An elderly neighbor from our building told my mother that she was four years old when my father's funeral notice arrived. She had a sister three years older. During those war years, people in factories worked one and a half to two shifts. My mother only came home at night, exhausted. Dirty dishes and pots piled up at home, and my mother washed them a couple of times a week, finding the energy only to cook.
So, one fine evening, my mother came and asked:
"Why did you wash the dishes yourself? You don't know how, you'll break them all!"
And the children replied:
"Mom, it wasn't us, Dad washed it!"
Mom nearly fell off her chair.
"Oh, you liars! Look at the things you've come up with! Nothing's sacred to you!"
Then the girls told her they weren't lying, that Dad had rung the doorbell that afternoon, they'd seen him through the peephole and been terrified. They were scared, because Mom had said he'd been killed, and he'd kept ringing. But they were apparently more afraid of Dad's anger. They had to let her in. Dad came in silently, picked up the youngest one right away, and carried her around the apartment (just like he always did in life), but she was terrified; she sat in his arms, all huddled up (small, but still aware that something was wrong). When he carried her and passed the older daughter, he tried to pinch her (just like he used to do to her in life). Then he went into the kitchen, cleaned it, and washed all the dishes. He didn't say a word the whole time. After that, he opened the door and left.
Mom, after listening to the girls, burst into tears. She said, "Your poor daddy, how he must pity your exhausted mother, even coming from the other world to help!" Mom sobbed, though she couldn't explain what had happened. There was no mistake; Dad really had been killed and buried; there were eyewitness accounts from people close to their family. And a few days later, when the dishes had piled up again, Dad came again and again carried the youngest daughter around the apartment, pinched the eldest, and then cleaned the kitchen. And again, he said nothing. If the girls asked anything, he just smiled silently. His visits repeated from time to time, less often now, but always in their mother's absence. The girls trembled with terror; they were always afraid. But nevertheless, they always let him in; they couldn't disobey their parent.
And some time later, early in the morning, demobilized wounded soldiers walked down their street—they had been brought from somewhere, and all of them were in terrible condition—real skeletons, dirty, terribly emaciated. Perhaps they were liberated from captivity or concentration camps; the girls simply didn't fully understand or had forgotten over time—they only remember that women from different houses were taking them to their homes for leave. Their mother came out too, and her attention was drawn to the very last soldier. He was the most miserable of them all, covered in bandages, but most importantly, everyone else was wearing boots, and he was barefoot. Her heart sank. His mother ran to him and led him into her house. First, she washed him, bandaged him, fed him, put him to rest, washed his clothes, and went to work.
The next morning, he was supposed to leave. His mother gave him some bread for the journey, but most importantly, she gave him her father's boots, which she kept as a memento of his father. That night, she saw her late husband in a dream. He said just one phrase to her: "Now I am at peace."
From then on, the visits of the deceased ceased.
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