Beginning of Stavropol

Stalingrad, November 1952

The familiar communal door is in front of Dmitry, Darya, and their twin children. Once it's the home where Dmitry fostered by Khurashuk family, a Tatar descendant family who also sheltered Dmitry and his late mother decades ago. The building's shape may have different, due to destroyed so much during the battle years ago and later rebuilt. But at least the family somehow finding the same door shape and patterns for the front door.

So... maybe it could be temporary home once again, before he knew what he should do more in the future...

Six seconds later, the door opened. The head family of Khurasuk widen his eyes and laughed in raspy voice. "Dimochka, my beloved son! You still alive!" sobbed Timur as he tightly hug Dmitry. Later Dmitry takes turn to hug Marva, ignoring her dusty flour on her hands.

Darya also introduces the twins to Timur. The white-bearded man immediately tousled their hairs and blessing them to grow up as healthy kids.

"Thank you to still alive too, dad, mom..." mumbled Dmitry to Marva. Then he looked around and asked, "Where are the others?"

"Sofia still at Ryazan with her husband. They miraculously survived from the bombings. Zakhar still at Kalinin for his work trip, but he will come home next week-"

"Ey, Dimochka, you are back!" beamed Ismail while using his crutch. His walk is limped despite helped by his wife, who bringing a baby girl on her arm. Dmitry and Darya hugged that brunet man without answering, without seeing the one leg that Ismail had right now. Ismail then joshed, "I am still fine, guys. Look, even I have new baby too!"

"You always being reckless..." Dmitry chuckled.

***

Clinking noises of knife dividing the cake is filling the atmosphere. Each slices are given to the guest. The twins are curious with the baby of Khurashuk family while eating the cake. Meanwhile, Dmitry sipping the tea silently, watching Darya easily mingling with both Marva and Ismail's wife. Things are still the same... and it comforts his weary heart for a while.

"So... how's the Moscow life, Dimochka?" asked Ismail as he sat down across Dmitry.

Dmitry inhaled deeply after he admitted, "...Not so great. The ensemble demanded me to quit from the ensemble two weeks ago."

"Huh? Why? Is there something happens to you?" surprised Marva.

"I... got lung cancer. Second stage. Doctor also said I only get two years... or less to live. The ensemble found out about that, and they had no choice but to demand me quitting..." Dmitry's head lowered after that. Both in ashamed, and grief.

The family's chatter and grin slowly drop into a grim silence. Timur scooted himself near Dmitry and embraced him, "I'm sorry to hear that, Dimochka."

"That's so cruel of them. At least they could have giving you some health benefits or insurance. You have served there for a long time, and survived everything just for them," Ismail grunted. Dmitry smiled weakly, for he does feel the same, and Ismail already said it loudly.

"Well, what do you hope from a government, kid? No matter our Dimochka born with talent, they will always see him as a broken tool. They will never change," Timur narrowing his eyes at Ismail, with rubbing Dmitry's back at the same time to sooth his beloved one.

"...It's okay, dad. I positively think that's my sign to quit, too. The ensemble after The Founder's death has been so different. The harmony becomes... fake so fast. I planned to teach my son to never apply there ever, too," concluded Dmitry, which intrigued everyone.

"So what's your plan now, Dimochka?" Marva quickly spoke while pouring cup of tea again for Darya, before anyone try to speak.

Dmitry nodded, "I have discussed with Dashenka that we should move out to somewhere with less life expense. Maybe back to our birthplace, Stavropol. We will open the bakery together at somewhere strategic enough. At least it's enough to feed our kids until they are adult and can find their own income without our help."

"... I see. Have you got the plan for the exact place? Then budget to get the apartment and the place for opening the bakery?" asked Timur.

"For the exact place, yes. Dashenka and I had surveyed last week by went to Stavropol and walked around there. The price is good enough, and we planned to move everything there in the next week. But..."

"But what, Dimochka?" confused Timur again to hear Dmitry's voice is somewhat hesitant.

Dmitry is still doubted as he rubbed his temple, "I admit I can only pay for the apartment and the empty space for bakery. For other budget plans... it's almost running out. We can only use it for basic essentials for our kids."

The family then went silent as Dmitry continued with red face and almost humiliated, "Therefore... I know I am being rude to you... But may I lend some money to start the bakery? I can't promise to return in the next year, but I promise to return as soon as the bakery went fruitful."

He could see his family stared at each other. Then to Darya and the twins. It's unknown what they have communicated in silent, because they just nod in unison... and Marva quickly get up from the sofa and entered the room. Dmitry thought his foster mother disappointed to him. But his thought disappear as Marva appear with ten thick envelopes.

"I think it's time for us to give you this. No need to lending and returning..." avowed Marva with kind smile.

