Scorched Earth

Mark Egart

1933–1934

I

. . . An empty street. An unfamiliar shack. A tightly shut gate. And hanging over the gate, over the dead street, over us all—a Cossack cap with a raspberry-colored band. A trail of smoke from an alley and—silence. No shouts, no gun-shots, no ringing of broken windows, just a cruel silence and a wayward Cossack forelock over us all.

I was four…

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