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Photographer's Note

He might be a retired miner. As a young boy he had seen the Germans roll into his town center in squat cars and dark helmets that shone under headlights, and had seen folks being marched out into waiting trucks. He grew up running from street corner to street corner, sneaking breads and notes, dodging patrol cars. Then came the partisans, noisy, drunk with the speed of pursuit, in rolling Russian tanks. He grew up to be a miner as his dad had been. Then the old order changed, his country got a shorter name, and the cost of bread jumped so high that he hardly affords one these days. The mine is now closed, he is retired and his town is the prowling ground of strange men that chase him with cameras hanging down their necks, and he mutters under his breath while he completes his morning round from archway to archway, stopping here to take a breath, there to speak to a passing youth the son of his friend's son, while men and women of his age flock to the church, and he shakes his head at them, his beard flowing. How could they be so simple?

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Additional Photos by Animesh Ray (AnimeshRay) Gold Star Critiquer/Silver Workshop Editor/Gold Note Writer [C: 689 W: 44 N: 846] (9089)
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