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It is December of 2000, the river Oder is still and cold, the brown water made darker by the gray skies above. The river cuts through Wrocław, a vein of water that has helped to establish the city as the Polish Venice with its one hundred and twelve bridges. As we look at the river, we can see clusters of tree branches and leaves moving slowly south. Eventually, something else catches our eye. We try to tell ourselves that it’s more branches or some trash, but we know a dead body when we see one.