With the progressive dawn, the outlines of an immense camp became visible: long stretches of several rows of barbed wire fences;
watch towers; searchlights; and long columns of ragged human figures, grey in the greyness of dawn,
trekking along the straight desolate roads, to what destination we did not know.
There were isolated shouts and whistles of command.
We did not know their meaning. My imagination led me to see gallows with people dangling on them.
I was horrified, but this was just as well, because step by step we had to become accustomed to a terrible and immense horror.
Eventually we moved into the station. The initial silence was interrupted by shouted commands.
We were to hear those rough, shrill tones from then on, over and over again in all the camps.
Their sound was almost like the last cry of a victim, and yet there was a difference.
It had a rasping hoarseness, as if it came from the throat of a man who had to keep shouting like that, a man who was being murdered again and again.
The carriage doors were flung open and a small detachment of prisoners stormed inside.
They wore striped uniforms, their heads were shaved, but they looked well fed.
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