The summer was coming to an end. The Jewish year was nearly over. On the eve of posh Hashanah, the last day of that accursed year, the whole camp was electric

with the tension which was in al our hearts. In spite of everything, this day was different from

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any other. The last day of the year. The word “last” rang very strangely. What if it were indeed

the last day?

They gave us our evening meal, a very thick soup, but no one touched it. We wanted to wait

until after prayers. At the place of assembly, surrounded by the electrified barbed wire,

thousands of silent Jews gathered, their faces stricken.

Night was falling. Other prisoners continued to crowd in, from every block, able suddenly to

conquer time and space and submit both to their will.

“What are You, my God,” I thought angrily, “compared to this afflicted crowd, proclaiming to

You their faith, their anger, their revolt? What does Your greatness mean, Lord of the

universe, in the face of all this weakness, this decomposition, and this decay? Why do you still

trouble their sick minds, their crippled bodies?”

Ten thousand men had come to attend the solemn service, heads of the blocks, Kapos,

functionaries of death.

“Bless the Eternal.

The voice of the offcciant had just made itself heard. I thought at first it was the wind.

“Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!”

Thousands of voices repeated the benediction; thousands of men prostrated themselves like trees before a tempest.

“Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!”

Why, but why should I bless Him? In every fiber I rebelled. Because He had had thousands of

children burned in His pits? Because He kept six crematories working night and day, on

Sundays and feast days? Because in His great might He had created Aushwitz, Birkenau,

Buna, and so many factories of death? How could I say to Him: “Blessed art Thou, Eternal,

Master of the Universe, Who chose us from among the races to be tortured day and night, to

see our fathers, our mothers, our brothers, end in the crematory? Raised be Thy Holy Name,

thou Who hast chosen us to be butchered on Thine altar?”

I heard the voice of the officiant rising up, powerful yet at the same time broken, amid the

tears, sobs, the sighs of the whole congregation:

“All the earth and the Universe are Gods!”

He kept stopping every moment, as though he did not have the strength to find the meaning

beneath the words. The melody choked in his throat.

And I, mystic that I bad been, I thought:

Yes, man is very strong, greater than God. When You were deceived by Adam and Eve, You

drove them out of Paradise. When Noah’s generation displeased You, You Brought down the

Flood. When Sodom no longer found favor in Your eyes, You made the sky rain down fire

and sulfur. But these men here, whom You have betrayed, whom You have allowed to be

tortured, butchered, gassed, burned, what do they do? They pray before You! They praise Your Name!”

“All creation bears witness to the Greatness of God!”

Once, New Years Day had dominated my life. I knew that my sins grieved the Eternal; I

implored his Forgiveness. Once, I had believed profoundly that upon one solitary deed of

mine, one solitary prayer, depended the salvation of the world.

This day I had ceased to plead. I was no longer capable of lamentation. On the contrary, I felt

very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused. My eyes were open and I was alone-terribly

alone in a world without God and without man. Without love or mercy. I had ceased to be

anything but ashes, yet I felt myself to be stronger than the Almighty, to whom my life had

been tied for so long. I stood amid that praying congregation, observing it like a stranger.

The service ended with the Kaddish. Everyone recited the Kaddish over his parents, over his

children, over his brothers, and over himself.

We stayed for a long time at the assembly place. No one dared to drag himself away from this

mirage. Then it was time to go to bed and slowly the prisoners made their way over to their

blocks. I heard people wishing one another a Happy New Year!

I ran off to look for my father. And at the same time I was afraid of having to wish him a

Happy New Year when I no longer believed in it.

He was standing near the wall, bowed down, his shoulders sagging as though beneath a heavy

burden. I went up to him, took his hand and kissed it. A tear fell upon it. Whose was that tear?

Mine? His? I said nothing. Nor did he. We had never understood one Mother so clearly. The sound of the bell jolted us back to reality. We must go to bed. We came back from far

away. I raised my eyes to look at my father’s face leaning over mine, to try to discover a smile

or something resembling one upon the aged, dried-up countenance. Nothing. Not the shadow

of an expression. Beaten.

Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement.

Should we fast? The question was hotly debated. To fast would mean a surer, swifter death.

