They called him Moshe the Beadle, as though he had never had a surname in his life. He was a man of all work at a Hasidic synagogue. The Jews of Sighet-that little town in Transylvania where I spent my childhood-were very fond of him. He was very poor and lived humbly. Generally my fellow townspeople, though they would help the poor, were not particularly fond of them. Moshe the Beadle was the exception. Nobody ever felt embarrassed by him.
Nobody ever felt encumbered by his presence. He was a past master in the art of making himself insignificant, of seeming invisible.
Physically he was as awkward as a clown . He made people smile, with his waiflike timidity. I loved his great, dreaming eyes, their gaze lost in the distance. He spoke little. He used to sing, or, rather, to chant. Such snatches as you could hear told of the suffering of the divinity, of the Exile of Providence, who, according to the cabbala, awaits his deliverance in that of man. got to know him toward the end of 1941. I wasI twelve. I believed profoundly. During the day I studied the Talmud, and at night I ran to the synagogue to weep over the destruction of the Temple.
One day I asked my father to find me a master to guide me in my studies of the cabbala.
"You're too young for that. Maimonides said it was only at thirty that one had the right to venture into the
1
2 Elie Wiesel
perilous world of mysticism . You must first study the basic subjects within your own understanding. "
M y father was a cultured, rather unsentimental man.
There was never any display of emotion, even at home. He was more concerned with others than with his own family.
The Jewish community in Sighet held him in the greatest esteem. They often used to consult him about public matters and even about private ones. There were four of us children: Hilda, the eldest; then Bea; I was the third, and the only son; the baby of the family was Tzipora.
M y parents ran a shop. Hilda and Bea helped them with the work. As for me, they said my place was at school.
"There aren't any cabbalists at S ighet," my father would repeat.
He wanted to drive the notion out of my head. But it was in vain. I found a master for myself, Moshe the Beadle.
He had noticed me one day at dusk, when I was praying.
"Why do you weep when you pray?" he asked me, as though he had known me a long time.
"I don't know why," I answered, greatly disturbed.
The question had never entered my head. I wept because--because of something inside me that felt the need for tears . That was all I knew.
"Why do you pray?" he asked me, after a moment.
Why did I pray? A strange question. Why did I live?
Why did I breathe?
"I don't know why, " I said, even more disturbed and ill at ease. "I don't know why. "
After that day I saw him often. He explained to me with great insistence that every question possessed a power that did not lie in the answer.
"Man raises himself toward God by the questions he asks Him , " he was fond of repeating. "That is the true dialogue. Man questions God and God answers. But we don't understand His answers. We can't understand them.
Because they come from the .lepths of the soul, and they
Night 3
stay there until death. You w ill fi nd the true answers , Eliezer, only wi thin yourself!"
"And why do you pray, Moshe? " I ask ed him.
"I pray to the God wi thin me that He wi ll give me the strength to ask H im the right questions . "
We talk ed lik e this nearly every evening. We used to stay in the synagogue after all the faithful had left, sitting in the gloom, where a few half-burned candles still gave a fl ick ering light.
One evening I told him how unhappy I was because I could not fi nd a master in Sighet to instruct me in the Zo har, the cabbalistic book s, the secrets of Jewi sh mysti cism. H e smiled indulgently. Aft er a long silence, he said: "There are a thousand and one gates leading into the orchard of mystical truth. Every human being has his own gate. We must never mak e the mistak e of wanting to enter the orchard by any gate but our own. To do this is dangerous for the one who enters and also for those who are already there. "
And Moshe the Beadle, the poor barefoot of Sighet, talk ed to me for long hours of the revelations and mysteries of the cabbala. It was wi th him that my initiation began. We would read together, ten times over, the same page of the Zo har. Not to learn it by heart, but to extract the divine essence from it.
And throughout those evenings a conviction grew in me that Moshe the Beadle would draw me wi th him into eternity, into that time where question and answer would become one.
Then one day they expelled all the foreign Jews from Sighet. And Moshe the Beadle was a foreigner.
Crammed into cattle trains by H ungarian police, they wept bitterly. We stood on the platform and wept too. The train disappeared on the horizon; it left nothing behind but
its thick , dirty smok e.
I heard a Jew behind me heave a sigh.
4 Elie Wiesel
"What can we expect?" he said. "It's war. . . . "
The deportees were soon forgotten . A few days after they had gone, people were sayi ng that they had arrived in Galicia, were worki ng there, and were even satisfied with their lot.
