In the dying days of the twentieth century an elderly poet wanders the streets of Vilnius, haunted by a terrible secret. His memories of the Second World War have been buried for fifty years, but now, as he picks his way through the rubble of the ghetto, and looks in the faces of young women he p...
‘I remember the scent of oranges. I can still remember the way it used to smell in spring.’ ‘Vassily would say that,’ Tanya said. ‘You should smell the spring in Jalalabad, he would say to me, when the snow melts on the mountains, when the trees blossom.’ ‘I remember the smell of charred flesh, t...