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In a wooded park west of Kyiv, Ukraine, near the ravine known as Bavian Yar, Oleh Shovenko leads me to a 20-foot-tall metal structure overlooking a field clogged by brush. This half-finished art installation is called “kurgan,” a word for a type of prehistoric burial mound discovered in Ukraine and Russia. Once completed, Shovenko tells me, visitors will enter the roughly 260-foot-long burial mound through one of two portals. Then, they’ll descend ten feet into a synthetic canyon lit by a skylight.
Here, a series of miniature dioramas, built to scale and employing plasma screens and virtual truth demonstrations, will bring to life an unfathomable horror: the murder of 33,771 men, women and young people (much of Kiev’s remaining Jewish population) in the ravine in September. This atrocity, perpetrated through a cell extermination unit of the SS Einsatzgruppen, the Nazi police, and several dozen Ukrainian collaborators, was, by many accounts, the deadliest Jewish bloodbath of the Holocaust. (At least 70,000 more people, adding others were reported to have been murdered in the ravine over the next two years. )It is remarkable that until now, the bloodbath of the Jews in Kiev has never been well commemorated.
To recreate the ravine as it was 80 years ago, artists, architects and historians studied the geological and aerial surveys carried out before the war by the tsarist and then Soviet authorities, as well as all available old maps, some from the 19th century. . The photographs showed the original network of ravines as well as five cemeteries, plus a Jewish one, that existed on the site before the Nazi invasion. The studies and design team also had access to photographs taken immediately after the bloodbath by a Nazi photographer. The evolving kurgan plan now calls for employing 3D printers to make thousands of individualized two-inch-tall figures of the sufferers and their Nazi tormentors to recreate scenes from the bloodbath and its aftermath. Visitors will experience the rounding up of Jews in the suburbs of Kiev, their march to the execution ground, the mass shootings in the ravine, and the Nazis’ desperate attempt two years later to cover up their crimes as the Red Army advanced on Kiev. “Finishing this is our priority,” Shovenko told me. “It is vital to give it a home so that other people can spend time here and delight in the story from start to finish. ” »
Shovenko is the deputy artistic director of the Bavian Yar Holocaust Memorial Center, a $100 million complex that has been years in the making and aims to combine meticulous studies and artistic innovation to create the world’s grandest World War II memorial. It was conceived as a single giant museum, but starting in 2020, those plans evolved into a much more ambitious project, adding art installations and at least four separate museums. One of them, the Bavian Yar Victims Museum, would recreate Ukraine’s vanished Jewish culture using photographs and mundane objects from life: furniture, chandeliers, antique radios, and other memorabilia collected through staff. Another, the Museum of Oblivion, would document the Soviet Union’s efforts to cover up the bloodbath after World War II and Jewish acts of resistance opposed to the Soviet Union. Trails through the 370-acre former extermination site would connect the facility.
In October 2021, on the 80th anniversary of the massacre, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy was joined by Israeli President Isaac Herzog and German President Frank-Walter Steinmeier to inaugurate the partially constructed complex. The Ukrainian government hoped that the site would soon take its place alongside other respected Holocaust monuments – the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum in Poland, the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam, the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin – as a sacred place. position of remembrance and contemplation. And as a symbol of the belated popularity of those atrocities, it was also seen as a way to help cement Ukraine’s new progressive role in Europe.
Then, on February 24, 2022, Russia invaded Ukraine. Troops occupy the outskirts of Kyiv and lay siege to the capital. A Russian missile strike near an adjacent TV tower in Bathroughn Yar killed five people, in addition to four members of a family. Staff members fled the country or went to fight on the front lines. : Shovenko laid mines along the Belarusian border until, he told me, an episode of post-traumatic stress disorder forced him out of the army. Meanwhile, two of the memorial’s most sensible backers, Ukrainian-born Russian Jewish billionaires Mikhail Fridman and German Khan, who had close ties to Russian President Vladimir Putin’s entourage, were sanctioned by Western countries, forcing them to withdraw their support. The centre’s staff has been reduced to a small team and the many ambitious projects have been halted. Today, the kurgan, from being the flagship of the monument, is half-finished and symbolizes a violent disturbance. ” I lost my inner motivation after the war started,” Shovenko admitted.