Several days passed. Several week s. Several months.
Lif e had returned to normal. A wind of calmne ss and reassurance blew through our houses. The traders were doing good business, the students li ved buried in their book s, and the children played i n the streets.
One day, as I was just going into the synagogue, I saw, sitti ng on a bench near the door, Moshe the Beadle.
He told his story and that of his companions. The train full of deportees had crossed the H ungarian frontier and on Polish territory had been tak en in charge by the Gestapo.
There it had stopped. The Jews had to get out and climb into lorries. The lorries drove toward a forest. The Jews were made to get out. They were made to di g huge graves.
And when they had finished their work , the Gestapo began theirs. Wi thout passi on, without haste, they slaughtered thei r pri soners. Each one had to go up to the hole and present his neck . Babies were thrown into the air and the machine gunners used them as targets. Thi s was in the forest of Galicia, near Kolomaye. H ow had Moshe the Beadle escaped? Miraculously. H e was wounded in the leg and tak en for dead. . . .
Through long days and ni ghts, he went from one Jewish house to another, telling the story of Maik a, the young girl who had tak en three days to di e, and of Tobias, the tailor, who had begged to be k illed before hi5 sons . . . .
M oshe had changed. There was no longer any joy in his eyes. H e no longer sang. H e no longer talk ed to me ol God or of the cabbala, but only of what he had seen. People refused not only to believe his stories, but even to listen to them.
"H e's just try ing to make us pity him. What an
Night 5
imagination he has!" they said. Or even : "Poor fellow. H e's
gone mad . "
And as for Moshe, h e wept.
"Jews, listen to me. Its all I ask of you. I don't want money or pity. Only listen to me, " he would cry between prayers at dusk and the evening prayers.
I did not believe him myself. I would often sit with him in the evening after the service, listening to his stories and try ing my hardest to understand his grief. I felt only pity for him.
"They tak e me for a madman , " he would whisper, and tears, lik e drops of wax , fl owed fr om his eyes.
Once, I ask ed him this question: "Why are you so anxi ous that people should be lieve what you say? In your place, I shouldn't care whether they believed me or not. . . . "
H e closed his eyes, as though to escape time.
"You don't understand , " he said in despair. "You can't understand. I have been saved miraculously. I managed to get back here. Where did I get the strength from? I wanted to come back to Sighet to tell you the story of my death . So that you could prepare yourselves while there was still time. To live? I don't attach any importance to my life any more. I'm alone. No, I wanted to come back , and to warn you. And see how it is, no one will listen to me. . . . "
That was toward the end of 1942. Aft erward life returned to normal. The London radio, which we listened to every evening, gave us heartening news: the daily bombardment of Germany; Stalingrad; preparation for the second front. And we, the Jews of Sighet, were waiting for better days, which would not be long in coming now.
I continued to devote myself to my studies. By day, the Talmud, at night, the cabbala, My father was occupied with his business and the doings of the community. My grandfather had come to celebrate the New Year with us, so that he could attend the services of the famous rabbi of Borsche. My mother began to think that it was high time to find a suitable young man for H ilda.
6 Elie Wiesel
Thus the year 1943 passed by.
Spring 1 944. Good news from the Russian front. No doubt could remain now of Germany's defeat. It was only a question of time--<> f months or week s perhaps.
The trees were in blossom. This was a year lik e any other, wi th i ts springtime, its betrothals, its weddings and births.
People sai d: "The Russi an armys mak ing gigantic strides forward . . . H itler won't be able to do us any harm, even if he wants to. "
Yes, w e even doubted that h e wanted to exterminate us.
Was he going to wipe out a whole people? Could he exterminate a population scattered throughout so many countries? So many mi llions! What methods could he use?
And in the middle of the twenti eth century ! )B esides, people were i nterested in everything-in strategy, i n di plomacy, i n politics, i n Zionism-but not i n thei r own fate.
He was weary of'(E ven M oshe the Beadle was si lent. speaki ng. H e wandered in the s:v nagogue or i n the streets, with hi s eyes down, hi s back bent, avoi di ng people's eyes.
At that ti me, it was still possible to obtai n emi gration permi ts for Palesti ne. I had ask ed my father to sell out, liqui date hi s business, and leave. 'Tm too old, my son, w he replied. Tm too old to start a new life. I'm too old to start from scratch agai n in a country so far away. . . . "
The Budapest radio announced that the Fascist party had come into power. H orthy had been forced to ask one of the leaders of the N yilas party to form a new government.
