Simon’s silhouette glides across the open Good Girls Are Made Of Sugar And Spice But Me And My Girls Are Made Of Bourbon And Ice Vintage Shirt toward the ditches. You follow in a running crouch, stopping to huddle together on the edge of the pit, shivering and panting white bursts of pain into the cold air. Up in the tower against the moon, you can see the high-collared coat of the guard, his breath a gentle plume above the shining barrel of the automatic rifle.
Simon glances up at the tower briefly and scrambles over the side of the ditch. It’s he who is leading now: even Steiner knows that Simon, working as a fireman, pulling the heavy cart loaded down with hoses–and sometimes bodies–has explored every inch of the camp. In spite of his age he has been here since the beginning; he knows the risks, the little things that give you an edge, the places to hide. But on the other hand, you think, he is reckless, far too reckless.
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He makes his way down the length of the Good Girls Are Made Of Sugar And Spice But Me And My Girls Are Made Of Bourbon And Ice Vintage Shirt to a spot beside a small mound, and motions for you to follow. The mound is a jute sack, stretched tight and lumpy, like a bag full of fists. One corner has already been broken or gnawed open. Simon reaches in, produces a potato. A whole, brown, perfect potato. Each of you is passed one like it. You cradle yours in your hands for a moment. It’s almost round, with a fold like a mouth on one end, and several small spongy eyes. You raise it to your lips. It’s hard, cold, and odourless, like a dream. You push it between the edges of your teeth, stretch the muscles of your jaw and bite. But the potato is frozen solid. You gnaw desperately at the surface, your tongue shoving its way recklessly in among your teeth, groping for a loose bit of skin, a single juicy eye, anything. Is it possible you have forgotten how to eat solid food? Do we forget such things: chewing, swallowing? You spin crazily around for help. Steiner is squatting on his hind legs, gripping his potato in both hands. Tears are streaming down Avram’s cheeks. A small animal cry escapes from the back of your throat.
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