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One afternoon in January 1971 I was summoned to the interrogation room once again. The call was so unexpected that my heart was pounding with excitement as I followed the guard. At the door of the interrogation room, the guard suddenly gave me a hard shove. Five more guards crowded around me, shouting abuse at me. ''You are the running dog of the imperialists,'' said one. ''You are a dirty exploiter of workers and peasants,'' shouted another. ''You are a counterrevolutionary,'' yelled a third. To show their impatience, they pushed me from one guard to another like a ball in a game. I became dizzy and breathless. A young male guard grabbed the lapels of my padded jacket, pulled me toward him and gave me a hard push. I staggered backward and hit the wall. He did this several times. All the while, the other guards continued to shout at me. My ears were ringing, my head was splitting and my body was trembling. I collapsed into a chair and closed my eyes. Suddenly a stinging blow landed on my cheek. A female guard shouted, ''Are you going to confess?'' A sharp blow landed on my other cheek as several voices shouted, ''Are you going to confess?'' I kept my eyes closed and ignored them. One of the female guards gave my cheek another smart slap, took my arms and draped them around the back of my chair. Another guard grabbed my wrists and clamped handcuffs on them. ''These handcuffs are to punish you for your intransigence,'' the female said. ''You will wear them until you are ready to confess. Only then will we take them off. If you confess now, we will take them off now. If you confess tomorrow, we will take them off tomorrow. If you do not confess for a year, you will have to wear them for a year. If you never confess, you will have to wear them to your grave.'' ''What about it?'' another male guard said. ''Are you ready to confess? Just say yes, and we will take the handcuffs off.'' I looked at them all and said in a feeble voice, ''I've done nothing wrong. I have nothing to confess.'' The militant female guard tightened the handcuffs a few notches. Another guard said, ''Follow me!'' A blizzard was in full force. The wind nearly knocked me over when I stepped out of the interrogation building. The guard led me to a small building in a corner of the prison compound, unlocked a small door and said, ''Get in!'' The room was very dark. I waited for him to switch on the light, but he just closed the door after me. Standing outside, he asked, ''Are you going to confess?'' When I did not reply, he snapped the lock and went away. I stood just inside the door in total darkness, trying to make out where I was. An unpleasant odor of staleness and decay assailed me. Gradually I realized that the tiny room had no windows. However, the door fitted badly; a thin thread of light seeped through the gap. When my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I saw vaguely that there was a wooden board on the dusty floor and a cement toilet in the corner. The room was no more than about five feet square. The handcuffs felt different. They were much heavier and thicker, with a square edge, not rounded like the others I had worn. My hands felt hot, and my fingers were stiff. I did not know how long I sat there. In a dark room, in complete isolation, time assumed a different meaning or had no meaning at all. My legs felt stiff and my head ached. The night dragged on very slowly. More and more I felt that I was buried in a cement box deep underground. My hands