Fiction | December 01, 1982

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The three of us were drunk as usual, on spirits confiscated from the executed.  First there was Matthes, whom I thought of as “the poet” because he fancied himself an intellectual and this his stint in Einsatzgruppe C an adventure for a man of refined tastes.  During our conversations he would jot notes in a leatherbound journal.  Then there was Kohler, recently new to our drinking group, a large man who spoke rarely and was given to black moods.

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