This article is a version of the December 2023 issue of Smithsonian Magazine.
Today, almost two years after the start of the conflict, the Babyn Yar Center, an organization committed to a remote atrocity, is rethinking its project and finding new relevance in the process. He understood that he could not forget about the atrocities being committed today and that employees could even use their skills as researchers and museum professionals. The paintings are now smaller scale and lower budget. But if the medium’s ambitions have changed, they have not really diminished: they reflect a preference not only to commemorate with dignity, despite everything, the old injustice perpetrated here, but also to recognize and record the crimes and sufferings of this new one. war. . In addition to preserving records of centuries of Jewish life and identifying the victims of the massacre, many of whom remain anonymous, intermediate staff members are compiling the highlights of Ukrainian civilians killed in Russian airstrikes and artillery shelling. . Others have interviewed victims of Russian atrocities as part of ongoing war crimes investigations. “This is our current reality,” says Anna Furman, the center’s deputy executive director. “No one is safe from dangers and death threats in Ukraine. »
I visited Babyn Yar in early June, a brief lull in the Russian attacks on kyiv. At most every night for four weeks, Russia had introduced Iranian drones and hypersonic missiles into the capital. U. S. -supplied Patriot missiles destroyed most of the fire, but falling debris killed several people, including a mother and her daughter who were unable to find shelter in time. Throughout May, sirens and explosions dragged citizens out of bed before dawn and sent them running underground. When we met, Shovenko had been sleeping somewhat uninterrupted for weeks. .
Shovenko took me along a tree-lined path through a public park, past cyclists and couples on benches, to see how far the task had progressed before the Russians attacked. In a clearing near the kurgan, an operator turned a transfer and an electric motor started up. Gradually, a huge wooden pop-up book was opened to be remodeled in the style of the old wooden synagogues of Ukraine, with prayers in Hebrew on the walls and a ceiling magnificently painted with the constellations that appeared on the first night of the murders. Ukraine’s small Jewish network and many visitors prayed here before the Russian invasion. “But most Jews and rabbis are gone, and it’s not widely used,” Shovenko said. I crossed a path to face the dark silence of the Crystal Wall of Weeping, an installation by world-famous Serbian conceptual and functional artist Marina Abramović. It is composed of a long wall of black anthracite inlaid with long rose quartz crystals, which constitute the healing force, and is intended to evoke the Western Wall of Jerusalem, the only surviving vestige of the city’s ancient Jewish temple complex.
Nearby was Mirror Field, a stainless-metal platform with ten reflective metal pillars riddled with bullets. The bullet holes were made in 2020, before the outbreak of the existing war, when Ukrainian special forces fired thousands of bullets, equivalent to two tons of metal. , in metal, almost the exact amount of ammunition used to murder the Jews of Kiev. Shovenko and I walked in silence among the columns that were meant to symbolize the damaged “tree of life. “An organ and audio player beneath the platform filled the air with the haunting music of Ukraine’s vanished shtetl culture, archival recordings of Yiddish songs from the 1920s and 1930s, and voices reading the names of some 18,000 sick Jews — the number of Jews murdered at Babyn Yar that was known for sure when this facility was completed. 3 years ago (that number now stands at 29,220).
Not far away, in the middle of the trail through the park, we stumbled upon a monument dedicated to an unrelated tragedy: a 160-gallon glass tank, filled with dust and resting on a column of bricks emblazoned with the logos of Kyiv’s brick factories. The installation, designed by Shovenko himself, is a reminder of the many horrors that took place here and after World War II. In November 1943, after the Red Army retook Kiev, the Soviet government began filling the ravine with liquid waste. from nearby brick kilns. On the morning of March 13, 1961, after heavy rains, a trillion liters of mud flowed through a dam and flooded the Kurenivka district. The flood is believed to have killed more than 1,500 people. The Soviet government, deflecting its responsibility, never recorded more than 145 deaths.
