Every day, we await 11:00 AM and 8:00 PM with trembling. All eyes are anxiously anticipating the arrival of the decisive moment, and those still able to get up prepare themselves for the great ritual: eating. The skeleton-people greedily clutch the iron spoons they’ve pulled out from under the wood shavings. Soup is being delivered to the bunks. As the food carriers approach, excitement mounts: restlessly we observe their every motion through the sludge, and pick apart the news that flits from bunk to bunk: “Bunker soup,” comes a report from the end of the row. Apprehensively a question flits
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