The Golden Farce
The ice on the Vardar river did not crack so much as it sighed, a low, grinding complaint that traveled up through the soles of Maria Oikonomou’s boots. She stood at the head of the queue at the ration office, her breath hanging in the air like a grey veil, while behind her the line stretched back into the refugee quarter, a snake of wool coats and desperate eyes. Maria was forty-two, a court...
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