Anne Frank’s Sister Falls from Her Bunk From the well of my bunk, I watch you fall. You do not stir when I call or scratch at the lice that infect us all. The cold-booted guard gives you a little kick. A dirge plays on my frozen lips. Water and dark earth, to which we return; that’s what you sound like, dragged from the room. Three days pass without you here. The typhus unfurls its...