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THE SUMMER was coming to an end. The Jewish year wasalmost over. On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, the last dayof that cursed year, the entire camp was agitated and every one of us felt the tension. After all, this was a day unlike all others. The last day of the year. The word "last" had an odd ring to it. What if it really were the last day?

The evening meal was distributed, an especially thick soup, but nobody touched it. We wanted to wait until after prayer. On the Appelplatz, surrounded by electrified barbed wire, thousands of Jews, anguish on their faces, gathered in silence.

Night was falling rapidly. And more and more prisoners kept coming, from every block, suddenly able to overcome time and space, to will both into submission.

What are You, my God? [ thought angrily. How do You com- pare to this stricken mass gathered to affirm to You their faith, their anger, their defiance? What does Your grandeur mean, Mas- ter of the Universe, in the face of all this cowardice, this decay, and this misery? Why do you go on troubling these poor people's wounded minds, their ailing bodies?

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SOME TEN THOUSAND MEN had come to participate in a solemn

service, including the BloeMlteste, the Kapos, all bureaucrats in the service of Death.

"Blessed be the Almighty ... " The voice of the officiating inmate had just become audible.

At first I thought it was the wind. "Blessed be God's name ... "

Thousands of lips repeated the benediction, bent over like trees in a storm.

Blessed be God's name? Why, but why would I bless Him? Every fiber in me rebelled.

Because He caused thousands of children to burn in His mass graves? Because He kept six crematoria working day and night, including Sabbath and the Holy Days? Because in His great might, He had created Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna, and so many other factories of death? How could I say to Him: Blessed be Thou, Almighty, Master of the Universe, who chose us among all nations to be tortured day and night, [Q watch as our fathers, OUf

mothers, our brothers end up in the furnaces? Praised be Thy Holy Name, for having chosen us to be slaughtered on Thine altar?

I listened as the inmate's voice rose; it was powerful yet bro-

ken, amid the weeping, the sobbing, the sighing of the entire "congregation":

"All the earth and universe are God's!" He kept pausing, as though he lacked the strength to uncover

the meaning beneath the text. The melody was stifled in his throat.

And I, the former mystic, was thinking: Yes, man is stronger, greater than God. When Adam and Eve deceived You, You chased

ELIE WIESEL

them from paradise. When You were displeased by Noah's gener- ation, You brought down the Flood. When Sodom lost Your favor, You caused the heavens to rain down fire and damnation. But look at these men whom You have betrayed, allowing them to be tor- tured, slaughtered, gassed, and burned, what do they do? They pray before You! They praise Your name!

"All of creation bears witness to the Greatness of God!" In days gone by, Rosh Hashanah had dominated my life. I

knew that my sins grieved the Almighty and so I pleaded for for- giveness. In those days, I fully believed that the salvation of the world depended on everyone of my deeds, on every one of my prayers.

But now, I no longer pleaded for anything. I was no longer able to lament. On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the ac- cuser, God the accused. My eyes had opened and I was alone, ter- ribly alone in a world without God, without man. Without love or mercy. I was nothing but ashes now, but I felt myself to be stronger than this Almighty to whom my life had been bound for so long. In the midst of these men assembled for prayer, I felt like an observer, a stranger.

The service ended with Kaddish. Each of us recited Kaddish for his parents, for his children, and for himself.

We remained standing in the Appelplatz for a long time, unable to detach ourselves from this surreal moment. Then came the time to go to sleep, and slowly the inmates returned to their blocks. I thought I heard them wishing each other a Happy New Year!

I ran to look for my father. At the same time I was afraid of having to wish him a happy year in which I no longer believed. He was leaning against the wall, bent shoulders sagging as if un- der a heavy load. I went up to him, took his hand and kissed it. I felt a tear on my hand. Whose was it? Mine? His? I said nothing.

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Nor did he. Never before had we understood each other so clearly. The sound of the bell brought us back to reality. We had to go

to bed. We came back from very far away. I looked up at my fa- ther's face, trying to glimpse a smile or something like it on his

stricken face. Bur there was nothing. Not the shadow of an ex- pression. Defeat.

YOM KIPPUR. The Day of Atonement. Should we fast? The ques- tion was hotly debated. To fast could mean a more certain, more rapid death. In this place, we were always fasting. It was Yom Kip- pur year-round. But there were those who said we should fast, precisely because it was dangerous to do so. We needed to show God that even here, locked in hell, we were capable of singing H is praises.

I did not fast. First of all, to please my father who had forbid- den me to do so. And then, there was no longer any reason for me to fast. I no longer accepted God's silence. As I swallowed my ra- tion of soup, I turned that act into a symbol of rebellion, of protest against Him.

And I nibbled on my crust of bread. Deep inside me, I felt a great void opening.

THE 55 OFFERED us a beautiful present for the new year. We had just returned from work. As soon as we passed the

camp's entrance, we sensed something out of the ordinary in

the air. The roll call was shorter than usual. The evening soup was distributed at great speed, swallowed as quickly. We were anxious,

I was no longer In the same block as my father. They had

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transferred me to another Kornrnando, the construction one, where twelve hours a day I hauled heavy slabs of stone. The head of my new block was a German Jew, small with piercing eyes. Thar evening he announced to us that henceforth no one was al- lowed to leave the block afrer the evening soup. A terrible word began to circulate soon thereafter. selection.