Still this was not enough to worry us. Of course we had heard about the Fascists, but they were still just an abstraction to us. Thi s was only a change in the administra tion.
The following day, there \fa s more disturbing news :
Night 7
with government permission, German troops had entered H ungarian territory.
H ere and there, anxiety was aroused . One of our friends, Berk ovitz, who had just returned from the capital, told us: 'The Jew s in Budapest are living in an atmosphere of fear and terror. There are anti-Semitic incidents every day, in the streets, in the trains. The Fascists are attacki ng Jewish shops and synagogues. The situation is getting very serious. "
This news spread lik e wildfire through Sighet. Soon it was on everyone's lips. But not for long. Optimism soon revived.
"The Germans won't get as far as this. They'll stay in Budapest. There are strategic and political reasons. . . . "
Before three days h ad passed, German army cars had appeared in our streets.
Anguish. German soldiers-with their steel helmets, and their emblem, the death's head.
H owever, our first impressions of the Germans were most reassuring. The officers were billeted in private houses, even in the homes of Jews. Their attitude toward their hosts was distant, but polite. They never demanded the impossible, made no unpleasant comments, and even smiled occ asionally at the mistress of the house. One German officer lived in the house opposite ours. H e had a room with the Kahn family. They said he was a charming man� alm, lik able, polite, and sympathetic. Three days aft er he moved in he brought Madame Kahn a bo x of chocolates. The optimists rejoiced.
"Well, there you are, you see! What did we tell you?
You wouldn' t believe us. There they are your Germans !
Wha t do you think of them? Where is their famous cruelty?"
The Germans were already in the town, the Fascists
8 Elie Wiesel
were already in power, the verdict had already been pronounced, yet the Jews of Sighet continued to smile.
The week of Passover. The weather was wonderfu l . My mother bustled round her k itchen. There were no longer any synagogues open. We gathered in private houses: the Germans were not to be provok ed. Practically every rabbis fl at became a house of prayer.
We drank , we ate, we sang. The Bible bade us rejoice during the seven days of the feast, to be happy. But our hearts were not in it. Our hearts had been beating more rapidly for some days. We wished the feast were over, so that we should not have to play this comedy any longer.
On the seventh day of Passover the curtain rose. The Germans arrested the leaders of the Jewish community.
From that m oment, everything happened very quick ly. The race toward death had begun.
The first step: Jews would not be allowed to leave their houses for three days-on pain of death.
Moshe the Beadle came running to our house.
"I warned you, " he cried to my father. And, without waiting for a reply, he fl ed.
That same day the H ungari an police burst into all the Jewish houses in the street. A Jew no longer had the ri ght to k eep in his house gold, jewels, or any objects of value.
Everything had to be handed over to the authorities-on pain of death. My father went down into the cellar and buried our savings.
At home, my mother continued to busy herself with her usual task s. At times she would pause and gaz e at us, silent.
When the three days were up, there was a new decree: every Jew must wear the yellow star.
Some of the prominent members of the community came to see my father-who had highly placed connections in the H ungari an police-to ask him what he thought of the situation . My father did not consider it so gri m-but
Night 9
perhaps he di d not want to dishearten the others or rub salt in their wounds: 'The yellow star? Oh well, what of it? You don't die of it. (Poor Father! Of what then di d you die? ) .
But already they wer. e issuing new decrees. We were no longer allowed to go into restaurants or cafe s , to travel on the railway, to attend the synagogue, to go out into the
street after six o' clock .
Then came the ghetto.
Two ghettos were set up i n Sighet. A large one, i n the center of the town, occupied four streets, and another smaller one extended over several small si de streets in the outlying district. The street where we lived, Serpenf Street, was inside the first ghetto. We still lived, therefore,
But as i t was at the comer, the windowsin our own house. faci ng the outsi de street had t o be block ed up. We gave up some of our rooms to relatives who had been dri ven out of their flats.
Li ttle by little life returned to normal. The bar bed wire which fenced us in did not cause us any real fear. We even thought ourselves rather well off; we were enti rely self- contai ned. A little Jewish republic. . . . We ap pointed a Jewish Council, a Jewish police, an offi ce for social assistance, a labor commi ttee, a hygiene department -a whole government machinery.
