One day in 1921 in the Swiss city of Geneva, the poet began to cry from longing for Armenia. It seems to him that he will die of that longing somewhere. Suddenly he remembers a French-speaking Armenian living in Geneva who had long since forgotten the Armenian language and Armenianness. Isahakyan goes, buys a small bag of flour, and hurries to the French-speaking woman.
“Please, if you can, bake bread for me from this flour right now,” says Isahakyan.
“It’s not difficult, I’m telling my maid she’ll bake for you,” the woman replied.
– No, no, only you, I want only you to bake that bread.
– Why especially you?
– I find it difficult to answer that question.
The woman shrugs her shoulders and agrees and starts kneading dough in the presence of the poet. Then he lights the oven and bakes two loaves. Isahakyan gives one loaf to the Armenian woman, gratefully kisses her hand, takes the other loaf and goes to his apartment.
It seems to the poet that he is in Armenia. He has an Armenian loaf, doesn’t he? That is, like Armenian. The flour and the oven are Swiss, only the baker is an Armenian, and she is an Armenian who does not know Armenian. Then what, but she is Armenian, that woman’s grandparents spoke Armenian in Armenia. That woman is Armenia for her now, an Armenia as big as the universe.
The poet makes his loaf sweet, և his indignant soul calms down.
Knowing why Isahakyan turned himself into a baker for a couple of hours, the fifty-year-old Armenian woman gets excited and decides to learn Armenian.
Many years later, the poet meets his old acquaintance in Yerevan and says in surprise.