This is the wall where they lined up the civilians, what it looks like now, generations later, years of cleaning and painting and advertising posters for films and bath soaps and circuses later. In the picture from then I count thirty-one people turned to face the cold bricks, although there may be a few more obscured by the closeness of the row. They stand erect, arms raised high as if these weren’t adults and children, real as the foggy air they breathe, but cartoon creations ready to take flight. There is trash, once prized possessions and important papers, between them and the off-camera soldiers, left after pockets and purses were emptied. A moment from now, the guns will be fired, but I didn’t give the order or squeeze a trigger, and so am free of guilt. I simply stood by silently.