We knew what it meant. An SS would examine us. Whenever he found someone extremely ftail-a "Muse/man" was what we called those inmates-he would write down his number: good for the crematorium.

After the soup, we gathered between the bunks. The veterans told us: "You're lucky to have been brought here so late. Today, this is paradise compared to what the camp was two years ago. Back then, Buna was a veritable hell. No water, no blankets, less soup and bread. At night, we slept almost naked and the temper- ature was thirty below. We were collecting corpses by the hun- dreds every day. Work was very hard. Today, this is a little paradise. The Kapos back then had orders to kill a certain number of prisoners every day. And every week, selection. A merciless selection ... Yes, you are lucky."

"Enough! Be quiet!" I begged them. "Tell your stories tomor- row, or some other day."

They burst OUtlaughing. They were not veterans for nothing. "Are you scared? We too were scared. And, at that time, for

good reason."

The old men stayed in their corner, silent, motionless, hunted-down creatures. Some were praying.

One more hour. Then we would know the verdict: death or reprieve.

And my father? I first thought of him now. How would he pass selection? He had aged so much ...

Our Blockalteste had not been outside a concentration camp

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since r933. He had already been through all the slaughterhouses, all the factories of death. Around nine o'clock, he came to stand in our midst:

"Achtung/" There was instant silence.

"Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you." For the first time, his voice quivered. "In a few moments, selection will take

place. You will have to undress completely. Then you will go, one by one, before the SS doctors. I hope you will all pass. But you must try to increase your chances. Before you go into the next

room, try to move your limbs, give yourself some color. Don't walk slowly, run! Run as if you had the devil at your heels! Don't look at the SS. Run, straight in front of you!"

He paused and then added: "And most important, don't be afraid!"

That was a piece of advice we would have loved to be able to follow.

I undressed, leaving my clothes on my cot. Tonight, there was no danger that they would be stolen. Tibi and Yossi, who had changed Kommandos at the same

time I did, came to urge me: "Let's stay together. It will make us stronger." Yossi was mumbling something. He probably was praying. I

had never suspected that Yossiwas religious. In fact, I had always believed the opposite. Tibi was silent and very pale. All the block inmates stood naked between the lOWS of bunks. This must be how one stands for the Last Judgment.

"They are coming!"

Three SS officers surrounded the notorious Dr. Mengele, the very same who had received us in Birkenau. The Blocralteste at- tempted a smile. He asked us:

"Ready?"

7 r

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Yes, we were ready. So were rhe SS docrors. Dr. Mengele was holding a list: our numbers. He nodded ro the Blockalteste: we can begin! As if this were a game.

The first ro go were the "notables" of the block, the Stubeflal- teste, the Kapos, the foremen, all of whom were in perfect physical condition, of course! Then came the ordinary prisoners' turns. Dr. Mengele looked them over from head ro roe. From time to time, he noted a number. I had but one thought: not ro have my num- ber taken down and not ro show my left arm.

In front of me, there were only Tibi and Yossi. They passed. I had time to notice that Mengele had not written down their num- bers. Someone pushed me. It was my rum. I ran without looking back. My head was spinning: you are roo skinny ... you are too weak ... you are too skinny, you are good for the ovens ...

The race seemed endless; I felt as though I had been running for years ... You are too skinny, you are too weak ... At last I arrived.

Exhausted. When I had caught my breath, I asked Yossi and Tibi: "Did they write me down?"

"No," said Yossi. Smiling, he added, "Anyway, they couldn't have. You were running too fast ... "

I began ro laugh. I was happy. I felt like kissing him. At that moment, the others did not matter! They had not written me down.

Those whose numbers had been noted were standing apart, abandoned by the whole world. Some were silently weeping.

THE SS OFFICERS left. The Blockalteste appeared, his face reflect- ing our collective weariness.

"It all went well. Don't worry. Nothing will happen ro anyone. Not to anyone ... "

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He was still trying to smile. A poor emaciated Jew questioned him anxiously, his voice trembling:

"But ... sir. They did write me down!" At that, the B/ocM/teste vented his anger: What! Someone re-

fused to take his word? "What is it now? Perhaps you think I'm lying? I'm teIJing you,

once and for all: nothing will happen to you! Nothing! You just like to wallow in your despair, you fools!"

The beIJ tang, signaling that the selection had ended in the entire camp.

With all my strength I began to race toward Block 36; midway, I met my father. He came toward me:

"So? Did you pass?" "Yes. And you?"

"Also." We were able to breathe again. My father had a present for

me: a half ration of bread, bartered for something he had found at the depot, a piece of rubber that could be used to repair a shoe.

The bell. It was already time to part, to go to bed. The bell regulated everything. It gave me orders and I executed them blindly. I hated that bell. Whenever I happened to dream of a better world, I imagined a universe without a bell.

A FEW DAYS passed. We were no longer thinking about the selec- tion. We went to work as usual and loaded the heavy stones onto the freight cars. The rations had grown smaller; that was the only change.

We had risen at dawn, as we did every day. We had received our black coffee, our ration of bread. We were about to head to the work yard as always. The Bloceaireste came running:

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"Let's have a moment of quiet. I have here a list of numbers. I

shall read them to you. All those called will not go to work this morning; they will stay in camp."

