Some nights, though, I could not remember my prayers even. I could only get as far as “On earth as it is in heaven” and then have to start all over and be absolutely unable to get past that. Then I would have to recognize that I could not remember and give up saying my prayers that night and try something else. So on some nights I would try to remember all the animals in the world by name and then the birds and then fishes and then countries and cities and then kinds of food and the names of all the streets I could remember in Chicago, and when I could not remember anything at all any more I would just listen. And I do not remember a night on which you could not hear things. If I could have a light I was not afraid to sleep, because I knew my soul would only go out of me if it were dark. So, of course, many nights I was where I could have a light and then I slept because I was nearly always tired and often very sleepy. And I am sure many times too that I slept without knowing it—but I never slept knowing it, and on this night I listened to the silk-worms. You can hear silk-worms eating very clearly in the night and I lay with my eyes open and listened to them. There was only one other person in the room and he was awake too. I listened to him being awake, for a long time. He could not lie as quietly as I could because, perhaps, he had not had as much practice being awake. We were lying on blankets spread over straw and when he moved the straw was noisy, but the silk-worms were not frightened by any noise we made and ate on steadily. There were the noises of night seven kilometres behind the lines outside but they were different from the small noises inside the room in the dark. The other man in the room tried lying quietly. Then he moved again. I moved too, so he would know I was awake. He had lived ten years in Chicago. They had taken him for a soldier in nineteen fourteen when he had come back to visit his family, and they had given him to me for an orderly because he spoke English. I heard him listening, so I moved again in the blankets. “Can’t you sleep, Signor Tenente?” he asked. “No.” “I can’t sleep, either.” “What’s the matter?” “I don’t know. I can’t sleep.” “You feel all right?” “Sure. I feel good. I just can’t sleep.” “You want to talk a while?” I asked. “Sure. What can you talk about in this damn place.” “This place is pretty good,” I said. “Sure,” he said. “It’s all right.” “Tell me about out in Chicago,” I said. “Oh,” he said, “I told you all that once.” “Tell me about how you got married.” “I told you that.” “Was the letter you got Monday—from her?” “Sure. She writes me all the time. She’s making good money with the place.” “You’ll have a nice place when you go back.” “Sure. She runs it fine. She’s making a lot of money.” “Don’t you think we’ll wake them up, talking?” I asked. “No. They can’t hear. Anyway, they sleep like pigs. I’m different,” he said. “I’m nervous.” “Talk quiet,” I said. “Want a smoke?”