The filling of Bathroughn Yar had a more important purpose than the removal of excess mud. It was part of a systematic effort by the Soviet government to blur all lines of the massacre, a cover-up that gave the Holocaust memorial project even greater historical resonance. Spurred partly by the anti-Semitism of Joseph Stalin and other communist leaders, and partly by resistance to Jewish suffering at the hands of the Nazis, the Soviets built high-rise buildings and a television tower at the site, converting some of him in a park, allowing many to return to nature and stopping those seeking to pray here or commemorate the victims. “They said, ‘Come on, we lost 27 million people, isn’t that nothing because we weren’t Jewish?'” says Patrick Desbois, a famous French war crimes investigator and Catholic priest whose 2008 e-book, The Holocaust Through of bullets, documented the shooting. murder. of 1. 5 million Jews in Eastern Europe the first phase of Hitler’s so-called Final Solution. (Even in the 2000s, Desbois and his team faced obstruction from the Russian government as they investigated the murders. )
Still, the site was sacred. In 1961, 20 years after the massacre, the Soviet Eugene Yevtushenko published his poem “Babi Yar”, the Russian name of the place, in the prestigious Russian newspaper Literaturnaya Gazeta. The opening sentence: “There are no monuments above Babi Yar. ” – movingly evoked not only the atrocities but also the policy of silence imposed by the Soviet regime.
Soviet dissident-turned-Israeli politician Natan Sharansky was a 13-year-old boy in Stalino, now Donetsk, when he heard Yevtushenko’s elegy. “I, my father, read the newspaper Literaturnaya Gazeta in a trembling voice and say, ‘We can finally communicate about this,'” Sharansky told me recently. “A few days later, the press launched attacks on Yevtushenko, but the poem does not go away. “
Five years later, the Soviet literary magazine Yunost published a heavily edited edition of Babi Yar: a document in the form of a novel written by Anatoly Kuznetsov, a 12-year-old boy in Kiev during the Nazi occupation. In 1969, Kuznetsov defected to the United Kingdom, bringing the uncensored edition of his harrowing story, based in part on documents and eyewitness accounts he had collected in the decades following the massacre. (The book was published in the West the following year. )
In 1975, on the anniversary of the assassinations, Sharansky and a dozen other Soviet Jewish activists embarked on an exercise bound for Kiev, to Bathroughn Yar; the KGB arrested them before they arrived in the city and held them for two days. “Bathroughn Yar is not just the largest tomb of the Holocaust,” says Sharansky, now chairman of the memorial’s oversight board. “It is also the greatest symbol of this effort by the Soviet Union to erase it from memory. “After concerted tension from Soviet and foreign Jewish groups, the Soviets agreed in the 1970s to erect a small monument at the site, but it only referred to the “Soviet” victims.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Ukrainian leaders lifted the veil of secrecy and denial. In 2016, President Petro Poroshenko, a billionaire confectionery company owner, secured commitments to fund the work of Fridman, Khan, and Ukrainian-born Jewish oligarchs Victor Pinchuk and Pavel Fuks. But in 2014, Russia illegally annexed Crimea and started the war in Donbass, and many Ukrainians fiercely opposed any Russian involvement. Some believed that Fridman and Khan planned the mission as a Trojan horse to publicize a pro-Putin agenda. But Sharansky says Fridman, who lost several family members at Babyn Yar, never tried to spread Russian propaganda.
In addition to donating millions of dollars to the project, Fridman also advised that the supervisory board bring in Ilya Khrzhanovsky, an enterprising, forward-thinking and debatable Russian Jewish filmmaker, to design the monument. Fridman had visited the production offices of Dau, Khrzhanovsky’s ambitious film series about the Stalin-era physicist Lev Landau. To shoot the films, the director had built a vast fictional Soviet-style think tank in Kharkiv, Ukraine, and populated it, Truman Show style, with thousands of extras who lived there 24 hours a day for years. Dau reflected the kind of giant-scale cinematic vision that Fridman and the board hoped would energize the Babyn Yar project. “It mobilized a gigantic number of people,” Sharansky told me. in dozens of talented young Ukrainians, specialists in history and art. “
I met Khrzhanovsky one summer night in a cafe in the Wilmersdorf district of West Berlin, where he lives much of the year (he has Russian, Israeli and German citizenship). A baby-faced 47-year-old, dressed in a black trench coat and black pants, he had taken a break in the editing room, where he was finishing frames for a new movie.
