When my father came back to us in the Sakiai, we believed ourselves blessed by God. Father was pale and weak, his skin tawny around his mouth and eyes. His face was marked where it had not been before. A dark scar above his chin ran below his jawline and back towards his ear. This jagged wound made me unhappy – I did not like to think of my father having suffered such pain.
“I have eaten nothing for three days bar fish heads begged from guardsmen on the train,” said Father.
“Where did you come from?” my brother asked, the happiness in his voice a joy to hear.
“From an army camp, six hundred miles south-east of Moscow.” He kept a steady eye on his wife, who shifted nervously, her delicate fingers rubbing the lace collars of her dress.
There was not a single day following Father’s return