We fasted here the whole year round. The whole year was Yom Kippur. But others said that

we should fast simply because it was dangerous to do so. We should show God that even here,

in this enclosed hell, we were capable of singing His praises.

I did not fast, mainly to please my father, who had forbidden me to do so. But further, there

was no longer any reason why I should fast. I no longer accepted God’s silence. As I

swallowed my bowl of soup, I saw in the gesture an act of rebellion and protest against Him.

And I nibbled my crust of bread.

In the depths of my heart, I felt a great void.

The SS gave us a fine New Year’s gift.

We had just come back from work. As soon as we had passed through the door of the camp,

we sensed something different in the air. Roll call did not take so long as usual. The evening

soup was given out with great speed and swallowed down at once in anguish.

I was no longer in the same block as my father. I had been transferred to another unit, the building one, where, twelve hours a day, I had to drag heavy blocks of stone about. The head

of my new block was a German Jew, small of stature, with piercing eyes. He told us that

evening that no one would be allowed to go out after the evening soup. And soon a terrible

word was circulating – selection.

We knew what that meant. An SS man would examine us. Whenever he found a weak one, a

mussalman as we called them, he would write his number down: good for the crematory.

After soup, we gathered together between the beds. The veterans said:

“You’re lucky to have been brought here so late. This camp is paradise today, compared with

what it was like two years ago. Buna was a real hell then. There was no water, no blankets,

less soup and breed. At night we slept almost naked, and it was below thirty degrees. The

corpses were collected in hundreds every day. The work was hard. Today, this is a little

paradise. The Kapos had orders to kill a certain number of prisoners every day. And every

week – selection. A merciless selection. . . Yes, you’re lucky.

“Stop it! Be quiet!” I begged. “You can tell your stories tomorrow or on some other day.”

They burst out laughing. They were not veterans for nothing.

“Are you scared? So were we scared. And there was plenty to be scared of in those days.”

The old men stayed in their corner, dumb, motionless, haunted. Some were praying.

An hour’s delay. In an hour, we should know the verdict- death or a reprieve. And my father? Suddenly I remembered him. How would he pass the selection? He had aged

so much.

The head of our block had never been outside concentration camps since 1933. He had already

been through all the slaughterhouses, all the factories of death. At about nine o’clock, he took

up his position in our midst:

“Achtung!”

There was instant silence.

“Listen carefully to what I am going to say.” (For the first time, I hard his voice quiver.) “In a

few moments the selection win begin. You must get completely undressed. Then one by one

you go before the SS doctors. I hope you will all succeed in getting through. But you must

help your own chances, Before you go into the next room, move about in some way so that

you give yourselves a little color. Don’t walk slowly, run! Run as if the devil were after you!

Don’t look at the SS. Run, straight in front of your”

He broke off for a moment, then added:

“And, the essential thing, don’t be afraid!”

Here was a piece of advice we should have liked very much to be able to follow.

I got undressed, leaving my clothes on the bed. There was no danger of anyone stealing them

this evening. Tibi and Yossi, who had changed their unit at the same time as I had, came up to me and said:

“Let’s keep together. We shall be stronger.”

Yossi was murmuring something between his teeth. He must have been praying. I had never

realized that Yossi was a believer. I had even always thought the reverse. Tibi was silent, very

pale. All the prisoners in the block stood naked between the beds. This must be how one

stands at the last judgment.

“They’re coming!” There were three SS officers standing round the notorious Dr. Mengele,

who had received us at Birkenau. The head of the block, with an attempt at a smile, asked us:

“Ready?”

Yes, we were ready. So were the SS doctors. Dr. Mengele was holding a list in his hand: our

numbers. He made a sign to the head of the block: “We can begin!” As if this were a game!

The first to go by were the “officials” of the block: Stubenaelteste. Kapos, foremen, all in

perfect physical condition – of course. Then came the ordinary prisoners turn. Dr. Mengele

took stock of them from head to foot. =Every now and then, he wrote a number down. One

single thought filled my mind: not to let my number be taken; not to show my left arm.

