“By noon, we’d checked the dead and dying in Barracks 552, and went on to 554 . . . pretty drunk by then. Staggering in the mud with the wind blowing rain off the pine needles. I remember I had to keep wiping my glasses. We stopped in front of 554, swigged some more, then pushed open the door. It was pretty dark at first, so I couldn’t see who was there and who wasn’t. Then the sun came out, lit the place up, and two little boys ran to us . . . ran . . . and yelled ‘Welcome, Americans!’ in English. I realized then that the place didn’t smell. I mean it did, but only of mud and wet wood. So I thought they were long dead and gone, except for the kids. Then I saw them. Thirty-­five of them standing next to their bunks in a line, like soldiers at inspection. We all stared at each other for a long time. They had hair, and teeth. Oh, they were thin, but not starving. And pale, but winter pale, not the color of starvation.

“Then one little man left the lineup and came up the aisle. He had dark hair, with a beard, and a little cap on his head. Tears ran down his face and he held out his hand to me, and said, ‘My name is Jacob Levy. Thank you for coming,’ in English. I didn’t want to touch him; the prisoners were covered with lice and there’d been typhus in the camp. But I took his hand. I couldn’t help it—something about the man—and I started to say something, I don’t know what; ‘you’re welcome’ maybe. But all at once I started crying. Then Reynolds shook hands with him, and he cried. Christ, what a scene. They all came toward us then, all in tears, but all smiling; and me and Reynolds and the little guy stood at the door like hostesses at a wedding, and shook hands with those ghostly-­looking men as they went out into the open air. They hugged the little guy, and he was the last one to leave. Just before he did, he looked back at the place, and I watched his face. But it was blank, except for the tears. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Then he followed the others outside as one of the transport vans pulled in through the mud.

“I know I was drunk. But even so, I knew it was nuts for thirty-­five men, all from one village . . . they were, you know . . . one village . . . to be alive, and well. So I stayed there to look around. I didn’t expect to find anything but I looked anyway. I walked down the aisle between the bunks with the sun going and coming, and at the back wall, behind the bunks, I found this pile of sealed cartons. I ripped one open, and found the answer.”