The whistle sounded, and the shrill scream tore the silent night to pieces. The prisoners of war climbed up from the bunks like corpses, buttocks touching buttocks, heads touching heads, hurriedly putting on clothes and shoes. There were no lights in the No. 6 House, but it was not dark. The long-bright lights of the electric grid on the south wall and the searchlights on the watchtower passed through the iron-barred doors and windows, throwing soft yellow light and snow-white light into the room.
