It was a ritual they had established, at the urging of Lazarre, not to forget their past, their faith, their God. Lying in their filthy bunks, they mumbled the words softly in the darkness while a fellow prisoner coughed purposely to prevent the guards from hearing them. When they finished, Lazarre, now a skeletal version of his old thick self, would ask everyone to recite one thing they were grateful for that day. “I had an extra spoonful of soup,” one man said. “My rotted tooth finally fell out,” said another. “I wasn’t beaten.” “My foot stopped bleeding.” “I slept through the night.” “The
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