EXTRACT: Ch 55 Wassie Little White house little red house

Things looked different in the dark. He drove away from Vilnius on the Savanorioq Prospektas towards the enormous round-about. He grew anxious. Two blinking lights above a factory chimney stack, a warning to low flying airoplanes from the nearby airport, caught his attention. In the gloomy night he could somehow see the detail of red and white concentric circles painted on the towers looming into the sky. Thick brown smoke gushed into the air. The flashing strobes surfaced memories. He was back at Auschwitz, sitting in his position in the orchestra near the imperfect warped window. He could see the little white house and the little red house, smoke churning and pluming, hovering into the sky. Suddenly he was surrounded by the dead. Then he was standing on the street in the crowd watching Herr Weiss whip his father, then at his feet while Herr Weiss jammed the potatoes into his abas mouth. He could hear the gurgle of the struggle, the blood on his hands. The sound. Blam. Blam.