When he arrived in Kyiv in 2019, while smoking a cigarette, he told me that the board of directors was considering creating a main museum at the site of the killings. Khrzhanovsky, whose mother fled central Ukraine on the last exercise before the Nazi attack in July 1941. , he rejected the plan. ” If you’re a child and you have no connection to the Holocaust, how can we make you need to come?” he said. I felt we had to build something interactive, other installations where other people could feel something about evil, about the fragility of life, and perceive what kind of globality is gone, what kind of Jewish whole is gone. “Oleksiy Makukhin, the center’s general director, told me that Khrzhanovsky’s arrival marked the moment when “the concept of a single museum was replaced by a new concept: taking over the entire territory. “
Khrjanovsky came up with random ideas that delighted some observers and infuriated others. His first idea was to dig a 300-foot-deep “scar” above the exact site of the murders, build a museum at the bottom, and place the dirt in a huge glass container; The task was abandoned because it would have required the excavation of part of an ancient Jewish cemetery. Another proposal aimed to use video testimonies from Holocaust survivors collected through Steven Spielberg’s Shoah Foundation to generate holograms of other people from the past, who would share their stories with guests. Another possible task, briefly discussed, would have taken advantage of the “deep fake” generation to send a guest to the execution scene in the ravine and place the viewer’s face on a Jew about to be executed. Critics have accused Khrzhanovsky of trying to turn the site into a “Holocaust Disneyland. ” The attacks against him have widened, focusing on his Russian origins and an unfounded accusation that he violated legislation regarding child hard labor on the set of Dau. (The charges against him were later dropped. )
Khrzhanovsky suffered attacks against his leaders. He attended the inauguration of Mirror Field in 2020. Shortly afterwards he inaugurated the kurgan, named for the mounds that the Bronze Age nomads of the Caspian steppe erected over the tombs and filled with chariots, weapons and goods intended to accompany the soul in the hereafter.
A few months later, Putin began amassing troops on the border. Khrjanovsky was at his parents’ house in Israel when he received a call informing him that Russia had invaded Ukraine. In kyiv, Makukhin, a former media representative for Ukraine’s Defense Ministry, helped organize an evacuation of the capital and nearby cities. Dozens of workers, a handful of nonagenarian survivors of the Babyn Yar massacre and descendants of other “righteous” people who had hidden Jews of Nazi profession crowded into cars and fled to seek refuge in the Carpathians. Makukhin and his colleagues had booked at most one hotel in a ski resort, where many evacuees stayed for weeks.
Khrzhanovsky has not returned to Kyiv since the invasion, and in September 2023 he publicly announced his resignation from the project. His Russian identity, he told me in June, prevented him from continuing. “When I was a kid, there was no difference between the Germans. “‘ and ‘Nazis,'” he said. And it makes sense that it would be like that with the Russians now. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done for Ukraine or what I want to do. They don’t want it and they don’t want it.
One afternoon, I went with Iryna Irchak, a researcher at the Bathroughn Yar Center, Kyiv State Archives, a brick tower built in 1972, where the center is in the midst of an ambitious digitization task to maintain millions of old documents. It dates back to the last 17th century and vital documents related to the Nazi profession and the murders of 1941, including, for example, the original posters in Russian, Ukrainian and German that gave the impression of a few days later the Kiev profession through the Wehrmacht. On September 19, 1941, the banners ordered Jews to gather “their documents, cash and valuables, as well as their warm clothes [and] linen” and assemble at 8 a. m. on September 29, at the corner of Melnikova and Dokhterivskaya Streets. Anyone who doesn’t show up, the poster warned, “will be shot. “
Desbois, a French writer and war crimes investigator, said most of those who had hoarded that morning had the idea that they would be deported or sent to hard-labor camps. “The Germans were forbidden to kick Jews,” he told me. “The Jews have to have an idea that they were just going to move somewhere else. The truth only came to light moments before their execution, when they were stripped naked and walked to the edge of the ravine before being shot dead with Mauser semi-automatic weapons. To avoid the bullets, the young men were thrown alive into the heap to be suffocated and crushed.
Desbois himself laid out the main dark points about the murders in the German archives, adding the account of a food vendor who accompanied the executioners and provided them with sandwiches and drinks during the murders. “He had to drive his little van among the other naked people who came here. “I had to set the tables and make tea, and each team would shoot, stop and stop by to eat. “Desbois also studied the rare color slides taken by a Nazi photographer that he captured in the immediate aftermath of the massacre, when Soviet prisoners of war were ordered to collapse bodies into the ravine walls. The photographs show the arrangement of belongings left behind by the Jews: a synthetic leg of the victim wearing a coat and hat, women’s boots next to a canteen and a photo of a small circle of relatives.
