At the end of war, he had lost his shoe brush in his bunker facing the sea. A few years later, he went back there, but there was nothing left. The old bunker had sunk under the sand and it was heartbreaking. Such a beautiful brush. Half a century later, in the heart of Europe, he learned from the city daily newspaper that one morning, after an incredible storm a bunkers line came to the surface of a beach, like a huge scar. He took the first train to the west, then, from the station, ran and recognized his bunker on the beach. Inside, he found in the icy shade of the room, among the rusty rifles, the piles of rubbish, his rotten old comrades and unfinished love letters, his shoe brush. He brought it to his heart, which, by the way, had never really beaten.
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