Only when you have eaten a cockroach do you appreciate soup.
— Ukrainian Proverb
Packed into a box-car we all felt Siberia in our empty stomachs. In the rhythmic thud-thud of heavy steel wheels across the freezing steppe, in ice-cold mornings when vapor from the thin soup filled our cramped compartment with a smell of cabbage. Eagerly we scooped down our rations, knowing that it would be the only things that would sustain us until we had reached a target. The journey was long and our dignity was peeled off like the layers of an onion. What only the wisest of us saw was that we would look upon this railway existence as a glorious respite before we entered through those gates where only the strongest of us would ever exit. Our crimes were different, but after a while only a few of us had any remembrance of a life where cockroaches were killed and not eaten.
reflects the winter moon
– howling wolfs