The house still stands, seventy years later, Standard one-storey, square, nearly windowless Ruthenian structure of plastered white adobe and a roof that had been thatch, but now in rot.
there anymore. but the house stands by the creek that used to flood and had
often threatened the very edifice itsel.It had taken so long for my young father
to build. For a near stripling of a lad, he would show 'em.. And he did. There
it stood on its slight rise over the creek. It did not have tile or a tin roof,
the very model of wealth in Ukraine; a peasant house, but not bad for just
turned twenty and newly married.
"Marry Dmytro, for he has golden hands."
Well, didn't he?
But a great war came and the machine gun and cannon shells
would whoosh into the house. But the walls were thick. Though the roof burned,
the house would not crumble or burn. It was made of clay brick.
We had to
abandon the house for the real fear of Communism.
My uncle went back recently
to roport that the house still stood, empty "for they all had gone to
Nobody lives there save for an old hobo lady who begged she not be
Would I dare to go back?
(To be continued)