Softly, he read some ten numbers. We understood. These were the numbers from the selection. Dr. Mengele had not for- gotten.

The Blockiilteste turned to go to his room. The ten prisoners surrounded him, clinging to his clothes:

"Save us! You promised ... We want to go to the depot, we are strong enough to work. We are good workers. VVecan ... we want ... "

He tried to calm them, to reassure them about their fate, to

explain to them that staying in the camp did not mean much, had no tragic significance: "After all, I stay here every day ... "

The argument was more than flimsy. He realized it and, with- out another word, locked himself in his room.

The bell had just rung. "Form ranks!"

Now, it no longer mattered that the work was hard. All that mattered was to be fat from the block, far from the crucible of death, from the center of hell.

I saw my father running In my direction. Suddenly, I was afraid.

"What is happening?" He was out of breath, hardly able to open his mouth. "Me too, me too ... They told me too to stay in the camp."

They had recorded his number without his noticing. "What are we going to do?" I said anxiously. But it was he who tried to reassure me:

"It's not certain yet. There's still a chance. Today, they will do another selection ... a decisive one ... "

I said nothing.

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He felt time was running out. He was speaking rapidly, he wanted to tell me so many things. His speech became confused, his voice was choked. He knew that I had to leave in a few mo- ments. He was going to remain alone, so alone ... "Here, take this knife," he said. "I won't need it anymore. You

may find it useful. Also take this spoon. Don't sell it. Quickly! Go

ahead, take what I'm giving you!" My inheritance ... "Don't talk like that, Father." I was on the verge of breaking

into sobs. "I don't want you to say such things. Keep the spoon and knife. You will need them as much as I.We'll see each other

tonight, after work." He looked at me with his tired eyes, veiled by despair. He

insisted: "I am asking you ... Take it, do as I ask you, my son. Time is

running out. Do as your father asks you ... " Our Kapo shouted the order to march. The Kommando headed toward the camp gate. Left, right! I

was biting my lips. My father had remained near the block, lean- ing against the wall. Then he began to run, to try to catch up with us. Perhaps he had forgotten to tell me something ... But we were marching too fast ... Left, right!

We were at the gate. We were being counted. Around us, the din of military music. Then we were outside.

ALL DAY, I PLODDED AROUND like a sleepwalker. Tibi and Yossi would call out to me, from time to time, trying to reassure me. As did the Kapo who had given me easier tasks that day. I felt sick at heart. How kindly they treated me. Like an orphan. I thought: Even now, my father is helping me.

I myself didn't know whether I wanted the day to go by

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quickly or not. 1 was afraid of finding myself alone that evening. How good it would be to die right here!

At last, we began the return journey. How I longed for an or- der to run! The military march. The gate. The camp. 1 ran toward Block 36.

Were there still miracles on this earth? He was alive. He had passed the second selection. He had still proved his usefulness ... I gave him back his knife and spoon.

AKIBA DRUMER HAS LEFT us, a victim of the selection. Lately, he had been wandering among us, his eyes glazed, telling everyone how weak he was; "I can't go on ... It's over ... n \Ve tried to raise his spirits, but he wouldn't listen to anything we said. He just kept repeating that it was all over for him, that he could no longer fight, he had no more strength, no more faith. His eyes would suddenly go blank, leaving two gaping wounds, two wells of terror.

He was not alone in having lost his faith during those days of selection. 1 knew a rabbi, from a small town in Poland. He was old and bent, his lips constantly trembling. He was always praying, in the block, at work, in the ranks. He recited entire pages from the Talmud, arguing with himself, asking and answering himself end- less questions. One day, he said to me:

"It's over. God is no longer with us."

And as though he regretted having uttered such words so coldly, so dryly, he added in his broken voice, "1 know. No one has the right to say things like that. 1 know that very well. Man is too insignificant, too limited, to even try to comprehend God's

mysterious ways. But what can someone like myself do? I'm nei- [her a sage nor a JUStman. I am not a saint. I'm a simple creature

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of flesh and bone. J suffer hell in my soul and my flesh. J also have eyes and I see what is being done here. Where is God's mercy? Where's God? How can J believe, how can anyone believe in this God of Mercy?"

Poor Akiba Drurner, if only he could have kept his faith in God, if only he could have considered this suffering a divine test, he would not have been swept away by the selection. But as soon as he felt the first chinks in his faith, he lost all incentive to fight and opened the door to death.

When the selection came, he was doomed from the start, of- fering his neck to the executioner, as it were. All he asked of us was:

"In three days, I'll be gone ... Say Kaddish for me." We promised: in three days, when we would see the smoke

rising from the chimney, we would think of him. We would gather ten men and hold a special service. All his friends would say Kaddish.

Then he left, in the direction of the hospital. His step was al- most steady and he never looked back. An ambulance was waiting to take him to Birkenau.

There followed terrible days. We received more blows than food. The work was crushing. And three days after he left, we for- got to say Kaddish.

WINTER HAD ARRIVED. The days became short and the nights al- most unbearable. From the first hours of dawn, a glacial wind lashed us like a whip. We were handed winter clothing: striped shirts that were a bit heavier. The veterans grabbed the opportu- nity for further sniggering:

"Now you'll really get a taste of camp!"

