Grandfather was an expert. He was the best high-altitude ironworker in his brigade. Also, he was very fond of sports. He played soccer so well that he was once offered to join the national team. He refused because then he would have had to quit his job, which he liked very much.

Grandfather was physically strong. And, unfortunately, he drank. When he drank, he became aggressive. More than once he fought in front of me — first with my father, then with my mother. All my childhood I was afraid of him. Just his voice was enough to make everything in me shrink with fear.

Fear always prevented me from understanding him. I was afraid of him, and couldn’t see his good qualities, his professionalism, his inner strength, and resilience.

For many years he lived alone. My Grandma and my mother took him home again when he could no longer take care of himself, couldn’t even eat by himself, and could only lie down all the time. At that time, sometimes I would go into his room and ask him how he was doing. Usually to such a question he would answer, “Better than ever,” or, “Alive than ever.” He never complained, never asked for anything and every time he tried to gather all his strength — and smile.