"Low flying planes began to direct their machine gun fire at the refugees. All four of us had crawled into a large culvert. We heard the bullets crackle again and again. Then the ground trembled under the hooves of shying horses breaking away from their fully laden carts. They raced above our heads sounding like wild drum beats. I was lying in the culvert, pulling snails from the walls, as unconcerned as if all this had nothing to do with me. It...
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