It was the house my grandfather built, the house where my father was born, and which stood in the center of the village like a beacon of hope. It survived the Nazis who stole all the furnishings, and the food, and then the Russians who took everything else, the plumbing, the iron railings, and even the nails from the floorboards.  It warmed my family during the cold Carpathian Mountain winters and nurtured them with a shaded garden in the summers.  Later, the house became a source of contention