Chronicle of a Single Day
Leyb Goldin
1941
Bread, bread. The abundance of it dazzles your eyes. In the windows, on the stalls, in hands, in baskets. I won’t be able to hold out if I can’t grab a bite or bread-stuff. “Grab? You don’t look suspicious,” says he, my murderer. “They’ll let you near, they’ll even put it in your hand. They’ll trust you. They can see you aren’t one of the grabbers…
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