Julian Lass

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There are two stories to be told about Gorit. I ask his image what happened. He smiles and says: 'You want to learn what happened to me?' 'Yes,' I say, 'since I cannot find out myself.'

It is his last leave. In the photograph they stand together, my grandmother Charlotte wears a fur coat, her hands in a muff. It must be spring 1944. They both sensed this would be the last time, my sister tells me.