Everyone marveled at it. We should no longer have before our eyes those hosti le faces, those hate-laden star es .
Our fear and anguish were at an end. W e were living among Jews, among brothers. . . .
Of course, there were still some unpleasant moments.
Every day the Germans came to fetch men to stok e coal on the military trai ns. There were not many volunteers for work of thi s ki nd. But apart from that the atmosphere was peaceful an d reassuri ng.
The general opinion was that we were going to remai n
10 Elie Wiesel
in the ghetto until the end of the war, until the arri val of the Red Army. Then everything would be as before. It was neither German nor Jew who ruled the ghetto- it was illusion.
On the Saturday before Pentecost, in the spring sunshine, people strolled, carefree and unheeding, through the swarming streets. They chatted happily. The children played games on the pavements. With some of my school mates, I sat in the Ezra Malik gardens, studying a treatise on the Talmud.
Night fell . There were twenty people gathered in our back yard. My father was telling them anecdotes and expounding his own views on the situation. H e was a good
· story teller.
Suddenly the gate opened and Stem-a former trades man who had become a policeman--c ame in and took my father aside. Despite the gathering dusk , I saw my father tum pale.
"What's the matter?" we all ask ed him .
"I don' t k now. I' ve been summoned to an extraordi nary meeting of the council. Something must have hap pened . "
The good story h e had been i n the middle of telling u s was t o remain unfinished.
"I' m going there, " he went on . "I shall be back as soon as I can. I'll tell you all about it. Wait for me. "
We were prepared to wait for some hours. The back yard became lik e the hall outside an operating room. We were only waiting for the door to open- to see the opening of the firmament itself. Other neighbors, having heard rumors, had come to join us. People look ed at their watches. The time passed very slowly. What could such a long meeting mean? ''I've got a premonition of evil, " said my mother. 'This aft ernoon I noticed some new faces in the ghetto- two German officers, f rom the Gestapo, I believe. Since we've been here, not a single officer has ever shown him self. . . . "
Night 1 1
It was nearly midnight. N o one had wanted to go to bed. A few pe ople had paid a flying visit to their homes to see that every thing was all right. Others had returned home, but they left instructions that they were to be told as soon as my father came back.
At last the door opened and he appeared. H e was pale.
At once h e was surrounded. ''What happened? Tell us what happened! Say some thing!"
H ow avid we were at that moment for one word of confidence, one sentence to say that there were no grounds for fear, that the meeting could not have been more commonplace, more routine, that it had only been a question of social welfare, of sanitary arrangements! But one glance at my father's hagg ard face was enough.
"I have terrible news , " he said at last. " Deportation. "
The ghetto was to be completely wiped out. We were to leave street by street, starting the following day.
We wanted to know every thing, all the details. The news had stunned every one, yet we wanted to drain the
bitter draft to the dregs.
"Where are we being taken?"
This was a secret. A secret from all except one: the President of the Jewish Council. But he would not say; he could not say. The Gestapo had threatened to shoot him if he talked. 'There are rumors going around, " said my father in a broken voice, "that we're going somewhere in H ungary , to work in the brick factories. Apparently, the reason is that the front is too close here� . . . "
And, after a moment's silence, he added: "Each person will be allowed to take only his own personal belongings. A bag on our backs, some food, a few
clothes. Nothing else."
Again a heavy silence.
"Go and wake the neighbors up," said my father. "So that they can get ready."
Elie Wiesel12
The shadows beside me awok e as f rom a long sleep.
They fled, silently, in all directions.
For a moment we were alone. Then suddenly Batia Reich. a relative who was living with us, came into the room: "There's someone k nock ing on the block ed-up win dow, the one that faces outside!"
It was not until after the wa r that I learned who it wa s that had k nock ed . It was an inspector in the H ungarian police, a friend of my father. Before we went into the ghetto, he had said to us: "Don't worry. If you're in any danger, I'll warn you . " If he could hav e spok en to us that evening, we could perhaps have fled. . . . But by the time we had managed to open the window, it was too late. There was no one outside.
The ghetto awok e. One by one, lights came on in the wi ndows.
I went into the house of one of my father's friends. I wok e up the head of the household, an old man with a gray beard and the eyes of a dreamer. H e was stooped from long nights of study.
