Rustling of family ghosts: the bus to Starunya

“It’s like you’re going to the moon! A place with only a one way ticket.”

I was in the tourist office in Ivano-Frankivsk, trying to find the return bus times to Starunya, the village where my father was born in 1914. I already had the details of the three daily buses out, but no return buses were listed anywhere. The young woman was stumped too.

“I’m not sure if I can risk going,” I said. “It’s too far to walk back.”

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