A young face, yet already consumed, the torn skin stretched thin over bone: the lager is not merely a historical place, it is a human condition—the annihilation of the person within still-living bodies. The face does not scream; it is beyond the scream. The mouth is slightly ajar, the eyes magnified by ancient spectacles, expressing both resignation and awe. I worked the terracotta with essential lines; I was young when I made it, and this is a fragment—broken and glued back together—of memory.