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For one of her smile, we would do more than a delivering meal to her at the dilapidated house, at the end of the village, every day. Modest and weak, she spent her whole life, as she says, in suffering and tensioning. “A little bit with her husband, and little bit with poverty but always with a cheerful spirit and a wide smile on her face”- she says through the laugh. “A little bit for the house, a little bit for children, a little for bills, make, build, renovate, sewing clothes, after the war as well as through the war. We live without shootings but thanks to the God, one living man can surplus everything”.

Will the generations who will be born after these living encyclopaedias of mature growing up and suffering ever stop next to a house like this and wonder who lived there and ask about the fate of the host. How much cruel realities and sufferings absorbed these rigid walls that began to fall apart, how many tears from the sleepless nights apsorbed these foundations and mattresses. This house remembered wars, kerosene lamps and candles while it received electricity, but it did not change to much, and even today it is enlightened with warmth and the spirit of a safe corner for people who were educated from it and went out into the world for its destiny. Only mill od stone didn’t break me, grandmother told us in the shade of her hydrangea, and her wrinkled hands from agriculture prove about the hard village life of someone who lost his parents and husband very early.