My son Evgeniy was not simply killed in World War Two, he shot himself after the end of it because he blamed himself for poor decisions he made that I should have advised him on better. I should have kept him from leaving to begin with. I could have. I did not try hard enough and I have written a list of a hundred and thirty two ways in which I could have kept him alive somehow. My son Savvin was entirely right when he said Evgeniy's death was my fault.

I know it is irrational and stupid and disgusting but I hold a deep fear - not hatred, fear, so much fear - in my heart towards men who have relations with other men because I have been on the unwilling receiving side of that equation and whenever someone says they're that way I want to run or hide or not exist because the memories just won't leave.

[His confessions may be more panicked than most people's. These are not easy topics.]