There were only Tibi and Yossi in front of me. They passed. I had time to notice that Mengele

had not written their numbers down. Someone pushed me. It was my turn. I ran without

looking back. My head was spinning: you’re too thin, you’re weak, you’re too thin, you’re good

for the furnace.. . The race seemed interminable. I thought I had been running for years. …

You’re too thin, you’re too weak…. at last I had arrived exhausted. When I regained my breath, I questioned Yossi and Tibi:

“Was I written down?”

“No,” said Yossi. He added, smiling: “In any case, he couldn’t have written you down, you

were running too fast.”

I began to laugh. I was glad. I would have liked to kiss him. At that moment, what did the

others matter! I hadn’t been written down.

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

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weeping in silence.

The SS officers went away. The head of the block appeared, his face reflecting the general

wariness.

“Everything went off an right. Don’t worry. Nothing is going to happen to anyone. To

anyone.”

Again he tried to smile. A poor, emaciated, dried-up Jew questioned him avidly in a trembling

voice:

“But … but, Blockaelteste, they did write me down!”

The heed of the block let his anger break out. What! Did someone refuse to believe him!

“What’s the matter now? Am I telling lies then? I tell you once and for all, nothing’s going to

happen to you! To anyone! You’re wallowing in your own despair, you fool!” The bell rang, a signal that the selection had been completed throughout the camp.

With all my might I began to run to Block 36. I met my father on the way. He came up to me:

“Well? So you passed?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Me too.”

How we breathed again, now! My father had brought me a present-half a ration of bread

obtained in exchange for a piece of rubber, found at the warehouse, which would do to sole a

shoe.

The bell. Already we must separate, go to bed. Everything was regulated by the bell. It gave

me orders, and I automatically obeyed them. I hated it. Whenever I dreamed of a better world,

I could only imagine a universe with no bells.

Several days had elapsed. We no longer thought about the selection. We went to work as

usual, loading heavy stones into railway wagons. Rations had become more meager: this was

the only change.

We had risen before dawn, as on every day. We had received the black coffee, the ration of

bread. We were about to set out for the yard as usual. The head of the block arrived, running.

“Silence for a moment. I have a list of numbers here. I’m going to read them to you. Those

whose numbers I call won’t be going to work this morning; they’ll stay behind in the camp.” And, in a soft voice, he read out about ten numbers. We had understood. These were numbers

chosen at the selection. Dr. Mengele had not forgotten.

The head of the block went toward his room. Ten prisoners surrounded him, hanging onto his

clothes:

“Save us! You promised … I We want to go to the yard. We’re strong enough to work. We’re

good workers. We can … we will.

He tried to cam them, to reassure them about their fate, to explain to them that the fact that

they were staying behind in the camp did not mean much, had no tragic significance.

“After all, I stay here myself every day,” he added.

It was a somewhat feeble argument. He realized it, and without another word went and shut

himself up in his room.

The bell had just rung.

“Form up!”

It scarcely mattered now that the work was hard. The essential thing was to be as far away as

possible from the block, from the crucible of death, from the center of hell.

I saw my Father running toward me. I became frightened all of a sudden.

“What’s the matter?”

Out of breath, he could hardly open his mouth.

“Me, too . . me, too … I they told me to stay behind in the camp.”

They had written down his number without his being aware of it.

“What Will happen?” I asked in anguish.

But it was he who tried to reassure me.

“It isn’t certain yet. There’s still a chance of escape. They’re going to do another selection

today … a decisive selection.”

I was silent.

He felt that his time was short. He spoke quickly. He would have liked to say so many things.

His speech grew confused; his voice choked. He knew that I would have to go in a few

moments. He would have to stay behind alone, so very alone.

“Look, take this knife,” he said to me. “I don’t need it any longer. It might be useful to you.

And take this spoon as well. Don’t sell them. Quickly! Go on. Take what I’m giving you!”

The inheritance.

“Don’t talk like that, Father.” (I felt that I would break into sobs.) “I don’t want you to say that.

Keep the spoon and knife. You need them as much as I do. We shall see each other again this

evening, after work.”

He looked at me with his tired eyes, veiled with despair. He went on:

“I’m asking this of you. … Take them. Do as I ask, my son. We have no time. . . Do as your

father asks.”

