Chaim always hated that powder blue. The whole time, even as we sat in our own filth, counting the clouds, all he whined about was that color. “Why couldn’t they have given us green?” He would scoff. “And the stripes. Why stripes?” “Prisoners,” I once said to him. “We’re prisoners.” “No.” He shook his head. “Prisoners are kept for a crime. Even prisoners of war. After all, war is a crime.” Then what were we? I always asked myself that question. What did you call someone who was ripped from their home, torn from the arms of their family, and forced to fester in despair? Perhaps Chaim was right. We were less than prisoners. The ability to get more of that ghastly, watery soup from the guards was something I could never do. A coward. Chaim, someone of little inhibition and no fear, consistently took the brunt of it. The…