When I arrived at the Kiev archives, workers were examining the “interrogation protocols,” or interview transcripts, of 18 Soviet prisoners who had escaped from a Nazi concentration camp in November 1943. That summer, the Red Army had launched a major offensive, repulsing German lines along the Eastern Front in their advance toward the Dnieper River and Kiev. As the Soviets advanced rapidly through Ukraine, the Nazis temporarily acted to destroy all evidence of their crimes; The Soviet prisoners were among 321 captives ordered by the Nazis to reopen mass graves and cremate the bodies of Jewish victims just before the Wehrmacht withdrew. The prisoners who did not escape were shot after completing their gruesome work. After the war, two dozen Einsatzgruppen leaders were tried for war crimes and 14 were sentenced to death, but in the end only four were executed. The vast majority of those involved in the killing have never been brought to justice.
The Russian invasion gave the digitization program a new sense of urgency: early in the war, Russian missiles destroyed the archives of the Ukrainian security facilities in Chernihiv and severely damaged the municipal archives of Kharkiv. “All those documents are in danger,” one archivist told me. He was leafing through a pocket directory with the names of 2,088 Jews from kyiv’s Petrovsky district who were murdered at Bavian Yar. It was, he said, one of the rare patient registries established by the Soviet government. I flipped through page after page of names written in Cyrillic, compiled from interviews with space administrators and surviving relatives and neighbors. “And that’s just a partial list,” he said. Among the names of the dead that I read were Evgenia Direktor, 28, and her three daughters, Genya, Roza and little Lyusya. Bavian Yar Center staff also work in the state archives of the cities of Mykolaiv, Sumy and Chernihiv to digitize records of Jewish life from the 18th century to the years immediately after World War II. So far, they have digitized 3. 5 million pages of documents, adding birth, death, marriage and moving certificates in and out of Ukraine, with around thirteen million more pages left to go.
Another ongoing archival task is called “Names,” overseen by Furman, the center’s deputy executive director, and focuses on adding biographical details about the 33,771 Jews murdered at Bathroughn Yar, adding about 1,200 victims, unidentified animals discovered by the team’s researchers in the afterlife. Two years. In 2020, the center signed an agreement with Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center in Jerusalem, and gained access to its database. The staff cross-checked those files with documents from the Ukrainian state archives, the synagogue, and the army; digitized the material; And I made it available online. The result was an avalanche of new data (photos, non-public testimonies) from the relatives of the patients, who for the first time had access to documents from the afterlife buried in archives that were difficult to access.
After the Russian invasion, Furman found that his team could simply use their skills and enjoy a new purpose: documenting existing atrocities. The “Eyes Closed” task uses documents such as digitized media recordings, testimonies from family members, and data obtained from the state. The government has been working to identify civilians killed in Russian artillery and missile strikes and in abstract executions dating back to Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014. So far, more than 3,800 more people have been appointed. Their names and, when possible, short photographs and biographies appear on a site hosted through the center, what Khrjanovsky calls “a virtual cemetery. “That effort went hand-in-hand, Furman told me, with the collection of filmed testimonies from eyewitnesses and survivors.
As evidence of torture and other widespread abuses mounted, a half-dozen members got education from Yahad-In Unum, a Paris-based nonprofit founded through Desbois, on how to collect testimony in war crimes investigations. A survivor of war crimes in Guatemala, Syria, Iraq and other conflict zones, he has visited Ukraine three times since the war began, collecting eyewitness accounts in Kherson, Mariupol and other cities. Last year he signed a contract with the Bathroughn Yar Centre to collect testimonies for Yahad-In Unum to use in long-term war crimes trials.
One morning, I accompanied a young researcher from the Babyn Yar Center’s War Crimes Project, who asked not to be identified because of the sensitive nature of her work, to Irpin, near Kyiv, to interview a church deacon who had survived the Russian profession. of the city for a month. Every day, Roman Ilnitsky drove around Irpin, dodging Russian tanks and troops, picking up civilians who were too scared, in poor health, or frail to leave their homes and take them to church. so that they could be evacuated on foot to Kyiv by a badly broken bridge.
