1947. A picture. Two honest people. A man and a woman. Poor or rich. Happy, I know, in a simple house, summer evening, a water well and some ground behind the house, with a fruit tree, some vegetables and a pig.

As if I can still feel them and – when I close my eyes – hear their soft and fragile words. Or is this imagination? One of my first memories is that I was at his site, when he was in his last days. I was five years old.

They are my great-grandparents. Here I come from. This is my homeland. I take a seat along them. May I use the time machine of Professor Barabas, please? There is this feeling coming in to keep simple, humble and honest. Always.