourse walking towards their son to embrace him and kiss his cheeks again and again. "Come in, Misha, it's very cold in here. I'm so glad to see you! Congratulations, my dear..."

She took him inside, with the girls swarming around, asking him questions, telling them what he had missed while he was in the city.

"I see Father is still fighting the cultural war..." Mikhail muttered to his mother.

"Yes, it seems he has nothing better to do!" Mother complained, rolling her eyes.

"So nothing has changed while I was gone."

Mikhail was so busy upon his arrival. Unpacking, listening to what his sisters wanted to tell him, divide his attention equally between them so none of them got jealous, have dinner, tell his mother about his trip and everything he did while he was away. He barely had the time to have a word with his father, until Mother was washing the dishes and the girls were in bed. Father was sitting in his armchair, lighting up his pipe. Mikhail sat by his side.

"Mother is worried about you for a good reason. These people do not like opposition. I have heard things, seen things—they could come here and punish you for..." Mikhail extended his hand at the desk, where he had seen the new pamphlets his father had been working on, "...all of this."

"Animals like those reach the power because everyone chooses the easy way and bow their heads." Father replied, exhaling smoke. "If I disagree with this barbarity, I think I am in my right to say so. Don't they say they made this in order to give the working man the power to express himself? I know your mother is worried, but don't be, Mikhail. The Party has better things to do than care about what an insignificant tiny peasant like me thinks. You should worry about yourself. You'll surely go back to the city and never come back."

"Oh, Father, I'd never-"

"Please. I would be angry at you if you didn't. I worked hard all my life so my children didn't have to break their spines working this land. You can have a good salary just teaching students about poetry: you'd be a fool if you didn't. These are new times, son: in the future, the country will disappear and everything, even the food, will be produced in the cities. I want you to have a future."

"I wouldn't want that future to be far away from home." Mikhail replied.

"I wouldn't be a good father if I didn't allow you to create your own home. Don't worry about your old man. You've been a good son. It's time you have your own life. You will find a job at the city, get married and have children of your own. Don't compromise that for us. I worked all my life to see you happy, and if teaching poetry makes you happy, then all of that will be worth the sacrifice."

Father and son stared at each other for long. Mikhail was about to extend an arm toward his father's when someone knocked at the door.

"Who's there?" Father turned his head towards it.

Nobody replied, but knocked harder. Right when Father was standing up, there was a bang and the door fell off. Armed men burst in, shouting so loud they couldn't hear their own voices exclaiming and asking what was going on. They were forced to remain still when these men aimed at them with guns. Mother, who had just appeared in the room, was dragged by their side. A group walked in and returned with the girls.

"What is going on?! What's all this?! Leave my family alone!" Father shouted insistently.

The men only ordered him to shut up; or rather made him, one of them hitting him with the butt of his gun. They searched the whole house, opened all drawers, all cupboards, the floor planks even, without permission, or giving them any kind of explanation. The girls cried and their parents and brother tried to comfort them, even though they were scared to death as well.

They suspected what they were looking for and indeed they found it. The pamphlets against the Party.

"Konstantin Alexandrovich Petrov, you are arrested for conspiracy." One of the men told him.

This was the moment all of them feared: their father being dragged out of the house. But there was a twist none of them had foreseen: the rest of them were taken with him.

The neighbors were watching. Mikhail saw them at the windows, just watching.

"Not them! It's not their fault! Take me! I'm the one you are looking for! Take me but leave them alone!" Father shouted.

Yana was trembling so much she could barely walk. One of the armed men was impatient and pulled her hair to make her walk.

"Don't touch her!" Father roared, and struggled against the men grabbing him.

That could be considered as active resistance. There was no doubt Petrov was not only guilty, but also aggressive. There was only one thing they could do to him.

Three men shot at the same time. Father fell on his stomach without making a sound or a move. His eyes were left horrifically wide open; his glasses slipped from his nose and fell a palm away from him.

"FATHER! FATHER!" Mikhail shouted above Mother's howl and the girls' screams.

It wasn't easy to contain this beast. The men tried to grab him and found they barely could. The only way they could prevent him from fighting and shouting was hitting him. They hit him in the spine until he dropped on his knees, and then hit him in the head with the gun.

Mikhail's ears rang due to the blow for a moment. His head spun. But still his eyes were fixed on his father. Maybe he was still alive, he said to himself. Maybe it wasn't too late. He had to help him. He had to try. He extended his arm towards him, trying to reach him, but they didn't let him.

Dragged by eight men, half conscious, they took him, and his sisters, and his mother, to the gulag.