Ilnitsky, a burly guy in his 50s, said the Russians had fired artillery on a stretch of road used only by civilians, and named a church member, Anatoly Berezhnoy, who was killed by a Russian shell. He had noticed the bodies of a woman and her two children hit by shrapnel as they walked toward the bridge. He described to a friend in Bucha that he was tortured by Russian infantrymen for three weeks, and to another who, he said, was shot twice in the leg for talking on the phone and forced to climb slowly. in his house. But Ilnitsky had not personally observed those attacks, meaning his testimony, harrowing as it was, would likely be of limited use in court. Desbois says the Bathroughn Yar Center is doing its maximum productivity with limited resources. “They lost their staff and their funding,” he told me. “So, it’s a small team, they’re trying to survive and it’s not easy. ” According to him, most of the testimonies collected by the Bathroughn Yar team do not meet the rigorous criteria of Yahad-In Unum, although investigators have provided valuable clues to locate eyewitnesses and victims. Last summer, middle staff made the decision to avoid conducting interviews and instead focus on arranging visits and providing other logistical elements to the Desbois research teams.
On my last day in Kyiv, Makukhin took me on a hike through the ignored forest that bureaucratizes the outer limits of the former death camp. Leaving the art installations and landscaped public park, we followed a dirt motorcycle trail and found ourselves enveloped in a mosquito-infested sun and forests. “For decades, this total dominion has been a desert land,” he told me. I looked out over a wooded pass, one of the last surviving foothills of the original ravine. “All those trees are less than 80 years old,” Makukhin observed, many of which were planted by Soviet authorities, perhaps to make it even more difficult to understand the region’s history. Near the ravine, we found some damaged tombstones from the 19th century, the only remains of a ruined cemetery.
Makukhin and I temporarily arrived at the campus-like grounds of the historic Ivan Pavlov Psychiatric Center on the eastern border of Babyn Yar, Ukraine’s largest public psychiatric facility. In the days following the Kiev profession, Nazi troops seized 752 patients from the hospital. They were shot dead and their bodies thrown into the ravine. “They were the first sick people at Babyn Yar,” Makukhin told me. Two years ago, the board of directors of the Babyn Yar Center began negotiations with the Pavlov hospital to rent an abandoned three-room hospital. story building that was dropped into disrepair in the 1970s and turned into an art treatment center for veterans and other trauma patients. It would be part of a progression project to radically reshape this vacant lot.
Lighted paths, ravines, an elevated treetop trail and several museums would have reshaped a wild and inhospitable expanse, now “used primarily as a drop-off site for drug traffickers,” Makukhin said, and would have connected it to the rest of the monument in the U. S. Because the Soviet regime imprisoned and tortured dissidents in psychiatric institutions, he says, “all of those clinics inherited this negative reputation. “”Inclusion in the Babyn Yar Project would not only have commemorated the murders of psychiatric patients, but also lifted a decades-long stigma. But the Russian invasion has put those plans on hold. ” “This was going to take place here,” Makoukhine told me as we sat in front of a squat building peeking out from behind a concrete wall topped with barbed wire. It was the hospital wing for criminals diagnosed with serious intellectual illnesses and is still in use today. .
As we made our way back through the forest, Makukhin insisted that, even without a solution to the conflict, at least one more facility would soon be built. The center is raising money to rebuild the kurgan, the burial mound-museum. “If we have this kurgan, we can tell a lot of the story,” he told me. “The fundamental circle will be closed. ” The war, Array forced the team to reconsider their original concept of assembling shocking dioramas of raids, murders, exhumations, and cremations. In the face of ongoing violence and suffering, one feels that such horrors cannot be relegated to compromised exposure. to the past, however evocative it may be. ” We will have to reconsider how we commemorate this tragedy,” he continued.
In late August, fragments of a Russian missile or drone shot down by Ukraine’s air defense system landed next to the Bathroughn Yar synagogue, damaging wooden walls and a window. They were “quickly repaired,” Makukhin said, but the surprise of the effect persisted. On the sacred ground that has become synonymous with the unthinkable horrors of war, the ultimate bankruptcy has not been written.
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