The huts stand grey and hopeless against the illuminated colours of the cemeteries. Their occupants, workers from the industrial area of Valenciennes. Flemings with plastered down, red-blond hair and broad, helpless hands, take refuge between the graves on Sundays. They promenade backwards and forwards on the clean gravel paths. Defiantly exhilarated, they inhale the scent of the trees, which belong to the dead.
Tag Archives: Ernst Glaeser