* Near the end of the avenue, close to Babrungo River, stood a bookstore that had been a printing shop at the time of the uprising. Damijonas recounted that, three months before the rebellion, he and two other men had taken a mimeograph machine (rotatorius) from this shop, to print proclamations. An employee had set the machine on a basement window sill, to allow it to be carried to the home of Damijonas’s aunt at Vaižganto 63, four blocks away. Damijonas obtained a thousand sheets of paper, which he said he’d purchased by soliciting donations from Plungė residents. Later, I wondered if he had, in fact, received the paper from the Germans.
* Using a stencil (trafaretas) to copy the proclamation’s text, the three-person team took turns throughout the night, hand-cranking the thousand sheets. Afterward, they wiped the stencil with kerosene (žibalu), “so that not even a dog could smell that it was used during the night.” At dawn, one man returned the mimeograph machine (rotatorius) to the windowsill while another stuffed copies into strategically placed bundles of straw throughout town. The next morning, the townspeople searched the bundles for directives. Sometimes they’d find a snake that had crawled into the straw, said Damijonas, chuckling. “What did the directives say?” I inquired. “I don’t remember. The proclamations came from the LAF in Berlin.” He was unusually quiet for several seconds. “Don’t you have any copies in your archives?” I persisted. “You made a thousand copies! That big wall in your apartment, behind the curtain, that’s filled with paper? Didn’t you save at least one of the directives?” “Unfortunately, I didn’t.” “What a shame.”

* Using a stencil (trafaretas) to copy the proclamation’s text, the three-person team took turns throughout the night, hand-cranking the thousand sheets. Afterward, they wiped the stencil with kerosene (žibalu), “so that not even a dog could smell that it was used during the night.” At dawn, one man returned the mimeograph machine (rotatorius) to the windowsill while another stuffed copies into strategically placed bundles of straw throughout town. The next morning, the townspeople searched the bundles for directives. Sometimes they’d find a snake that had crawled into the straw, said Damijonas, chuckling. “What did the directives say?” I inquired. “I don’t remember. The proclamations came from the LAF in Berlin.” He was unusually quiet for several seconds. “Don’t you have any copies in your archives?” I persisted. “You made a thousand copies! That big wall in your apartment, behind the curtain, that’s filled with paper? Didn’t you save at least one of the directives?” “Unfortunately, I didn’t.” “What a shame.”

* Near the end of the avenue, close to Babrungo River, stood a bookstore that had been a printing shop at the time of the uprising. Damijonas recounted that, three months before the rebellion, he and two other men had taken a mimeograph machine from this shop, to print proclamations. An employee had set the machine on a basement window sill, to allow it to be carried to the home of Damijonas’s aunt at Vaižganto 63, four blocks away. Damijonas obtained a thousand sheets of paper, which he said he’d purchased by soliciting donations from Plungė residents. Later, I wondered if he had, in fact, received the paper from the Germans.
* Using a stencil to copy the proclamation’s text, the three-person team took turns throughout the night, hand-cranking the thousand sheets. Afterward, they wiped the stencil with kerosene, “so that not even a dog could smell that it was used during the night.” At dawn, one man returned the mimeograph machine to the windowsill while another stuffed copies into strategically placed bundles of straw throughout town. The next morning, the townspeople searched the bundles for directives. Sometimes they’d find a snake that had crawled into the straw, said Damijonas, chuckling. “What did the directives say?” I inquired. “I don’t remember. The proclamations came from the LAF in Berlin.” He was unusually quiet for several seconds. “Don’t you have any copies in your archives?” I persisted. “You made a thousand copies! That big wall in your apartment, behind the curtain, that’s filled with paper? Didn’t you save at least one of the directives?” “Unfortunately, I didn’t.” “What a shame.”

Using a stencil to copy the proclamation’s text, the three-person team took turns throughout the night, hand-cranking the thousand sheets.
Afterward, they wiped the stencil with kerosene, “so that not even a dog could smell that it was used during the night.” At dawn, one man returned the mimeograph machine to the windowsill while another stuffed copies into strategically placed bundles of straw throughout town. The next morning, the townspeople searched the bundles for directives. Sometimes they’d find a snake that had crawled into the straw, said Damijonas, chuckling.
“What did the directives say?” I inquired.
“I don’t remember. The proclamations came from the LAF in Berlin.” He was unusually quiet for several seconds.
“Don’t you have any copies in your archives?” I persisted. “You made a thousand copies! That big wall in your apartment, behind the curtain, that’s filled with paper? Didn’t you save at least one of the directives?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t.”
“What a shame.”

“I don’t remember. The proclamations came from the LAF in Berlin.”
He was unusually quiet for several seconds.

17) PRESENTATION We then go through the chronology of the crimes, showing the documents that pinpoint Noreika's activity, and describing how the crimes unfolded day by day. As we do this, we point out the absurdity of the Genocide Center's counterarguments. And we note time and time again how Noreika could have intervened but how instead he united the community in crime. We note the absurdity of claiming his ignorance of what was going on. We show that he was appointed as Šiauliai District Chief precisely because of his experience in the Holocaust. We go through his activity up until the Žagarė killings.