Peter picked his feet up and put them down again, taking one step after another automatically, without wasting energy for anything except the movement of his legs. Every step sent a low burn through his soles, the raw pain moving up his calves, building, burning stronger as it swept up his thighs. His hips ached and tingled with an intense agony he hadn’t known existed. Every nerve ending shot pain into every last inch of his tormented body as he trudged forward – one step at a time.
His big toe bumped against the confinement of the too-small felt boots and he wished it would puncture a hole in them, despite the freezing cold temperatures. He didn’t know which was worse, frostbitten toes or swollen, glowing toes.
On January 21, a mere nine days after his arrival in Gross Born, the Nazis
