Cracked strip lights pulse in time with the spluttering generator. Most of the lockers remain shut tight, their contents hidden since that weekend in 1986. Here and there a few lie open on rusted hinges – within, faded photos of wives and children, a copy of Pravda, a scarf, gloves, pairs of fur-lined boots, a brown leather jacket. Once cherished possessions discarded without a seconds thought.
The counter around my neck begins to click – it’s warning angrier than before: my time is running out. I take one last picture before I put my camera away and make for the open door, and daylight.