"Get up, sir, get up! You've got to get ready for the journey! You're going to be expelled from here tomorrow wi th your whole family, and all the rest of the Jews. Where to? Don't ask me, sir. Don' t ask me any questions. Only God could answer you. For heaven' s sak e, get up. "
H e had not understood a word of what I was saying.
H e probably thought I had gone out of my mind.
"What tale is this? Get ready for the journey? What journey? Why? What's going on? H ave you gone mad?"
Still half asleep, he stared at me with terror-stricke n eyes, as though he expected me to burst out laughing and say in the end, "Get back to bed. Go to sleep. Pleasant dreams. Nothing's happened at all. It was just a j ok e . "
M y throat was dry, the words chok ed i n it, paralyzing my lips. I could not say any � ore.
Night 13
Then he understood. He got out of bed and wi th automatic movements began to get dressed. Then he went up to the bed where his wif e slept and touched her brow wi th infinite tenderness; she opened her eyes, and it seemed to me that her lips were brushed by a smile. Then he went to his children's beds and wok e them swi ftly, dra gging them from their dreams. I fled.
Time passed very quick ly. It was already four o'clock in the morning. My father ran to right and left, exhausted, comforting friends, running to the Jewi sh Council to see if the edict had not been revoked in the meantime. To the very last moment, a germ of hope stayed alive in our hearts.
The women were cook ing egg s, roasting meat, bak ing cak es, and mak ing k napsack s . The children wandered all over the place, hanging their heads, not k nowi ng what to do wi th themselves, where to go, to k eep from getting in the way of the grown-ups. Our back yard had become a real mark et place. H ousehold treasures, valuable carpets, silver candelabra, prayer book s, B ibles, and other religious arti cles littered the dusty ground beneath a wonderfully blue sky; pathetic objects which look ed as though they had never belonged to anyone.
By eight o'clock in the morning, a weariness lik e molten lead began to settle in the veins, the limbs, the brain. I was in the midst of my prayers when suddenly there were shouts in the street. I tore myself from my phylacteries and ran to the wi ndow. H ungarian police had entere d the ghetto and were shouting in the neighboring
stre et: "All Jews outside! H urry!"
Some Jewi sh police went into the houses, saying in brok en voices: ''The �ime's come now . . . you've got to leave all
. . thi s . . . .
The H ungarian police struck out wi th truncheons and rifl e butts, to right and left, wi thout reason, indiscrimi-
Elie Wiesel14
nately, their blows falling upon old men and women, children and invalids alik e.
One by one the houses emptied, and the street fi lled wi th people and bundles. By ten o'clock , all the con demned were outside. The police took a roll call, once, twice, twenty times. The heat was intense. Sweat streamed
from faces and bodies.
Children cried for water.
Water? There was plenty, close at hand, in the houses, in the yards, but they were forbidden to break the rank s.
"Water! M ummy! Water!"
The Jewi sh police from the ghetto were able to go and fi ll a few jugs secretly. Since my sisters and I were destined for the last convoy and we were still allowed to move about, we helped them as well as we could.
Then, at last, at one o'clock in the aft ernoon, came the signal to leave.
There was joy-yes, joy. Perhaps they thought that God could have devised no tonnent in hell worse than that of sitting there among the bundles, in the middle of the road, beneath a blazing sun; that anything would be preferable to that. They began their journey wi thout a back ward glance at the abandoned streets, the dead, empty houses, the gardens, the tombstones . . . . On everyone's back was a pack . In everyone's eyes was sufferi ng drowned in tears. Slowly, heavily, the procession made its way to the gate of the ghetto.
And there was I, on the pavement, unable to mak e a move. H ere came the Rabbi, his back bent, his face shaved, his pack on his back . H is mere presence among the deportees added a touch of unreality to the scene. It was lik e a page torn from some story book , from some historical novel about the captivity of Babylon or the Spanish Inquisi tion.
One by one they passed in fr ont of me, teachers, fri ends, others, all those I ha d been afraid of, all those I
Night 15
once could have laughed at, all those I had lived with over the years. They went by, fallen, dragging their packs, dragging their lives, deserting their homes, the years of their childhood, cringing like beaten dogs.
They passed without a glance in my direction. They must have envied me.
The procession disappeared round the comer of the street. A few paces farther on, and they would have passed beyond the ghetto walls.
The street was like a market place that had suddenly been abandoned. Everything could be found there: suit cases, portfolios, briefcases, knives, plates , banknotes, papers, faded portraits. All those things that people had thought of taking with them, and which in the end they had left behind. They had lost all value.
