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Once upon a time, in the “good old days”—some ten or twenty years ago, let’s say—the people in Shklov still did not know what newspapers really were like. Their sole source of news was a solitary…
. . . 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…