Our Kapo yelled that we should start. The unit set out toward the camp gate. Left, right! I bit

my lips. My father had stayed by the block, leaning against the wall. Then he began to run, to

catch up with us. Perhaps he had forgotten something he wanted to say to me. But we were

marching too quickly . . Left, right!

We were already at the gate. They counted us, to the din of military music. We were outside.

The whole day. I wandered about as if sleepwalking. Now and then Tibi and Yossi would

throw me a brotherly word. The Kapo, too, tried to reassure me. He had given me easier work

today. I felt sick at heart. How well, they were treating me! Like an orphan! I thought: even

now, my father is still helping me.

I did not know myself what I wanted – for the day to pass quickly or not. I was afraid of

finding myself alone that night. How good it would be to die here!

At last we began the return journey. How I longed for orders to run!

The military march, the gate. The camp.

I ran to Block 36.

Were there still miracles on this earth? He was alive. He had escaped the second selection. He had been able to prove that he was still useful… I gave him back his knife and spoon.

Akiba Drummer left us, a victim of the selection. Lately, he had wandered among us, his eyes

glazed, telling everyone of his weakness: “I can’t go on … It’s all over. .. It was impossible to

raise his morale. He didn’t listen to what we told him. He could only repeat that all was over

for him, that he could no longer keep up the struggle, that he had no strength left, nor faith.

Suddenly his eyes would become blank, nothing but two open wounds, two pits of terror.

He was not the only one to lose his faith during those selection days. I knew a rabbi from a

little town in Poland. A bent old man, whose lips were always trembling. He used to pray all

the time, in the block, in the yard, in the ranks.

He would recite whole pages of the Talmud from memory, argue with himself, ask himself

questions and answer himself. And one day he said to me: “It’s the end. God is no longer with

us.”

And, as though he had repeated of having spoken such words, so clipped, so cold, he added in

his faint voice:

“I know. One has no right to say things like that. I know. Man is too small, too humble and

inconsiderable to seek to understand the mysterious ways of God. But what can I do? I’m not a

sage, one of the elect, nor a saint. I’m just an ordinary creature of flesh ad blood. I’ve got eyes,

too, and I can see what they’re doing here. Where is the divine Mercy? Where is God? How

can I believe, how could anyone believe, in this merciful God?”

Poor Akibe Drummer, if he could have gone on believing in God, if he could have seen a proof of God in this Calvary, he would not have been taken by the selection. But as soon as he

felt the first cracks forming in his faith, he had lost his reason struggling and had begun to die.

When the selection came, he was condemned in advance, offering his own neck to the

executioner. All he asked of us was:

“In three days I shall no longer be here. … Say the Kaddish for me.”

“We promised him. In three days’ time, when we saw the smoke rising from the chimney, we

would think of him. Ten of us would gather together and hold a special service. All his friends

would say the Kaddish.

Then he went off toward the hospital, his step steadier not bolting back. An ambulance was

waiting to take him to Birkenau.

These were terrible days. We received more blows than food; we were crushed with work.

And three days after he had gone we forgot to say the Kaddish.

Winter had come. The days were short, ad the nights had become almost unbearable. In the

first hours of dawn, the icy wind cut us like a whip. We were given winter clothes-slightly

thicker striped shirts. The veterans found in this a new source of derision.

“Now you’ll really be getting a taste of the camp!”

We left for work is usual, our bodies frozen. The stones were so cold that it seemed as though

our hands would be glued to them if we touched them. But you get used to anything. On Christmas and New Year’s Day, there was no work.

We were allowed a slightly thicker soup.

Toward the middle of January, my right foot began to swell because of the cold. I was unable

to put it on the ground. I went to have it examined. The doctor, a great Jewish doctor, a

prisoner like ourselves, was quite definite: I must have an operation! If we waited, the toes –

and perhaps the whole leg would have to be amputated.

This was the last straw! But I had no choice. The doctor had decided on an operation, and

there was no discussing it. I was even glad that it was he who had made the decision.

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

The hospital was not bad at al. We were given good breed and thicker soup. No more bell. No

more roll call. No more work. Now and then I was able to send a bit of bread to my father.

