They move silently, in groups of four. For ten precious minutes a day, they are permitted to see daylight. “Some women lift their arms as if drowning,” Marie Luise remembered. Some “spread their arms like dancers in the fresh air.” One moves swiftly toward Marie Luise. Her hair is pulled back in a bun the color of dirty straw. Her gaze is arresting. “I’m in cell 25,” she whispers. “Don’t forget me when you get out.” What is your name? Marie Luise wants to ask, but Mildred is already gone, lost among the others.
