No longer Anna, but 10678, tattooed on the underside of the left forearm. The tattooist’s needle had hurt, but not as much as the beatings that came later, the daily dispensations of casual brutality. The sharp smack of the whip; the crude pain from the hobnailed boot; the savage pistol-whipping—the pain was quotidian and merciless. Pain for breakfast, lunch, and supper, although of course there were no such meals. Instead, the numbers received a foul and watery concoction twice a day, accompanied by some moldy bread. If she was lucky, 10678 would get near to the end of the line, and would be doled out some of the solids that had sunk to the bottom of the big serving drum. But if she got too near the end, she would miss out altogether, and would starve until six o’clock that evening. And nobody would share with 10678, for it was every number for herself.

She was shutting down; her brain, her limbs, her womb—all were petrified through starvation, exhaustion and fear. And when she wasn’t thinking about food, or the lice, or the cold, 10678 remembered that in another time, another place, she had a husband and a daughter. She recalled the daughter being a pretty little thing, with brown hair like her father, who was a warm, funny and kind man.

Sometimes, an image of this mythical family would come out through the fog. It might be of him, driving their sports car very fast from Oxford up to London, her hand permanently resting on his left thigh. Or it could be of when she gave birth, those hours of struggle in that room in the Radcliffe. Or their wedding day, staring at him directly through her veil, their eyes locked together, occasionally glancing at the small globe of sweat making its way down the side of his face. At night, she would fantasize that she would hear from him, maybe receive a letter, some sort of sign. Deep down, 10678 knew it was pointless, but she was still strong enough to hope. She also knew that she wasn’t so much living in hope as dying in it.

They all wanted a sign, the women here. Her former bedmate, a Gypsy girl called Mila, had dreamed every night that she had been reunited with her husband, and every morning, when she awoke, she would cry and scream. 10678 had been sympathetic at first, but the girl’s regular hysterics soon wore her down. And then, one day, Mila had disappeared. 10678 tried hard not to feel relieved, such was the nature of the place—it brought out your worst side, and it could become your only side. Mila’s disappearance meant that 10678 had the bed to herself for a few nights, and for that she was grateful, but she would rather have had Mila and the sleepless nights back, because she hated the fact that the price of comfort was another’s life. That disturbed her, kept her awake more than Mila ever could.