Hunger pangs attacked him and he lit one of the precious cigarettes to make it go away. For the umpteenth time he cursed himself for turning a deaf ear to Anna’s pleas to help him escape. He could be somewhere less awful than this place, with food to fill his stomach and winter clothing to keep him warm.
An hour later it was finally dinnertime and he presented his empty bowl to the man in charge of distributing the soup, watching like a hawk that the ladle was filled to the brim. One, two…the man stopped.
“Hey, the ration is three ladles of soup,” Peter protested.
“Sorry, chap. Not today. They cut the provisions again,” the man answered stoically and waved him away. The other prisoners in line pushed at his back, eager to get whatever little food they could.
The constant hunger was the
