We (with my father and a group of friends) left almost at once.

All this time (and even before) I was corresponding with Yuri Pavlovich Zhdanov, although I write to other people, too. I need to keep censoring myself: can I write this? What about this? Will it get there, won’t they return to sender? I write about little things, how the summer went, the main events remain outside the frame. The people I write are already steeped in horror, why add mine to the mix? And when I read, “Bari luis (1), Lusia”, I feel joy.