Pilots called them Flying Coffins. He scanned the dingy sky. The war had just started. Tourists listened in a daze to a cunning old woman who had outlived all her children.
His heart started going like an antiaircraft gun, a spy caught leaving coded messages. Dusk seemed to fall by 2 p.m. Reporters interviewed mothers with dead children in their arms. The wind from the heights acquired a touch of red. Look out the window, the caller said, summer is over.
The purpose of night and rain eluded him. Taxis ran on charcoal gas. The commissar’s highway was open in only one direction. A wino, after begging some change, asked what time was sunset. He shook his head. The road signs were blackened and twisted and not in a language he could understand.