Chapter 2Joe ate fast to sustain his body, but with no pleasure at all. The potatoes were barely cooked. The bread was so hard, it could have been a weapon.
“Bolshevik lovers,” someone said, passing their table. “Traitors.”
Joe looked up at the man who’d insulted them, but the man walked on, feigning innocence. In the early days, Joe would have stood up and knocked the man out. In his first months here, Joe had bashed heads on tables and walls, until one day, the reputation he’d made for himself was enough, and he’d retired his fists. These days, some of the men, the new arrivals mostly, called him names from across the yard or mess hall, and Joe would let them get away with it for a few days so the men could build up their confidence and survive in here. The older inmates knew this. It
