The hammer banged reveille on the rail outside the camp HQ at five o’clock as always, Time to get up. The ragged noise was muffled by ice two fingers thick on the windows and soon died away. Too cold for the warder to go on hammering.
The jangling stopped. Outside, it was still as dark as when Shukhov had gotten up in the night to use the latrine bucket–pitch-black, except for three yellow lights visible from the window, two in the perimeter, one inside the camp.
–by Alexander Solzhenitsyn