Every summer we spent our holidays at the improvised dacha made of our grandparents’ rural house in the vicinities of the city of Lutsk. There were a lot of us, the entire extended family – both me and my brother, and our cousins, and their and our parents, and, of course, our granny and grand-pa. We enjoyed our holidays, our fishing and swimming, playing football and cards, shaking bountiful fruit-trees and talking through midnight with friends around the magic fire.
I was 15 and didn’t care much about politics. We didn’t have even a TV set in our dacha. We didn’t need it. But our grand-dad and our parents listened to both the Soviet radio and to the “voices”, as they called foreign broadcast at the time, and we noticed – however careless we’d been in our golden age, golden time, – that something was fishy.