Walking around old Pazin, just as I walked around it almost thirty years ago, I am fighting tears. In one of these houses, but I do not know which one, my mother was born. I must find that house, too. She must have shown it to my first wife and me, for we were here together on that first and only visit. Had I known how important that house would become one day, I would never have forgotten its part of town, its shape and color, its street, its muffled sounds, its number, its faint smell. Never, never!