Loud and triumphant drum of timbals from [Tchaikovsky's] «Italian Capriccio» illuminated the scene as bright light. And not one but two...
A languorous June night in the native land... I am on the hill near the synagogue in Soroki. My heart is full of unclear foreboding of some threat. I am looking at the city at the hill-foot and listening to the music. The radio is broadcasting the same set of records in the same order, and I, lonely and homeless, suddenly remembered myself listening to the same fragments for the first time. It was in my dear Tsepilovo, at home, among the family.