I’d heard rumors in the street. Whispers that while we were in the cellar a hundred Jews, old men and little boys, had been run all over Przemyśl, right up Mickiewicza Street, German soldiers beating them if they fell. And when no one could run anymore, they’d been taken to the cemetery and shot. But I didn’t listen to rumors. I didn’t believe them. No one would do that. And the bombs had left plenty of fresh graves in the cemetery. I didn’t want to believe, and that made the lying easy.
