At dawn, Goli Otok is pale. Gray. An anonymous island against which the oily waves of the Kvarner break. Looking at it from the mainland you can't see any kind of vegetation; you can't see either trees or shrubs. From the water emerges only a stretch of livid and sterile rock. In the summer the sun dries everything, in the winter the wind freezes what remains. In the eternal chase between life and death, it is always the latter that wins on Goli Otok. Looking at it, men have begun to call it in many ways: some have called it "bald", others "naked". But the most suitable adjective, perhaps, is "secret". The back of the island, a high cliff...