Crammed into a thin-walled barrack were several makeshift stoves made of brick. In the sparse morning light, the female cooks looked like ghosts in the thick white mist evaporating from the huge kettles. It would have been eerie if it wasn’t for the overwhelming mixture of smells. Victor stumbled on a stool, almost spilling water from the bucket of water he was carrying. Cursing, he shoved it under a table so that it wouldn’t happen to anyone else. “Do you have the water, boy?” Victor looked up at the middle aged lady in charge of the kitchen. She was a prisoner as well, but unlike most, well fed and strong. One of the benefits of working with food, he supposed. “Yes, it’s right here.” Right here and spiced up with a tin of white powder. The lady nodded, calling him over with a broad gesture of her somewhat swollen hand. “The guards want their morning warm up.” Victor strolled over, careful not to bump into a girl, who was carrying a huge basket of black bread, and tilted his bucket over the sweet-smelling pot.
