Complete with armbands, too:
He watched on. Now that he had changed sides to the SS, he admired the strength of Fritz and the police man even more. He finally had left the camp of those who were wretched enough to let themselves be bludgeoned like that. He was glad to have made his choice. He did no longer have to fear the suspicion of the masters. He was on the side of good. The beatings the men received hardened his consciousness to embody good. One cannot receive beatings and be right, one cannot be dirty, eat garbage and be right."The human race"
When darkness falls on Kyiv, unidentified groups of “people in civilian clothes” roam the city, hunting for the young people, especially those who wear the symbols of the Maidan or the European Union. They kidnap them and take them out into forests, where they are stripped and tortured in fiercely cold weather. For some strange reason the victims of such actions are overwhelmingly young artists: actors, painters, poets. One feels that some strange “death squadrons” have been released in the country with an assignment to wipe out all that is best in it.http://www.neweasterneurope.eu/articles-and-commentary/1061-open-letter-from-ukrainian-writer-yuri-andrukhovych
After dawn unknown groups of “civilians” wonder around and catch primarily young people, particularly those carrying emblems of Euro-Majdan and European Union. They catch them, transport them to forests, undress and torture them in freezing cold. Interestingly enough, the victims are usually young artists – actors, painters, and poets. It appears that “death squads” intend to destroy what is the most beautiful. One more characteristic detail: in Kiev hospitals police units set traps for injured protesters, catch them (I repeat: the injured ones!) and take them for interrogations at unknown destinations. It became extremely dangerous to seek help in a hospital even by common passers-by who became injured by a plastic police grenade. The doctors only shrug and have to deliver the patients to the “law officers”.
They smell your breath lest you have said: I love you. They smell your heart; These are strange times, my dear. They flog love at the roadblock. Let's hide love in the larder. In this crooked blind alley, as the chill descends they feed fires with logs of song and poetry Hazard not a thought: These are strange times, my dear. The man who knocks at your door in the noon of the night has come to kill the light. Let's hide light in the larder. There, butchers are posted in passageways with bloody chopping blocks and cleavers: These are strange times, my dear. They chop smiles off lips, and songs off the mouth: Let's hide joy in the larder."In This Blind Alley"