Nonfiction | September 01, 1993
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When the Campana tolled one chill March day, I was huddled next to the stove in Thanasis’ carpentry shop, sharing a cigarette with him.
“Who’s died, I wonder?” I asked.
He answered, “the Poloneza.”
“on no! The poor thing!” Tears filled my eyes. The Mami, the midwife, had told me that the Poloneza, the “Polish woman,” whose real name none of us knew, had gone for the second time in ayear to hospital in Athens, this time to be treated for a septic womb.
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