The mood is elegiac but never lachrymose. Heavy arches stand between the alley and the low clouds. The alley is a blind alley. Time condenses and collects in the hollows of the stones. A drowsy watchman, an elderly civilian called up for civil defense, stands propped against a wall.
Muted chimes echo from a distant bell. . . .
An Orthodox boy stands at a window, his earlocks flowing down his pallid cheeks. There is an apple in his hand. He stares at the birds in the branches of the aspen in the yard. The boy stands motionless. The ancient watchman tries to catch his eye through the glass.