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Tue 08 Aug 2009An Irishman's Diary
YOU’D NEVER sign a false confession would you? Not even if a hunched man shone a bright light in your eyes, his silhouette a giant against the tormenting walls of a deep underground bunker in Lithuania? Not if there were 40 other people in drab Soviet outfits facing the peeling patches of distemper and trembling just as much as those walls shiver with damp? Against the dark, your eyeball begins to swell with the direct wattage.
You are being shouted at in Russian. Nationality? “Irlanski,” you reply.
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