ELIE WIESEL

We went off to work as usual, our bodies frozen. The stones were so cold rhar touching rhem, we felr rhar our hands would re- main stuck. But we got used to that too.

Chtistmas and New Year's we did not work. We were treated to a slightly less transparent soup.

Around the middle of January, my right foot began to swell from the cold. I could not stand on it. I went to the infirmary. The doctor, a great Jewish doctor, a prisoner like ourselves, was cate- gorical: "We have to operate! If we wait, the toes and perhaps the leg will have to be amputated."

That was all I needed! But I had no choice. The doctor had decided to operate and there could be no discussion. In fact, I was rather glad that the decision had been his.

They put me in a bed with white sheets. I had forgotten that people slept in sheets.

Actually, being in the infirmary was not bad at all: we were en- titled to good bread, a thicker soup. No more bell, no more roll call, no more work. From time to time, I was able to send a piece of bread to my father.

Next to me lay a Hungarian Jew suffering from dysentery. He was skin and bones, his eyes were dead. I could JUSt hear his voice, the only indication that he was alive. Where did he get the strength to speak?

"Don't rejoice too soon, son. Here too there is selection. In fact, more often than outside. Germany has no need of sick Jews. Germany has no need of me. When the next transport arrives, you'll have a new neighbor. Therefore, listen to me: leave the infirmary before the next selection!"

These words, coming from the grave, as it were, from a faceless shape, filled me with terror. True, the infirmary was very small, and if new patients were to arrive, room would have to be made. But then perhaps my faceless neighbor, afraid of being among

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the first displaced, simply wanted to get rid of me, to free my bed, to give himself a chance to survive ... Perhaps he only wanted to frighten me. But then again, what if he was telling the truth? I de- cided to wait and see.

THE DOCTOR CAME TO TELL ME that he would operate the next day.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "Everything will be all right."

At ten o'clock in the morning, I was taken to the operating

room. My doctor was there. That reassured me. I felt that in his presence, nothing serious could happen to me. Every one of his words was healing and every glance of his carried a message of hope. "It will hurt a little," he said, "but it will pass. Be brave." The operation lasted one hour. They did not put me to sleep.

I did not take my eyes off my doctor. Then I felt myself sink ... When I came to and opened my eyes, I first saw nothing but a

huge expanse of white, my sheets, then I saw my doctor's face above me.

"Everything went well. You have spunk, my boy. Next, you'll stay here two weeks for some proper rest and that will be ir. You'll eat well, you'll relax your body and your nerves ... " All I could do was follow the movements of his lips. I barely

understood what he was telling me, but the inflection of his voice

soothed me. Suddenly, I broke into a cold sweat; I couldn't feel my leg! Had they amputated it?

"Doctor," J stammered. "Doctor?" "What is it, son?"

I didn't have the courage to ask him. "Doctor, I'm thirsty ... "

He had water brought to me ... He was smiling. He was ready to walk out, to see other patients.

ELJE WIESEL

"Doctor?" "Yes?"

"Will I be able to use my leg?"

He stopped smiling. I became very frightened. He said, "Lis- ten, son. Do you trust me?"

"Very much, Doctor."

"Then listen well: in two weeks you'll be fully recovered. You'll be able to walk like the others. The sale of your foot was full of pus. I just had to open the sac. Your leg was not amputared. You'll see, in two weeks, you'll be walking around like everybody else."

All I had to do was wait two weeks.

BUT TWO DAYS AFTER my operation, rumors swept through the camp that the battlefront had suddenly drawn nearer. The Red Army was racing toward Buna: it was only a matter of hours.

We were quire used to this kind of rumor. It wasn't the first time that false prophets announced to us: peace-in-the-world, the-Red-Cross-negotiaring-our-liberation, or other fables ... And often we would believe them ... It was like an injection of morphine.

Only this time, rhese prophecies seemed more founded. Dur- ing the lasr nights we had heard the cannons in the distance.

My faceless neighbor spoke up:

"Don't be deluded. Hirler has made it clear that he will annihilate all Jews before the clock strikes twelve."

I exploded:

"What do you care what he said? Would you want us to con- sider him a prophet?"

His cold eyes stared ar me. At last, he said wearily:

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"I have more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He alone has

kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people."

THAT AFTERNOON AT FOUR O'CLOCK, as usual, the bell called all the Blockiilteste for their daily report.

They came back shattered. They had difficulty opening their mouths. All they could utter was one word: "Evacuation." The camp was going to be emptied and we would be sent to the rear. Where to? Somewhere in deepest Germany. To other camps; there was no shortage of them.

"\Vhen?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Perhaps the Russians will arrive before ... " "Perhaps."

We knew perfectly well they would not. The camp had become a hive of activity. People were running,

calling to one another. In every block, the inmates prepared for the journey ahead. I had forgotten abour my lame foot. A doctor came into the room and announced:

"Tomorrow, right after nightfall, the camp will start on its march. Block by block. The sick can remain in the infirmary. They will not be evacuated."

That news made us wonder. Were the SS really going to leave hundreds of prisoners behind in the infirmaries, pending the ar- rival of their liberators? Were they really going to allow Jews to hear the clock strike twelve? Of course not.

