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Do slaves love their masters? When we passed this road in the winter, black funeral flags hung from almost every hut, and even now the rags still flap in the breeze. A Serbian boy, clad in dirty cottons, shouted to us, making gesticulations. We slowed down and stopped. "Bombe," he cried. "Aeropla-ane. Pet," he held up five fingers, "y jedan je bili slomile. Vidite shrapnel." He pointed.
We saw a quiet, early autumn landscape, the blue sky slightly flecked with thin horizontal streaks of cloud. Any scene less warlike could not have been imagined. "Vidite tamo," he cried once more. Straining our eyes one could just see, between the lowest strata of cloud, a series of small white round clouds floating. "Shrapnel," said Sava, pointing. "They hit one," said Mr. Berry.
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