When I was in my room, surrounded by the smell of my aunts, I wept.

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Pressing the old rag of a doll to my face, I wept silently.

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Even as I wept onto her chest, her body molded into mine, head weighted against my fingertips, hips nestled into the palm of my hand.

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"I wept tears of joy, " says one woman.

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Then I found a card of an ex-prisoner of war, named Ryszard Kossobudzki and when I saw that, I just wept.

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