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"My maternal grandfather lives on the other side of the lake, she says. At 85, he still lives in his house, a typical isba of our Russia. In his house, after crossing the doorstep, I feel as if in another era: a carved shelf covered with the works of the great Russian authors, an antique chest of drawers, a Singer sewing machine, a huge wooden radio receiver with white keys similar to those of a piano and two big knobs on either side.
I remember being alone with him one afternoon, it was during a Easter holiday, there was a rainbow. He was listening to the radio, sitting in his armchair, not saying a word. At some point, he dozed off and I dared turn the big knob to the wavelengths of faraway cities, Berlin, Vilnius, Prague, Hilversum, Tashkent… Crackles, snatches of music, speech, words. I had had the feeling that they were ghosts, wandering souls that wanted to pass on some messages to me."