"What is this, mom?"

"Remember the salary which you always sent to us until war times? We... never used it," Timur admitted with sad smile, "Even if you are giving heartfully, I still cannot take it. I don't want to burden you, after your mother passed away. So... we decided to save your salary."

"...What?! But... now it feels like I only using you as piggybank, not as parents!" Dmitry almost pushed those thick envelopes, but Timur raised his hand to stop the green-eyed man protests more.

"Let's say... this is our attempt to fulfil our owe over you and your late mother, who always helped us from building the first bakery after the famine days. Your mother's courage to face Bolsheviks to get access of flour, so no Bolsheviks ever know the one who run the bakery are Tatar family. Our identity and religion stayed hidden, saved from any arrests..."

Even Darya who has keeping her face straight, now also shedding tears. To see there is still grace helping the troubled Dmitry. She gets up as Dmitry signalled her to hug Timur and Marva together.

"How can I thank you more, dad? mom?" sniveled Dmitry.

Timur and Marva are both rubbing both Darya and Dmitry's backs once again.

"Then... never give up to fight the illness, Dimochka," answered Timur, as his last word before everyone hugging each other again.

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Stavropol, March 1953

Beside a stack of old man's black suitcases, another man with green eyes sat on a train station bench. His hands were clasped together, his thumbs twirling anxiously, as if the person he was waiting for was taking far too long to arrive. Once again, he glanced toward Platform 11, hoping the train he awaited would soon appear. He forced his eyes wide open, fighting off the drowsiness that had plagued him since dawn, for he had not slept all night.

At exactly ten in the morning, a red train pulled into Platform 11. The green-eyed man immediately stood up, leaving behind the black suitcases owned by the elderly man. He stood near the safety line, waiting for the carriages to come to a complete halt. As the fifth carriage stopped, his eyes met those of a woman with dark brown hair and her twin children. Overjoyed to see him, they quickly stepped off the train. In less than half a minute, the woman and the children had hopped down, run over while carrying two large bags, and thrown themselves into his arms... so eagerly that the heavy bags accidentally bumped against the man's legs. Yet, the pain from the bags did not dampen their joy.

Without a moment's delay, the man took the suitcases, while the woman immediately grabbed her children's arms so they won't get lost. They boarded a tram that took them to a communal building... featuring a bread-shaped sign on the ground floor. They entered the building and walked toward the ground floor. The man unlocked the door, and together they stepped inside.

"Oh, Dimochka... You’ve arranged everything so neatly," the woman praised, as she looking around the living room and kitchen. Meanwhile, the twins immediately go to their bedroom to check on their new bunkbed.

"Not really, Dashenka. I haven't had a chance to clean the furniture yet. I haven't even swept the floor."

"Still, your strategy to go Stavropol first to layout everything while I packed for the kids already perfect. Now leave the cleaning part to me!"

Dmitry carried the two large bags into the bedroom and set them on the bed. He then returned to the kitchen to find Darya, who had already swept fast.

"You sure not wanting me to help with the sweeping, Dashenka?" offered Dmitry.

"It's okay I can-" but Darya seemed a bit difficult to lift the cupboard. So, Darya hesitated before she chuckled, "...Fine. Lift the cupboard so I can sweep underneath."

"No problem," Dmitry replied with a broad smile, before walking over to a heavy cupboard to lift it temporarily.

Three hours later, their apartment was completely free of dust and cobwebs. Small items like books, cups, and clothes had all been put in their proper places. Their simple communal had become a magnificent little palace for them. Dmitry wiped away his sweat after returning the broom, dustpan, and feather duster to the storage closet. Then, Darya appeared behind him, wrapping her arms around his back and playfully pretending she was about to pick him up. Dmitry laughed as the sensation tickled his waist; he quickly turned around and caught Darya as she tried to run away. They embraced each other tightly once more and capture the kiss.

"...Wait, the kids still took a nap, aren't they?" whispered Dmitry.

"What's wrong? Afraid to see us having fun?" teased Darya. Dmitry rolled his eyes.

"They are still kids... let's just rest a bit before we start tomorrow with flour and the oven,"

"Hm? Eager to get to work already? Aren't you tired? And your health, remember?" Darya puzzled and tilted her head.

Dmitry simply shrugged. A wry grimace playing on his face, too, for he doesn't want to talk about it. Darya patted her forehead, then said in a resigned tone, "Well, the distance between the bakery and our home is only ten steps. It's not that tiring. Still, had some dinner before start everything, Dimochka."

Then the two of them entered the kitchen and prepared the dinner for the family. Their quiet life in Stavropol and the ticking time before Dmitry passed away in 1965 has begun...