Every house here bears the imprint of war. I come to our ruined house, where my wife and I lived, and remember: this was a bedroom. This was a hall …
Our three-room apartment was ruined. We raised our children here, and our grandchildren came to visit us here.
Three years ago, the house was hit by a shell, a fire started, which was extinguished for three days, but to no avail. My wife and I have lived here for 47 years, but she did not survive the ordeal of the war. She had diabetes, stress made it even worse, and she died. I often visit her grave.
When it seems that there is no sense left to live, I think about my children and grandchildren. Speaking with them is my greatest joy. I also have many friends. When our property burned down, they were the first to come to the rescue, giving us furniture and blankets. Now I live in the apartment owned by our relatives. Money is tight. If you pay for utilities, you have nothing left for food.
