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Grey winter in Miloszewski’s Poland seems to last even longer than winter in Stieg Larsson’s Sweden: it’s a running black humor joke in this story that Szacki is always dashing out of his apartment underdressed into the Polish spring drizzle and wind. And the atmosphere is just as oppressive, psychologically. Because of the apparent nature of the murders, Szacki must sprint all over town interrogating suspects, among them modern so-called Polish “patriots,” extremists who bombard him with their anti-Semitic rants.
