"Is this a part of growing up?!" wondered a 13-year-old Bojana, while she was writing down the first sentence of this autobiographical book on the wooden laths on the wall of an atomic shelter. She was holding a wet hankerchief on her mouth struggling with a smoke from the burning building above her head and the bombs kept falling like a rain on the city. That night Bojana decided to leave a trace. A trace someone might find one day. In case she doesn't survive...
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