I was 5 years old. We lived in the village at the time. My mom and dad taught me to read from the age of four, and reading became my favorite activity. There were no bookstores, and the children’s books that were in the house were quickly running out. I kept telling my mother’s stories. My mom decided to write a story for me.

For several evenings she diligently carried out the printed letters on the spreaded leaflets, painted drawings, and a couple of days later gave me a book of her own manufacture. This book was about the rabbit (I remember the drawings).

I did not like this book. I said I’t read such a story that it wasn’t true.

My mother asked me to read and assured me that this was the true fairy tale, but after useless admonitions, she threw it into the oven.

18 years have passed.

I only now realize how valuable this book was.