Red Holls Roll
In the cold white fog that rose from the Rhine all sounds seemed magnified. Official witnesses and a handful of newshawks turned up their coat collars and shivered in the Cologne prison yard. Down below the Rhine steamers hooted mournfully. A door clanked. Out marched brownshirts, prison guards and the official executioner a Cologne butcher on other days. Hoarfrost formed on the nap of his official top hat, on the shoulders of his official tailcoat. The door banged again. Out marched the prisoners, six of them with necks shaved and prison...
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