As for lice, they are—in the literal, physical sense of the word—a burning matter. Our blankets are swarming with silvery-glistening colonies of larvae. Protecting ourselves is impossible: we’ve seen neither soap nor louse powder since we’ve been here, but barbers at the ready, mostly Greeks, precisely cut the prescribed “prisoner’s band” across the thick layer of grime on our skulls once a week with dull, dirty clippers. Those in charge here do make sure of that, and only that.
