In the middle of one of the darkest of the six huts, pushing through the concrete under one of the bunks, a little plant had tentatively emerged. Its shoots reached toward the dim light from the minute overhead “skylights” (each about two inches by four inches of thick, cloudy glass); its hopeful buds were ready to burst open. It had broken through the legacy of the darkest and most calculatedly evil period of human history. Where would I ever find a more potent symbol for the impermanence of schemes hatched, surely, in hell? The hell that exists in twisted and warped human minds.
