I have never been much a patriot. My father would not have allowed such a thing while he lived, and his death ensured that such a wish was carried out. Peter commanded far more affection and loyalty from me than the nation as a whole, but that night, running across the unplowed fields of winter wheat with the fascist invaders behind us and the dark Russian woods before us, I felt a surge of pure love for my country. We ran for the forest, crashing through the stalks of wheat, behind the rising moon and the stars spinning farther and farther away, alone beneath the godless sky.