At the Red Cross everything was as usual. They had no news for me. The same answer as before. Every time I went there it became more difficult. But I kept going anyway. What else could I do?

When I picked Lou up afterward, she’d been happy. She and Francis were laughing about something. I didn’t ask what, didn’t even think about asking.

Then we went to the boat. We went there every day now. It was the only place where I could escape from my thoughts. The only place where I found some relief. And it was good to get out of the camp. During the past few days the halls had filled up. There were beds everywhere. Many people were being pressured to share cubicles with strangers. Fortunately, for the time being, Lou and I were left in peace.

The food rations had been reduced. I had almost become accustomed to going hungry. To the growling of my stomach. A craving throughout my entire body. The thought of bacon grease, chocolate, hot cocoa with whipped cream, french fries, deep-frying fat, breast of duck, lasagna, pâté, fresh bread, fresh bread with butter.

There were rumors of how no supplies had been delivered for a week. That the camp was depleting its food supply.

And the morale. The piles of garbage, stinking in the heat. More slogans were written on walls all the time.

More and more frequently I saw small groups of people huddled together, speaking in low voices—only with their own.

The very sound of the camp had changed. There was a constant oppressive hum, which threatened to grow louder all the time.

But the worst part was the water. They had cut back the rations even more. We couldn’t shower, couldn’t wash our clothes. We received only exactly as much as we needed to drink.

I woke up and thought about water, drank a few lukewarm drops, saving it for Lou. I slept and thought about water, my tongue parched. I tried breathing through my nose so I wouldn’t waste any more saliva than necessary.

I hadn’t seen much of Marguerite. I stayed away from her. Or she stayed away from me.

After the brawl, after Marguerite’s hand on my arm, I caught myself walking around looking for her in the camp. I often thought I spotted her back in front of me in the line, or heard her voice from around a corner.

I wanted to see her again. And I didn’t want to.

I fantasized about what could happen. What would have happened if she’d continued? If she had moved her hand a little farther up my arm. Stroked my neck, my throat. Pulled me close to her . . .

But I hadn’t spoken with her today either. Lou and I had stayed at the boat until dinnertime.