"All the patients will be finished off on the Spot," said the faceless one. "And in one last swoop, thrown into the furnaces."

"Surely, the camp will be mined," said another. "Right after the evacuation, it will all blow up."

ELIE WIESEL

As for me, I was thinking not about death but about not wanting

to be separated from my father. We had already suffered so much,

endured so much together. This was not the moment to separate. I ran outside to look for him. The snow was piled high, the

blocks' windows veiled in frost. Holding a shoe in my hand, for [

could not put it on my right foot, I ran, feeling neither pain nor cold. "What are we going to do?"

My fathet didn't answer.

"What are we going to do?"

He was lost in thought. The choice was In our hands. For

once. We could decide our fate for ourselves. To stay, both of us, in the infirmary, where, thanks to my doctor, he could enter as ei- ther a patient or a medic.

I had made up my mind to accompany my father wherever he went,

"Well, Father, what do we do?"

He was silent. "Let's be evacuated with the others," 1 said. He didn't answer. He was looking at my foot.

"You think you'll be able to walk?"

"Yes, I think so." "Let's hope we won't regret it, Eliezer."

AFTER THE WAR, I learned the fate of those who had remained at

the infirmary. They were, quite simply, liberated by the Russians,

two days after the evacuation,

I DID NOT RETURN to the infitmary. I went straight to my block. My wound had reopened and was bleeding: the snow under my

feet turned red.

NIGIIT

The BloeMlteste distributed double rations of bread and mar- garine for the road. We could take as much clothing from the store as we wanted.

It was cold. We got into our bunks. The last night in Buna. Once more, the last night. The last night at home, (he last night in the ghetto, the last night in the cattle car, and, now, the last

night in Buna. How much longer would our lives be lived from one "last night" to the next?

I didn't sleep. Through the frosty windowpanes we could see flashes of red. Cannon shots broke the silence of night. How close the Russians were! Between them and us-e-one nighc-i-our last. There was whispering from One bunk to the other; with a little luck, the Russians would be here before the evacuation. Hope was still alive.

Someone called out: "Try to sleep. Garher your strength for the journey." It reminded me of my mother's last recommendations in the

ghetto. But I couldn't fall asleep. My foot was on fire.

IN THE MORNING, the camp did not look the same. The pris- oners showed up in all kinds of strange garb; it looked like a masquerade. We each had put on several garments, one over the

other, to better protect ourselves from the cold. Poor clowns, wider than rail, more dead than alive, poor creatures whose ghosrly faces peeked out from layers of prisoner's clothes! Poor

clowns! I tried to find a very large shoe. In vain. I tore my blanket and

wrapped it around my foot. Then I went off to wander rhrough the camp in search of a little more bread and a few potatoes. Some people said we would be going to Czechoslovakia. No: to Gros-Rosen. No: to Gleiwitz. No: to .

ELIE WIESEL

TWO O'CLOCK in the afternoon. The snow continued to fall heavily.

Now the hours were passing quickly. Dusk had fallen. Day- light disappeared inro a gray mist.

Suddenly the BloeMlteste remembered that we had forgot- ten to clean the block. He commanded four prisoners to mop the floor ... One hour before leaving camp! Why? For whom?

"For rhe liberating army," he told us. "Let them know that here lived men and not pigs.ll

So we were men after all? The block was cleaned from top to bottom.

AT SIX O'CLOCK the bell rang. The death knell. The funeral. The procession was beginning its march.

"Fall in! Quickly!" In a few moments, we stood in ranks. Block by block. Night

had fallen. Everything was happening according to plan. The searchlights came on. Hundreds of SS appeared out of

the darkness, accompanied by police dogs. The snow continued to fall.

The gates of the camp opened. It seemed as though an even darker night was waiting for us on the other side.

The first blocks began to march. We waited. We had to await the exodus of the fifty-six blocks that preceded us. It was very cold. In my pocket, I had two pieces of bread. How I would have liked to eat them! But I knew I must not. Not yet.

Our turn was coming: Block 53 ... Block 55 ... "Block 57, forward! March!" It snowed on and on.

AN ICY WIND was blowing violently. But we matched with-out faltering.The SS made us increase our pace. "Faster, you tramps, you flea-ridden dogs!" Why not? Moving fast made us a little warmer. The blood flowed more readily in our veins. We had the feeling of being aJive ...

"Faster, you filthy dogs!" We were no longer marching, we were running. Like automatons. The 55 were running as well, weapons in hand. We looked as though we were running from them.

The night was pitch-black. From time to time, a shot ex- ploded in the darkness. They had orders to shoot anyone who could not sustain the pace. Their fingers on the triggers, they did not deprive rhemselves of the pleasure. If one of us stopped for a second, a quick shot eliminated the filthy dog.

I was putting one foot in front of the other, like a machine. I was dragging this emaciated body that was still such a weight. If only I could have shed it! Though I tried to put it out of my mind, I couldn't help thinking that there were two of us: my body and 1. And I hated that body. I kept repeating to myself:

ELIE WIESEL

"Don't think, don't stop, run!"

Near me, men were collapsing into the dirty snow. Gunshots. A young boy from Poland was marching beside me. His name

was Zalman. He had worked in the electrical material depot in Buna. People mocked him because he was forever praying or meditating on some Talmudic question. For him, it was an escape from reality, from feeling the blows ...

