Within minutes, mounds of concrete and earth were stacked and piled. The streets were ruptured veins. Blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood.
("The Book Thief")
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Certainly war meant dying, but it always shifted the ground beneath a person's feet when it was someone who had once lived and breathed in close proximity.
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When it came down to it, one of them called the shots. The other did what he was told. The question is, what if the other is a lot more than one?
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If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.
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