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88 Institut Henri Jaspar, Brussels Peeling paint, narrow hallways shadows run on mint-green walls. I peer into the stairwells see smashed windows, shards of glass on the landing. In the bathroom, rows of sinks, some hanging precariously, others with broken pipes. Here I washed my face. Bathtub where I once soaked now lined with rust, bottom coated with dried sludge. I arrived on 24 December 1944, here, where the children of employees from a prominent Belgian company used to vacation— now a hostel for young war refugees from France, Holland, beyond. We stripped, were checked for lice (I had nits) were given night clothes, shoes, uniforms, were fattened up, weighed weekly, followed by doctors, kept safe. The war ended in May, the Red Cross slow to send us home. While we waited, we searched the forests, pretended we were Girl Guides, played games of looking for Hitler. So much untold today by the graffiti on the walls. ...

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