Near me lay a Hungarian Jew who had been struck down with dysentery-skin and bone, with

dead eyes. I could only hear his voice; it was the sole indication that he was alive. Where did

he get the strength to talk?

“You mustn’t rejoice too soon, my boy. there’s selection here too. More often than outside.

Germany doesn’t need sick Jews. Germany doesn’t need me. When the next transport comes,

you’ll have a new neighbor. So Listen me, and take my advice: get out of the hospital before

the next selection!”

These words which came from under the ground, from a faceless shape, filled me with terror. It was indeed true that the hospital was very small and that if new invalids arrived in the next

few days, room would have to be found for them.

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But perhaps my faceless neighbor, fearing that he would be among the first victims, simply

wanted to drive me away, to free my bed in order to give himself a chance to survive. Perhaps

he just wanted to frighten me. Yet, what if he were telling the truth? I decided to await events.

The doctor came to tell me that the operation would be the next day.

“Don’t be afraid,” he added. “Everything will be an right.”

At ten o’clock in the morning, they took me into the operating room. “My” doctor was there. I

took comfort from this. I felt that nothing serious could happen while he was there. There was

balm in every word he spoke, and very glance he gave me held a message of hope.

“It will hurt you a bit,” he said, “but that will pass. Grit your teeth.”

The operation lasted an hour. They had not put me to sleep. I kept my eyes fined upon my

doctor. Then I felt myself go under.

When I came round, opening my eyes, I could see nothing at first but a great whiteness, my

sheets; then I noticed the face of my doctor bending over me: Everything went off well. You’re

brave, my boy. Now you’re going to stay here for two weeks, rest comfortably, and it will be

over. You’ll eat well, and relax your body and your nerves.

I could only follow the movements of his lips. I scarcely understood what he was saying, but

the murmur of his voice did me good. Suddenly a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I could not feel my leg! Had they amputated it?

“Doctor,” I stammered. “Doctor …?”

“What’s the matter, son?”

I lacked the courage to ask him the question.

“Doctor, I’m thirsty …”

He had water brought to me. He was smiling. He was getting ready to go and visit the other

patients.

“Doctor?”

“What?”

“Shall I still be able to use my leg?”

He was no longer smiling. I was very frightened. He said:

“Do you trust me, my boy?”

“I trust you absolutely, Doctor.”

“Well then, listen to me. You’ll be completely recovered in a fortnight. You’ll be able to walk

like anyone else. The sole of your foot was all full of pus. We just had to open the swelling.

You haven’t had your leg amputated. You’ll see. In a fortnight’s time yowl be walking about like everyone else.”

I had only a fortnight to wait.

Two days after my operation, there was a rumor going round the camp that the front had

suddenly drawn nearer. The Red Army, they said, was advancing on Buna; it was only a

matter of hours now.

We were already accustomed to rumors of this kind. It was not the first time a false prophet

had foretold to us peace-on-earth negotiations-with-the-Red-Cross-with -for-our- release, or

other false rumors. … And often we believed them. It was an injection of morphine.

But this time these prophecies seemed more solid. During these last few nights, we had heard

the guns in the distance.

My neighbor, the faceless one, said:

“Don’t let yourself be fooled with illusions. Hitler has made it very clear that he will annihilate

all the Jews before the clock strikes twelve, before they can hear the last stroke.”

I burst out:

“What does it matter to you? Do we have to regard Hitler as a prophet?”

His glazed, faded eyes looked at me. At last he said in a weary voice:

“I’ve got more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He’s the only one who’s kept his promises,

all his promises, to the Jewish people.” At four o’clock on the afternoon of the same day, as usual the bell summoned all the heads of

the blocks to go and report.

They came back shattered. They could only just open their lips enough to say the word:

evacuation. The camp was to be emptied, and we were to be sent farther back. Where to? To

somewhere right in the depths of Germany, to other camps; there was no shortage of them.

“When?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

“Perhaps the Russians will arrive first.”

“Perhaps.”

We knew perfectly well that they would not.

The camp had become a hive. People run about, shouting at one another. In all the blocks,

preparations for the journey were going on. I had forgotten about my bad foot. A doctor come

into the room and announced:

“Tomorrow, immediately after nightfall, the camp will set out. Block after block. Patients will

stay in the infirmary. They will not be evacuated.”

