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54 P i c t U r e s t o r y : a U s c h W i t z she’s seven, as pretty as any to come off the train, in her cotton pinafore, the kind that mothers make. she’s seven, in september say, on a sunday why not when a hard wind comes out of the north and shudders the camp, when there are voices in the wire and God has made them. you would have the commandant, the one with the swagger stick step up and say, “Go home, all of you; we have something better to do,” you would have the sun break out so suddenly, like an inmate from an asylum, that even the soldiers who herd the children, who hurry home to stroke their children, that even the guards who sort teeth look up from their piles. it’s just a little joke september plays, and she is led off anyway. you have this photograph of a girl of seven in a pinafore by a train in september say, on a sunday why not. Bury her face deep in your face. here is the blessing she leaves for you—a kind of gift—you never knew her, couldn’t really love her. This lovely smoke she makes, never sister, never daughter. ...

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