“Mines are hidden in cake tins and biscuit tins.” He showed us. The tins were bright and promising, with pictures of roses painted on their sides, or small children with rosy cheeks in old-fashioned winter clothes running behind snow-covered trees, or butter-soft shortbread with cherry-heart centers. “Would any of you open this tin?” A few of us raised our hands eagerly. “Children like you open the tins and get blown to pieces.” We greedy, stupid few quickly sat on our hands again. Damn this book is good. Alexandra Fuller writes about growing up as the daughter of…
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