Inside the camp, there were more stacks of bodies placed in rows—like the rows of a woodpile lodged between posts. Some of the stacks head high, oddly neat in their arrangement. He had watched a young boy—twelve, maybe; maybe younger, being so thin it made guessing a tricky thing—walk along the rows, searching them, running his fingers delicately over the corpses, calling in his language, “Papa? Papa?” Noah did not know the language, but he knew what the words were: “Papa? Papa?”

Remembered a lieutenant, his face crimson with anger, tears streaming shamelessly, bellow to him, “Goddamn it, get that kid out of there.”

He and another soldier, whose name he knew only as Make—peace—remembered it because it was an odd name for war—had gone to the boy, had tried to lead the boy away from the rows of bodies. The boy had resisted, pulled from them, making his small cry, “Papa? Papa?” He had handed his rifle to Makepeace and had picked the boy up and carried him away. Air-light, the boy. Bones beneath clothing. Like holding a bird. The boy had finally rested his head against Noah’s shoulder, his call fading to a whisper: “Papa? Papa?”

He had taken the boy to a medic and left him and returned to his guard duty, where Makepeace waited with his rifle, taking deep, quick swallows of air to keep from sobbing. Makepeace had murmured, “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”

And they had stood, not speaking, watching. A man, mostly naked, wandered aimlessly into an electric fence, his first steps in freedom ended by electrocution. He did not cry out. Did not have the strength. His body jerked wildly, twisted once, fell. Noah believed he could hear the cracking of bones.

No one went to the man. From nearby buildings, emaciated bodies oozed through doorways. A chorus of voices made in the jabbering of many languages—Yiddish, Russian, Polish, German—hummed in the air. Celebration and eulogy made of the same words.

A man had clawed forward through the wad of bodies and approached Noah and Makepeace. He had a wide-mouthed, toothless smile. His skin, as gray as fine ash, seemed glued to his bones. He had said, in a hoarse voice, that he could speak English. Had said he would volunteer to translate if translation was needed.

The lieutenant was called for, was told what the prisoner had offered. Yes, the lieutenant said to the man. Gave the man a small amount of chocolate and his canteen. The man slipped the chocolate into his mouth, sucked on it, making tears come to his eyes. Licked the filth from his fingers that held the candy. Lifted the canteen to his mouth and drank slowly.

The lieutenant instructed him to tell the prisoners around them that they were free but needed to be patient. Soon they would receive food, medical attention, clothing.

The man turned and waved his arms frantically above his head. He began speaking in a shout—German, Noah had believed—and the close-by crowd became quiet. The man motioned to the lieutenant, made a small bow.