'THE FIRST touch of that morning, that freezing cold and rays of light coming through the holes in the roof. The rays illuminating women who were putting fluttering hens with cut throats to boiling water. The rays falling onto trembling, naked body of a white rabbit. Still alive. A man was just ripping its fur off. They were glancing off knives, narrower by another sunrise. Is this dog still there; is it in those cages that are brought every day at sunrise? That white dog with eyes squinted with sadness…'
Elzbieta Piekacz