“No—leave him to lick his wounds for a while. I think this one is a bit more interesting than your run-of-the-mill peasant—maybe he’s a big shot. We can carry on with him later. But make sure he gets nothing to eat or drink.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dietrich left the cell. He walked slowly between the cages, looking down at the floor. Something bothered him about this prisoner; a sixth sense told him that he was different. What was it? Was it the clothes, the hair or the voice—or all of those things? He walked out into the sunlight, chewing his lip. He neither noticed the frantic activity around the trucks, nor was he aware that his office was now spotless. Once more, he took off his boots, put his feet on the chair and placed his cap over his face. Another scream came from the prison. Fasshauer must have given the prisoner another kick in the groin. Dietrich nodded off.

Lockhart awoke from what passed as sleep to find nearly every part of his body aching. His testicles hurt the most—he didn’t dare look to see what state they were in. He reached for his nose, gingerly touching it. Even that gentle exploration caused a bolt of pain to shoot up it, spreading over his entire face. The back of his head felt sore and puffy—he had sustained a huge bruise from when his head had snapped back from the oberstleutnant’s punch.

The cell was dark, the only light seeping in under the door. If his nose wasn’t blocked, then Lockhart would have smelled the fetid mixture of stale urine, vomit and feces. The floor felt slimy and damp, caked with the effluence from previous inhabitants. He could hear vague noises from the prisoners in the cages outside. That he wasn’t alone gave him slight hope, but he knew that he was housed in little more than a transit camp between life and an unmarked grave. Any hope in a place like this was false.

He half wished he still had the cough drop, feeling the torn stitching around the point of his collar. But he was still alive, and he had to stay that way, for the sake of Anna and Amy. He had to see them again, had to reunite his family, make it whole again. For them, he would endure anything, suffer the most vile excesses that could be imagined. Manoli’s Erotocritos came to mind:

Love made Rotokritos to hold his ground

And to defy the ten who gathered round.