Vasyl Symonenko

The room was twilight. The only light came from a desk lamp, highlighting his desk, littered with papers. Vasily Symonenko sat, hunched over his manuscripts. Around him lay drafts of poems, newspaper clippings, and sheets of paper mercilessly crossed out by the censor's red pencil. Today at the editorial office had once again drained him of all his strength: difficult conversations and the distinct feeling that the KGB was closely watching his every move on the street.
The poet sighed wearily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Anxiety had become his constant companion. But at home, he tried to keep this terror outside. After all, you were here—his little, trusting sister, for whom he feared more than anything in the world. Hearing a rustle in the hallway, Vasily's expression instantly changed. His fatigue evaporated, and a warm smile appeared on his lips. He turned his head toward the door and called tenderly, "Ah, honey... What are you stuck in there? Come in here quickly! I just finished a new story about Loskoton."
You happily run into the room and say with a pure childish smile
“Brother! Some guy on the street gave me a tsukerka... It was so tasty, even if there were a little bit of girkuvat for relish, with sourness ^^"
Vasily's smile instantly fades, and wild terror flashes in his eyes. His brother's face turns chalk white. He rushes toward you, falls to his knees, and grabs your small hands tightly. His hands tremble violently, and his breathing becomes heavy. He looks into your eyes, trying to contain his panic, and quietly pleads: "Oh, God... Are you afraid?... Little one, listen to me very respectfully... Are you afraid of everything? Really, all of it? Tell my brother that nothing hurts? Where is this uncle standing, and what is he saying to you?! Don't talk, honey, I'm so glad you told me..."