This news made us think. Were the SS going to leave hundreds of prisoners to strut about in

the hospital blocks, waiting for their Liberators? Were they going to let the Jews hear the

twelfth stroke sound? Obviously not. “All the invalids will be summarily killed,” said the faceless one. “And sent to the crematory

in a final batch.”

The camp is certain to be mined,” said another. The moment the evacuation’s over, it’ll blow

up.”

As for me, I was not thinking about depth, but I did not want to be separated from my father.

We had already suffered so much, borne so much together; this was not the time to be

separated.

I ran outside to look for him. The snow was thick, and the windows of the blocks were veiled

with host. One shoe in my hand, because it would not go onto my right foot, I ran on, feeling

neither pain nor cold.

“What shall we do?”

My father did not answer.

“What shall we do, father?”

He was lost in thought, the choice was in our hands. For once we could decide our fate for

ourselves. We could both stay in the hospital, where I could, thank to my doctor, get him

entered as a patient or a nurse. Or else we amid follow the others.

“Well, what shall we do, father?”

He was silent. “Let’s be evacuated with the others,” I said to him.”

He did not answer. He looked at my foot.

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Let’s hope that we shan’t regret it, Eliezer.”

I learned after the war the fate of those who had stayed behind in the hospital. They were quite

simply liberated by the Russians two days after the evacuation.

I did not go back to the hospital again. I returned to my block. My wound was open and

bleeding; the snow had grown red where I had trodden.

The head of the block gave out double rations of bread and margarine, For the journey. We

could take as many shirts and other clothes as we liked from the store.

It was cold. We got into bed.

The last night in Buna. Yet another last night. The last night at home, the last night in the

ghetto, the last night in the train, and, now, the last night in Buna. How much longer were our

lives to be dragged out from one “last night” to another?

I did not sleep at all. Through the hosted panes bursts of red light could be seen. Cannon shots

split the nighttime silence. How close the Russians were! Between them and us-one night, our

last night. There was whispering from one bed to another: with luck the Russians would be here before the evacuation. Hope revived again.

Someone shouted:

“Try and sleep. Gather your strength for the journey.”

This reminded me of my mother’s last words of advice in the ghetto.

But I could not sleep. My foot felt as if it were burning.

In the morning, the face of the camp had changed. Prisoners appeared in strange outfits: it was

like a masquerade. Everyone had put on several garments, one on top of the other, in order to

keep out the cold. Poor mountebank, wider than they were tall, more dead than alive; poor

clowns, their ghost like faces emerging from piles of prison clothes! Buffoons!

I tried to find a shoe that was too large. In vain. I tore up a blanket and wrapped my wounded

foot in it. Then I went wandering through the camp, looking for a little more bread and a few

potatoes.

Some said we were being taken to Czechoslovakia. No, to Gros-Rosen. No, to Gleiwitz. No,

to. …

Two o’clock in the afternoon, the snow was still coming down thickly.

The time was passing quickly now. Dusk had fallen. The day was disappearing in a

monochrome of gray.

The head of the block suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to clean out the block. He ordered for prisoners to wash the wooden floor….An hour before leaving the camp! Why? For

whom?

“For the liberating army,” he cried. “So that they’ll realize there were men living here and not

pigs.”

Were we men then? The block was cleaned from top to bottom, washed in every corner.

At six o’clock the bell rang. The death knell. The burial. The procession was about to begin its

march.

“Form up! Quickly!”

In a few moments we were all in rows, by blocks. Night had fallen. Everything was in order,

according to the prearranged plan.

The searchlights came on. Hundreds of armed SS men rose up out of the darkness,

accompanied by sheepdogs. The snow never ceased.

The gates of the camp opened. It seemed that an even darker night was waiting-for us on the

other side.

The first blocks began to march. We waited. We had to wait for the departure of the fifty-six

blocks who came before us. It was very cold. In my pocket I had two pieces of bread. With

how much pleasure could I have eaten them! But I was not allowed to. Not yet.

Our turn was coming: Block 53 … Block 55 … Block 57, forward march!

It snowed relentlessly.

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