New Year – 1942
The last stroke still hangs on the air as the clock in the distant steeple finishes its burdensome task of tolling out another year. Twelve long, melancholy strokes sent out into a dismal night. Maybe the clock has grown weary of marking time: maybe it is reluctant to usher in a new year. A new year; yes, but a new year which defies anyone to foster new hopes or linger over vain dreams. A new year in a world of unrest and turmoil, of bloodshed and destruction, groaning under the burden...