THE GREEN KING (part 59)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
… guest who
were also extraordinary discreet. An hour after the arrival of his group, Reb,
looking through a window, notice a group of about fifteen men, some of them
middle aged. The new comers had something military in their manner and in the
way they were organized, in spite of their luxurious civilian clothing and
their expensive suitcases. They kept quite until they were inside, but their
arrival set off a wave of exclamations, in German, which were quickly checked.
The staff of
the inn shuttled between the two floors with perfect ease.
Yoel come up to
Reb.
‘Are you
thinking what I’m thinking?’
Reb nodded.
Through the
door, they could hear the men settling down for the night. Had they wanted to,
the two young men could have followed the whispered conversations by lying on
their stomachs. A grimace of hatred disfigured Yoel’s delicate features for a
few seconds; he was a survivor of the Warsaw Ghetto. ‘Nazis on the run!’ He
swept with rage.
The entire day
of August 8 was spent in this unnatural cohabitation.
And it’s not
impossible to believe that in this inn, near the Reschen Pass, a few yards from
each other, fed by the same innkeeper, and driven by the same smugglers, there
were, simultaneously, survivors of Mauthausen and other camps and the very ones
who had been their tortures.
Not Erich
Steyr. Even Settiniaz finds that impossible. The dates don’t match.
TO BE CONTINUED
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I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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