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5 Eva Braun at Berchtesgaden The lightning tucked behind cypress trees. Even the crickets gone away. The phonograph with its straw voice of static and skips. Her silk robe swelled through corridors, tangles of foam curlers, lipstick. Then military boots, chandelier covered by webs of cigar smoke. All evening, snow growing on the cypress, knives on china, scent of roast beef, plucks of muscle. Then the key sliding into her bedroom lock, loosened ribbons on her nightgown, his cold tongue, like sponge and beef. ...

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