In a bomb-battered factory in London's East End, a wizened, 60-year-old cockney craftsman named Harry Moaks, widely renowned in the trade, was working last week on a special job. With his usual care, Moaks was readying a special consignment of finely woven, chamois-covered, grade-A hemp nooses.
The nooses were scheduled to be flown to Nürnberg within a few days.
The eleven clients for whom Harry Moaks was working were "shaking in their cells" at night (according to an official psychiatrist). Constantly watched for possible suicide attempts, they received visits from chaplains. Most of the condemned (or their wives) had appealed...
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