This is an amazing story about how a gang of poor people from the outskirts of the former Russian Empire essentially created the famous Paris School of Painting... About how at the beginning of the last century on the western outskirts of Paris in a former wine pavilion, selected by a kindly sculptor at the World Exhibition , the cheapest artists' hostel in the French capital (and perhaps in the world) arose, to which strange young people flocked from Eastern Europe, who had a passion for sculpting sculptures and moving brushes across canvas. They all considered themselves geniuses, they all dreamed of glorifying their name, and if not, they would die of hunger. Paris gave them both of these opportunities. But the sound of their small-town names today attracts thousands of crowds of tourists to Parisian museums, to Montparnasse Boulevard, to the Rotunda cafe, to the western outskirts of the capital and to their modest French tombstones... Many of these names (Chagall, Soutine, Archipenko, Zadkine, Kikoin, Kremen, Volovik, Lipshits, Meshchaninov, Kisling) became world famous. How much do they know about their fate in their homeland?