The crowd moves slowly, a little dazed, and insufficiently dressed to protect them from the biting Polish wind. They stumble along the dirt road that leads up through the camp, staring horrified to left and right, taking in the stark barbed wire fences that contain this bleak cold world.
Chimneys rise in rows into the distance, but she knows, she can feel it now in her chilled bones, that the stoves could never be up to the task of heating those tattered huts. How many people must each one be obliged to house? And how often would the population be completely renewed? Even the most na�ve of travellers, from the most sheltered and luxurious of backgrounds, must realise that no-one could survive here for long.
Along the fence, watchtowers stand, glaring austerely at the newcomers, issuing a harsh, unspoken warning. Her throat is dry when she swallows, and her dress is thin. In fact she is wearing all the clothes she has, but still the layers cannot keep her warm. Her shivering is attributable to more than just the cold, and the others must feel the same, but they cannot meet each other�s eyes. They are too weary to comment, barely able to register the crunch of the road beneath their feet.
Beside her she sees railway tracks, making their uncompromising way up a very slight incline to a platform, low grey buildings where the doomed alight. It is not hard to hear the moans of the condemned, to see and smell the thread of smoke in the distance; to feel the fear and know that the air is as densely populated with unhappy ghosts as the land of the dead.
She opens her mouth to grumble about the cold, and her words die in her throat. How can she possibly complain, when she stands free under the pale sky?