¶In Germany a horse-drawn wagon crawled slowly westward. Three ragged men and a woman sang with sad irony: "Nie rzucim ziemi skqd nasz rod, nie damy pogrzesc mowy" ("We shall never leave oar fathers' land, we shall never let the Polish language die").
¶In Paris a small, thin Jewish boy from Budapest was learning to say the Pater Noster. Since he had come to live with French foster parents he had almost for gotten the old prayer, Mole ani lefa-neha. . . .
¶Freight cars rattled eastward across Ger many. Russian and Polish repatriates were packed in until there was no...
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