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Sensing my interest, the man spoke on, and our eyes moved over the surfaces of Munkácsi’s photographs as he talked. There was one that showed a field of young Germans lying in the sun, which must have been taken from a zeppelin. The bodies, filling every available space, made a flat, abstract pattern against the field. The man spoke with the slowness of someone who was entering a memory, but it was not a foggy memory, and he spoke about it clearly, as though it hade only just happended. I was thirteen when we left Berlin in 1937, he said, and New York has been my home ever since.

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