This is an automatically translated description

It was a long time ago. The steppes and graves have already been overgrown with oblivion. And such books should have been published long ago, but we, Ukrainians, did not have such a right, because we lived in a huge "happy" state called the Soviet Union, a prison of nations. As time passes, the last witnesses of the events of the mid-twentieth century pass away, and we, the descendants of the survivors, are collecting their memories bit by bit. Not to forget, not to lose, to remember.

The stories described here are the stories of real living children who knew how to play and help their parents, who dreamed of something, did not like something, and sometimes were not obedient. In short, these stories are the stories of the most ordinary children, told by them or their relatives. And if I were asked if I knew these people, my answer would be: "Yes". Two of the narrators are the grandmothers of my good friends, and one is mine, because there are no people in Ukraine whose families were not touched by the terrible word "Holodomor."

I do not wish you a good reading. I wish you a wise reading, dear reader. May there be peace in our beautiful land and may children never know grief.