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V O L K S S T U R M Boys, old men, anyone leftover, armed at last with pots, good tin pots, hoes with blades, clod-choppers for dirt, forks sharp as nails, fingernails. No action is what they saw, just reaction: surrender, the madmen’s shouting turned whisper, boys in tears. They marched, big-bellied from so few rations, legs barely lifted, then they stopped. The victorious proved too few, the MPs needed elsewhere to guard paintings like the ones my mother-in-law fenced in the Sixties. The old diplomat leans into my face, says they shot them. You didn’t hear about that, did you? Three hundred. All they wanted was to go home. Not a fork lost. He makes to shove it. 25 ...

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