You know, there is a grandmother. She bakes the most delicious pies, knits the warmest socks, sends homemade wine or pickled cucumbers, and tries to squeeze a couple of hryvnias into your hand at every meeting, even if your salary is five times higher than her pension. Her words are warm, her hands are gentle. And sometimes she is a woman. She sets traps for the game, treats herself (and often has fun) with mushrooms and herbs, and navigates in the swamp paths.
She can kick her grandson if he disobeyed an order or ate her condensed milk; she can slaughter 12 Germans in the war with her own hands, and with her words - cause death itself. She knows exactly what belongs to her and will not give it up, no matter who stands in front of her: a local policeman or Mуkhailо Нorbachоv.
