I am a doll.
I was born sixty years ago at Görlitz in Germany, in a hut in Stalag VIII-A.
I am the one for whom a Belgian prisoner of war, number 15825, opened his clenched fists and to whom
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We drove south on York Road, passing the large brick house that always stole my attention. I peered past my mother's arms and the steering wheel, to take another long, unblinking look. The exterio ... [+]