All of a sudden, he had terrible stomach cramps. "My stomach aches," he whispered to me. He couldn't go on.

He had to stop a moment. I begged him: "Wait a little, Zalman. Soon, we will all come ro a halt. We cannor run like this to the end of the world."

But, while running, he began to undo his buttons and yelled to me: "1 can't go on. My stomach is bursting ... "

"Make an effort, Zalman ... Try ... " "I can't go on," he groaned.

He lowered his pants and fell to the ground. That is the image I have of him. I don't believe that he was finished off by an SS, for nobody

had noticed. He must have died, trampled under the feet of the thousands of men who followed us.

I soon forgot him. I began to think of myself again. My foot was aching, 1 shivered with every step. Just a few more meters

and it will be over. I'll fall. A small red flame ... A shot ... Death enveloped me, it suffocated me. It sruck to me like glue. I felt I could touch it. The idea of dying, of ceasing to be, began to fasci- nate me. To no longer exist. To no longer feel the excruciating pain of my foot. To no longer feel anything, neither fatigue nor cold, nothing. To break rank, to let myself slide to the side of the road ... My father's presence was the only thing that stopped me. He

was running next to me, out of breath, out of strength, desperate.

-------------- N I G HT

I had no right to let myself die. What would he do without me? I

was his sole support. These thoughts were going through my mind as I continued

to run, not feeling my numb foot, not even realizing that I was

still running, that I "ill owned a body that galloped down the road among thousands of others. When I became conscious of myself again, I tried to slow my

pace somewhat. But there was no way, These human waves were

rolling forward and would have crushed me like an ant. By now, I moved like a sleepwalker. I sometimes closed my

eyes and it was like running while asleep. Now and then, some- one kicked me violently from behind and I would wake up. The man in back of me was screaming, "Run faster. If you don't want to move, let us pass you." But all I had to do was close my eyes to see a whole world pass before me, to dream of another life.

The road was endless. To allow oneself to be carried by the mob, to be swept away by blind fate. When the 58 were tired, they were replaced. But no one replaced us. Chilled to the bone, our throats parched, famished, out of breath, we pressed on.

We were the masters of nature, the masters of the world. We had transcended everything-death, fatigue, our natural needs. We were stronger than cold and hunger, stronget than the guns and the desire to die, doomed and rootless, nothing but numbers,

we were the only men on earth. At last, the morning star appeared in the gray sky. A hesitant

light began to hover on the horizon. We were exhausted, we had

lost all strength, all illusion. The Komrnandanr announced that we had alteady coveted

twenty kilometers since we left. Long since, we had exceeded the limits of fatigue. Our legs moved mechanically, in spite of us,

without us. We came to an abandoned village. Not a living soul. Not

ELIE WIESEL

a single bark. Houses with gapIng windows. A few people slipped out of the ranks, hoping to hide in some abandoned building.

One more hour of marching and, at last, the order to halt. As one mao, we let ourselves sink into the snow. My father shook me. "Not here Get up ... A little farther

down. There is a shed over there Come ... " I had neither the desire nor the resolve to get up. Yet I

obeyed. It was not really a shed, but a brick factory whose roof had fallen in. Its windowpanes were shattered, its walls covered in soot. It was not easy to get inside. Hundreds of prisoners jos- tled one another at the door.

We finally succeeded in entering. Inside, too, the snow was thick. I let myself slide to the ground. Only now did I feel the full extent of my weakness. The snow seemed to me like a very soft, very warm carpet. I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept. A few minutes or one hour. When I woke up, a frigid hand was tap- ping my cheeks. I tried to open my eyes: it was my father.

How he had aged since last night! His body was completely twisted, shriveled up into himself. His eyes were glazed over, his lips parched, decayed. Everything about him expressed total ex- haustion. His voice was damp from tears and snow.

"Don't let yourself be overcome by sleep, Eliezer. It's danger- ous to fall asleep in snow. One falls asleep forever. Come, my son, corne ... Get up."

Get up? How could I? How was I to leave this warm blanket? I was hearing my father's words, but their meaning escaped me, as if he had asked me to carry the entire shed on my arms ...

"Come, my son, come ... " I got up, with clenched teeth. Holding on to me with one arm,

he led me outside. It was not easy. It was as difficult to go out as

N I G HT

to come Ln. Beneath our feet there lay men, crushed, trampled underfoot, dying. Nobody paid attention to them.

We were outside. The icy wind whipped my face. I was con- stantly biting my lips so that they wouldn't freeze. All around me, what appeared to be a dance of death. My head was reeling. I was walking through a cemetery. Among the stiffened corpses, there were logs of wood. Not a sound of distress, not a plaintive cry, nothing but mass agony and silence. Nobody asked any- one for help. One died because one had to. No point in making trouble.

I saw myself in every stiffened corpse. Soon I wouldn't even be seeing them anymore; I would be one of them. A matter of hours.

"Corne, Father, let's go back to the shed ... " He didn't answer. He was not even looking at the dead. "Come, Father. It's better there. You'll be able to lie down.

We'll take turns. I'll watch over you and you'll watch over me. We won't let each other fall asleep. We'll look after each other."

He accepted. After trampling over many bodies and corpses, we succeeded in getting inside. We let ourselves fall to the ground.

