I took what was small from the pub and fit into my backpack. I brought cameras with me, though I didn't know if they would work. There was no electricity, and we had already gotten used to living without it. As I understand now, I myself didn't know what I needed to take. Everything that came to hand, everyone's story I remembered, everything that was small — I took it all with me.

The next day, I went down again, but didn't want to take anything else with me. This choice reminded me of a situation where you have to decide which of your children is more precious to you, whom to take with you and whom to leave behind.

From home, we took a couple of memorable things: a jug, soil from our native yard... When you know you're leaving behind your native land, home, the graves of relatives and loved ones, you don't want to take anything with you anymore. You take things to somehow soothe the longing, but the pain doesn't diminish from it. We took them as memories. Brought something from home, from the pub... a gramophone, German clocks... They hang on the wall of my office now, they work. And the most precious thing we brought from there is my newborn daughter. My wife conceived her there, but she was born here.