31
The vanquished have their faces against the wall and their heads bowed because that’s the way things are in war prison. They hold their hands behind their backs as if bound by imaginary handcuffs. They don’t take a breath. It’s the rule. Along a dark corridor cut by icy drafts, seventy-five men in blue cloth jackets and black caps were marching in single file until a second ago towards the refectory and suddenly stopped.