"Don't worry, sao. Go to sleep. I'll watch over you."

"You first, Father. Sleep." He refused. I stretched out and tried to sleep, to doze a little,

but in vain. God knows what I would have given to be able to sleep a few moments. But deep inside, I knew that to sleep meant to die. And something in me rebelled against that death. Death, which was settling in all around me, silently, gently. It would seize upon a sleeping person, steal into him and devour him bit by bit. Next to me, someone was trying to awaken his neighbor, his brother, perhaps, or his comrade. In vain. Defeated,

ELIE WIESEL

he lay down too, next to the corpse, and also fell asleep. Who would wake him up? Reaching out with my arm, I touched him:

"Wake up. One mustn't fall asleep here ... " He half opened his eyes. "No advice," he said, his voice a whisper. "I'm exhausted.

Mind your business, leave me alone." My father too was gently dozing. I couldn't see his eyes. His

cap was coveting his face. "Wake up," I whispered in his eat. He awoke with a start. He sat up, bewildered, stunned, like an

orphan. He looked all around him, taking it all in as if he had sud- denly decided to make an inventory of his universe, to determine where he was and how and why he was there. Then he smiled.

I shall always remember that smile. What world did it come from?

Heavy snow continued to fall over the corpses. The door of the shed opened. An old man appeared. His mus-

tache was covered with ice, his lips were blue. It was Rabbi Eli- ahu, who had headed a small congregation in Poland. A very kind man, beloved by everyone in the camp, even by the Kapos and the BloeMlteste. Despite the ordeals and deprivations, his face continued to radiate his innocence. He was the only rabbi whom nobody ever failed to address as "Rabbi" in Buna. He looked like one of those prophets of old, always in the midst of his people when they needed to be consoled. And, strangely, his words never provoked anyone. They did bring peace.

As he entered the shed, his eyes, brighter than ever, seemed to be searching for someone.

"Perhaps someone here has seen my son?" He had lost his son in the commotion. He had searched for

him among the dying, to no avail. Then he had dug through the snow to find his body. In vain.

N I G H T

For three years, they had stayed close to one another. Side by side, they had endured the suffering, the blows; they had waited for their ration of bread and they had prayed. Three years, from camp to camp, from selection to selection. And now-when the end seemed near-fate had separated them.

When he came near me, Rabbi Eliahu whispered, "It hap- pened on the road. We lost sight of one another during the jour- ney. I fell behind a little, at the rear of rhe column. I didn't have the strength to run anymore. And my son didn't notice. That's all I know. Where has he disappeared? Where can I find him? Per- haps you've seen him somewhere?"

"No, Rabbi Eliahu, I haven't seen him." And so he left, as he had come: a shadow swept away by the

wind. He had already gone through the door when I remembered

that I had noticed his son running beside me. I had forgotten and so had not mentioned ir to Rabbi Eliahul

But then I remembered something else: his son had seen him losing ground, sliding back to the rear of the column. He had seen him. And he had continued to run in front, letting the distance

between them become greater. A terrible thought crossed my mind: What if he had wanted to

be rid of his father? He had felt his farher growing weaker and, believing that the end was near, had thought by this separation to free himself of a burden that could diminish his own chance for

survival. It was good that I had forgotten all that. And I was glad that

Rabbi Eliahu continued to search for his beloved son. And in spite of myself, a prayer formed inside me, a prayer to

this God in whom I no longer believed. "Oh God, Master of the Universe, give me the strength never

to do what Rabbi Eliahu's son has done."

ELIE WIESEL

There was shouting outside, in the courtyard. Night had fallen and the SS were ordering us to form ranks.

We started to march once more. The dead remained in the yard, under the snow without even a marker, like fallen guards. No one recited Kaddish over them. Sons abandoned the remains of their farhers without a tear.

On the road, it snowed and snowed, it snowed endlessly. We were marching more slowly. Even the guards seemed tired. My wounded foot no longer hurt, probably frozen. I felt I had lost that foot. It had become detached from me like a wheel fallen off a car. Never mind. I had to accept the fact: I would have to live with only one leg. The important thing was not to dwell on it. Es- pecially now. Leave those thoughts for later.

Our column had lost all appearance of discipline. Everyone walked as he wished, as he could. No more gunshots. Our guards surely were tired.

But death hardly needed their help. The cold was conscien- tiously doing its work. At every step, somebody fell down and ceased to suffer.

From time to time, SS officers on motorcycles drove the length of the column to shake off the growing apathy:

"Hold on! We're almost there!"

"Courage! Just a few more hours!" "We're arriving in Gleiwitzl"

These words of encouragement, even coming as they did from the mouths of our assassins, were of great help. Nobody wanted to give up now, JUSt before the end, so close to our destination. Our eyes searched the horizon for the barbed wire of Gleiwitz. Our only wish was to arrive there quickly.

By now it was night. It had stopped snowing. We marched a few more hours before we arrived. We saw the camp only when we stood right in front of its gate.

N I G H T

The Kapos quickly settled us into the barrack. There was shoving and jostling as if this were the ultimate haven, the gate- way to life. People trod over numbed bodies, trampled wounded faces. There were no cries, only a few moans. My father and I were thrown to the ground by this rolling tide. From beneath me came a desperate cry:

"You're crushing me ... have mercy!"

