As the years passed, it seems to me that we found ourselves "like" refugees in the church and that in reality, we were never refugees. Then we found ourselves in the City as refugees again, in a classroom of a school.

Finally, in 1925, in Greece, in Thessaloniki, we met again in a refugee house. Refugee life is a terrible thing. But fortunately, as the years went by, the new place took root inside me and I in it, and although it did not, of course, take the place of my first homeland in my heart, the place where I was born, it became a second homeland, just as sweet and beloved.