Fingers taken away by a hot breeze blown by a gentle small device planted outside her school Adila cannot hold a pencil but she can spell despot. Motherless and luckless, the boy without a name with neither food nor home dreams about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Wet faced, lump-throated, the Windemere Kinder, voices frail on the wind, look on in wonder at the hands that would now push them back into gas chambers and walk clean away with neither thought nor regret. While we the lucky ones, pink faced accidents of birth, lamely shake our heads when we should be shaking throats in the land that once was proud to be a safe haven. Harry Gallagher