On the beautiful days of golden autumn, one longs to break away into the far distance, to enjoy the grace of nature and to see something new. I set off for the village of Zaderevach, in the Stryi district of the Lviv region, to see the wooden Church of St John the Baptist, built in 1808.
The route is a familiar one — the road to Velyki Didushychi, only you get off about 15 minutes earlier. You are still riding on the bus when the golden domes come into view from afar.
There was no one on the church grounds. The church is an architectural monument; in 2010 it was restored and clad in protective weatherboard, with the roof in metal. A plaque was mounted on the wall in 2011 for the shrine's 185th anniversary, since by other accounts its construction dates to 1826. Let us not make much of those few years. The village is home to about 600 people, and they have managed to preserve their church for themselves and for their descendants.
The weather favoured a walk around the village.
I crossed by the bridge a small river that rises in the village of Herynia, which I had visited a few days before. And on another small footbridge leading to a homestead, the owner was clearing away the fallen leaves. I greeted him, and the man asked whether I was here as a guest or on business. I answered that it was a bit of both. "And how is life for you in the village? Is there work?" I asked. "Yes, there are a few farms, but there is not enough work for everyone. Mostly people travel to Morshyn and to Stryi, to various enterprises. There is no school in the village; the children go to neighbouring Volia Zaderevatska, which is close by. This place used to be a manor estate. And where the cemetery is now, the landowner's house rose up. Remains of the buildings are still found today. The first person buried here was a Jew, on the spot where he was shot by the fascists during the Second World War. Ever since, everyone has been buried there," the villager told me about the ins and outs of life.
I looked in for a moment at the village cemetery to see the monument to all those who fell on the fields of battle and were buried far from their native places. It is the village residents' last tribute to their countrymen. The words written on the plaque moved me to tears.
"As you lay dying, no bells tolled for you,
No one wept for you,
Only in the open field the cannon roared,
And the stars wiped away their tears."
No one wept for you,
Only in the open field the cannon roared,
And the stars wiped away their tears."
I still had plenty of time, and I went to look at the House of Culture, adorned with a mosaic composition.
And on the clearing in front of the cultural centre, cows were trimming the grass. I asked the women herding them whether I could go into the club. One of them at once led me inside and showed me the auditorium, and the rooms for the dance circle and the choir.
Working here as a part-time cleaner (and when the director is away, she is in charge), Stefaniia told me how things stand with cultural leisure in the village. There are events, and about 20 children learn to dance. And there is a local-history room too. The new director is gradually repairing everything. I had only just wanted to photograph the stage when the mistress of the place darted onto it faster than lightning and in a second drew the curtain: "You can't. I haven't had time to tidy up." However much I asked her at least to let me see what little bust stood by the wings (whether of I. Ya. Franko or of T. H. Shevchenko), Stefaniia flatly refused to show the stage — not made ready for viewing — that serves the local talents. Thanking the friendly Stefaniia, I walked on along the village street to see the former school.
Now the wooden building is shared by a clinic and a shop-cafe, which I stepped into out of curiosity.
In the shop I immediately noticed the splendid loaves of bread, baked over wood in Velyki Didushychi. I had never seen such round loaves and long loaves anywhere, though in these parts they bake very tasty bread. The small room is heated with wood, and a man was carrying in large logs. The shopkeeper met me warily: a stranger had come to see what was on offer here today. In the tiny little room stood two or three tables. And that is the whole cafe. The entire range is on display in the window.
At the stop I waited about 20 minutes for the bus. Then a local girl kept me company and reassured me that it would soon arrive. A car was passing; the driver stopped and picked us up. We set off safely. I share with you my impressions of what I managed to see that day.
This story is also available in Ukrainian: Задеревач. Церква та інші пам'ятки села на Стрийщині
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