Love received by inheritance

I was not destined to choose the political direction of my life myself. At the end of the First World War, my father, a rebel soldier, returned from the front with the self-confidence of a Bolshevik. He created a party group in his village, participated in the September Uprising in the Harmanli region, and in 1925, already a settler in the city, became a member of the local military party organization. When I was two months old, my father was arrested (the April events), thrown into the barracks well, beaten with flails until his right femur was exposed (it was still covered only with a thin, crusty skin) and sentenced (with the confiscation of all his meager property). Similar things happened to him later, when I was older. By then I had already experienced them personally. There were hard days at home, hard years, and evenings when I heard Mom scold Dad: "If you wanted to fix the world, why did you get married, why did we have children!" "Come on, Dad," Dad would answer in the dark, "we'll fix this world and I'll take you to Moscow to see her!"