Writing Kohn’s letter left Ellwood with a sense of rootlessness. How did Jews bury their people? Kohn would have known. Strange, drifting memories came back to him: a dark house, mirrors cloaked in black mourning cloth, ripped sleeves. A funeral he had attended as a small child. The images were so eerie that he wondered if he had made them up. It didn’t matter, in any case. Kohn had been blown apart by the shell that hit his dugout, and there hadn’t been enough of him to fill a sandbag.
