I am behind bars. I am encircled. I'm persecuted, spat on, slandered. Fine ladies with lace frills squeal and poke their parasols into my face. I feel I am a little boy in Bielostok.
Spattered blood runs over the floor.
The tavern ringleaders have got out of hand. They stink of vodka and onions. I'm kicked to the ground, helpless, it's hopeless to beg the persecutors. A grain trader beats up my mother. I know that at heart you are international.