The lights of the theatre were already out, and I was the last to leave. It was quite early, because of the curfew, maybe around eight o’clock. Just as I was leaving, Gideon comes in. He hadn't been at the performance, and he just came in to practise. So he says, ‘Don't go. Stay here, and I’ll play something for you,’ and I thought, well, an invitation like this from such a good-looking young man, and I’m the only audience, so I said, ‘OK, if you want to’. So I was sitting there on a bench, at the front, and he got up on the stage, and there was a big piano, with legs and everything, don't know what make it was, and he sat down, and he played Chopin's Etude Op. 25, No. 12 in C minor. And I was sitting there, thinking this is not true. It was surreal, a genius playing in this attic, and I, a nobody, sitting in the audience. He should be playing in Carnegie Hall with an elegant audience. Yet, where are we? We’re in prison. It was extraordinary. When he finished, we both left. And that was the scene, like out of a film.

Whoever was a musician had to be auditioned, because enthusiastic amateurs wished to enrol themselves for concert practice just as eagerly as renowned pianists. Due to cramped accommodation space, it was also necessary to economise on every free available room where a large audience could fit in.