I remember myself early, but my first impressions are scattered, precisely brightly lit islands amid colorless emptiness and fog. The earliest of these memories is a strong visual impression of a fire. I could go then the second year, but I can see quite clearly and now the tongues of flame over the roof of the barn in the yard, the walls of a large stone house strangely illuminated in the middle of the night and its windows shining with flames. I remember myself, wrapped warmly, on someone's hands, among a bunch of people standing on the porch. From this uncertain crowd, memory is highlighted by the presence of the mother, while the father, lame, leaning on a stick, rises up the stairs of a stone house in the courtyard opposite, and it seems to me that he is going into the fire. But it doesn't scare me...