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A shock wave ran through
everyone and the ones who
hit it first passed the word
to the others coming up
in back. You know:
what you're going to see,
you're not going to believe.
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Eight freight cars,
doors nailed shut,
big slabs of boards
across the doors,
and the American
soldiers had pried
most of them loose.
The bodies jammed in.
Doors nailed shut.
They must have been on
that siding for days
in the heat of the sun,
urinating, defecating
where they stood. Many
of them dead for days.
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I rode into Dachau
on a jeep, over a
very narrow bridge.
It was a clear day,
a very clear day,
the kind of weather
where you'd need a
jacket. We'd just
finished a winter of
sleeping in encampments,
so any sunshine was
welcome. We crossed a
bridge and the first
thing I saw were piles
of shoes, all kinds of
shoes, a pyramid of shoes. |
And
there was a train,
a passenger train made
up of the oldest
railroad cars I have
ever seen. They must
have dated from the
Franco-Prussian war.
Old cars, the kind with
compartments, each of
which had its own set
of doors, like so many
stagecoaches set together.
The most ghastly thing
about the cars was that
they were fully occupied
by dead people sitting
upright in their seats.
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It was a warm summer day,
flies buzzing all over
the bodies decomposing on
the siding, partway through
the gates. We knew the camp
was just beyond the large
arched wall, red bricks, a
chain link fence. I'll never
get the stench out of my nose.
Retribution is mine, saith
the Lord.
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