What a bliss it is to fall into sleep! I am dreaming… And there is no prison, no death camp for me… I am back in Tsepilovo. Oaks are rustling around me. A shadoof is creaking somewhere in the distance. A mare is neighing; a colt is neighing back with his voice ringing. The wind is stirring fragrant leaves of hazel. And my father and mother are somewhere near… But… Why is it so cold? I open my eyes: I am not in Tsepilovo. I am in the glass house of our staging camp, lying on the floor.