The last ever conversation I had with my Ukrainian grandfather was grim. He had lost his apartment, the place where he lived for over 40 years, to a missile strike. Usually a man with a tough exterior, he was inconsolable. “How many buildings are destroyed only in our city? Who will rebuild all that? What do we do?” He posed questions without expecting an answer, one after another. I patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, grandpa. We rebuilt after 1945, and we’ll rebuild again.”
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