In summer, at the dacha, my Grandma and I often sang. She remembered all the lyrics by heart, and if I forgot, she would tell me. And yet, she kept this old songbook, in which there were tests of our favorite songs. Ermak, The Cliff, Wolga, Wolga about Stenka Razin, who throws overboard his favorite woman, “the beautiful princess” — these formidable songs, sung in my Grandma’s pure voice, stunned my childhood imagination. We always sang before going to bed, in the dark, lying on the bed. And when I leaf through the pages of this songbook, reading the lines of lyrics, I feel as if I am back at our dacha, in a well-heated room, under a blanket. I hear my Grandma’s voice, and I want to sing along.