The voice was familiar. "You're crushing me ... mercy, have mercy!"

The same faint voice, the same cry I had heard somewhere before. This voice had spoken to me one day. When? Years ago? No, it must have been in the camp.

"IVlercy!"

Knowing that I was crushing him, preventing him from breathing, I wanted to get up and disengage myself to allow him to breathe. But I myself was crushed under rhe weight of other bodies. I had difficulty breathing. I dug my nails into unknown faces. I was biting my way through, searching for air. No one cried out.

Suddenly I remembered. [uliek! The boy ftom Warsaw who played the violin in the Buna orchestra ... / "[uliek, is that you?"

"Eliezer ... The twenty-five whiplashes ... Yes ... I re- member."

He fell silent. A long moment went by. "[uliek! Can you hear me, ]uliek?" "Yes ... " he said feebly. "What do you want?" He was not dead. "Are you all right, [uliek?" I asked, less to know his answer

than to hear him speak, to know he was alive. "AII right, Eliezer ... All right ... Not too much air ... Tired.

My feet are swollen. It's good to rest, but my violin ... "

\ . ELIE WIESEL

I thought he'd lost his mind. His violin? Here? "What about your violin?" He was gasping:

"I ... I'm afraid ... They'll break ... my violin ... I ... I brought it with me."

] could not answer him. Someone had lain down on top of me, smothering me. I couldn't breathe through my mouth or my nose. Sweat was running down my forehead and my back. This was it; the end of the road. A silent death, suffocation. No way to scream, to call for help.

I tried to rid myself of my invisible assassin. My whole desire to live became concentrated in my nails. ] scratched, I fought for a breath of air. I tore at decaying flesh that did not respond. I could not free myself of that mass weighing down my chest. Who knows? Was] struggling with a dead man?

I shall never know. All I can say is that I prevailed. I suc- ceeded in digging a hole in that wall of dead and dying people, a small hole through which] could drink a little air.

"FATHER, ARE YOU THERE?" I asked as soon as I was able to utter a word.

I knew that he could not be far from me. "Yes!" a voice replied from far away, as if from another world.

"I am trying to sleep."

He was trying to sleep. Could one fall asleep here? Wasn't it dangerous to lower one's guard, even for a moment, when death could strike at any time?

Those were my thoughts when I heard the sound of a vio- lin. A violin in a dark barrack where the dead were piled on top of the living? Who was this madman who played the violin

N I G H T

here, at the edge of his own grave? Or was it a hallucination? It had to be ]uliek. He was playing a fragment of a Beethoven concerto. Never

before had I heard such a beautiful sound. In such silence. How had he succeeded in disengaging himself? To slip our

from under my body without my feeling it? The darkness enveloped us. All I could hear was the violin,

and it was as if ]uliek's soul had become his bow. He was playing his life. His whole being was gliding over the strings. His unful- filled hopes. His charred past, his extinguished future. He played that which he would never play again.

I shall never forget ]uliek. How could I forget this COncert given before an audience of the dead and dying? Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men.

I don't know how long he played. I was overcome by sleep. When I awoke at daybreak, [saw ]uliek facing me, hunched over, dead. Next to him lay his violin, trampled, an eerily poignant lit- tle corpse.

WE STAYED IN GLEIWITZ for three days. Days without food or water. We were forbidden to leave the barrack. The door was guarded by the SS.

[ was hungry and thirsty. I must have been very dirty and di- sheveled, to judge by what the others looked like. The bread we had brought from Buna had been devoured long since. And who knew when we would be given another ration?

The Front followed us. We could again hear the cannons very close by. But we no longer had the strength or the courage to

ELIE WIESEL

think that the Germans would run out of time, that the Russians would reach us before we could be evacuated.

We learned that we would be moved to the center of Ger- many.

On the third day, at dawn, we were driven OUtof the barrack. We threw blankets over our shoulders, like prayer shawls. We were directed to a gate that divided the camp in two. A group of SS officers stood waiting. A word flew through our ranks: se- lection!

The SS officers were doing the selection: the weak, to the left; those who walked well, to the right.

My father was sent to the left. I ran after him. An SS officer shouted at my back:

"Come back!"

I inched my way through the crowd. Several SS men rushed to find me, creating such confusion that a number of people were able to switch over to the right-among them my father and J. Still, there were gunshots and some dead.

We were led out of the camp. After a half-hour march, we ar- rived in the very middle of a field crossed by railroad tracks. This was where we were to wait for the train's arrival.

Snow was falling heavily. We were forbidden to sit down or to move.

A thick layer of snow was accumulating on our blankets. We were given bread, the usual ration. We threw ourselves on it. Someone had the idea of quenching his thirst by eating snow. Soon, we were all imitating him. As we were not permitted to bend down, we took Out our spoons and ate the snow off our neighbors' backs. A mouthful of bread and a spoonful of snow. The SS men who were watching were greatly amused by the spectacle.

NIGHT

The hours went by. Our eyes were tired from staring at the horizon, waiting for the liberating train to appear. It arrived only very late that evening. An infinitely long train, composed of roofless cattle cars. The 88 shoved us inside, a hundred per car: we were so skinny! When everybody was on board, the convoy left.