Everywhere rooms lay open. Doors and windows gaped onto the emptiness. Everything was free for anyone, belonging to nobody. It was simply a matter of helping
oneself. An open tomb.
A hot summer sun.
We had spent the day fasting. But we were not very hungry. We were exhausted .
My father had accompanied the deportees as far as the entrance of the ghetto. They first had to go through the big synagogue, where they were minutely searched, to see that they were not taking away any gold, silver, or other objects of value. There were outbreaks of hysteria and blows with the truncheons.
"When is our tum coming?" I asked my father.
"The day after tomorrow. At least-at least, unless things tum out differently. A miracle, perhaps . . . . "
Where were the people being taken to? Didn't anyone know yet? No, the secret was well kept.
Night had fallen. That evening we went to bed early.
My father said:
Elie Wiesel16
"Sleep well, children. It's not until the day after tomorrow, Tuesday . "
Monday passed like a small summer cloud, like a dream in the first daylight hours.
Busy with getting our packs ready, with baking bread and cakes, we no longer thought of anything. The verdict had been delivered.
That evening, our mother made us go to bed very early, to conserve our strength, she said. It was our last night at home.
I was up at dawn. I wanted time to pray before we were expelled.
My father had got up earlier to go and seek informa tion. He came back at about eight o'clock. Good news: it wasn't today that we were leaving the town. We were only to move into the little ghetto. There we would wait for the last transport. We should be the last to leave.
At nine o'clock, Sunday's scenes began all over again.
Policemen with truncheons yelling: "All Jews outside!"
We were ready. I was the first to leave. I did not want to see my parents' faces. I did not want to break into tears .
We stayed sitting down in the middle of the road, as the others had done the day before yesterday. There was the same infernal heat. The same thirst. But there was no longer anyone left to bring us water.
I looked at our house, where I had spent so many years in my search for God; in fasting in order to hasten the coming of the Messiah; in imagining what my life would be like. Yet I felt little sorrow. I thought of nothing.
"Get up! Count off!"
Standing. Counting off. Sitting down . Standing up again. On the ground once more. Endlessly. We waited impatiently to be fetched. What were they waiting for? At
last the order came: "Forward march!"
My father wept. It was the first time I had ever seen him weep. I had never imagined that he could. As for my
Night 17
mother, she walked with a set expression on her face, without a word, deep in thought. I looked at my little sister Tzipora, her fair hair well combed, a red coat over her arm, a little girl of seven. The bundle on her back was too heavy for her. She gritted her teeth. She knew by now that it would be useless to complain. The police were striking out with their truncheons. "Faster! "I had no strength left. The journey had only just begun, and I felt so weak. . . .
"Faster! Faster! Get on with you, lazy swine! "yelled the Hungarian police.
It was from that moment that I began to hate them, and my hate is still the only link between us today. They were our first oppressors. They were the first of the faces of hell and death .
We were ordered to run. We advanced in double time. Who would have thought we were so strong? Behind their windows, behind their shutters, our compatriots looked out at us as we passed.
At last we reached our destination . Throwing our bags to the ground, we sank down : "Oh God, Lord of the Universe, take pity upon us in
. . . . "Thy great mercy
The little ghetto. Three days before, people had still been living there-the people who owned the things we were using now. They had been expelled. Already we had completely forgotten them.
The disorder was greater than in the big ghetto. The people must have been driven out unexpectedly. I went to see the rooms where my uncle's family had lived. On the table there was a half-finished bowl of soup. There was a pie waiting to be put in the oven. Books were littered about on the floor. Perhaps my uncle had had dreams of taking them with him?
We settled in. (What a word!) I went to get some wood; my sisters lit the fire. Despite her own weariness, my mother began to prepare a meal .
Elie Wiesel18
"We must keep going, we must keep going, "she kept on repeating.
The people's morale was not too bad; we were begin ning to get used to the situation . In the street, they even went so far as to have optimistic conversations. The Boche would not have time to expel us, they were saying . . . as
had already been deported were confar as those who cerned, it was too bad; no more could be done. But they would probably allow us to live out our wretched little lives here, until the end of the war.
The ghetto was not guarded. Everyone could come and go as they pleased. Our old servant, Martha, came to see us. Weeping bitterly, she begged us to come to her village, where she could give us a safe refuge. My father did not want to hear of it.
"You can go if you want to, "he said to me and to my older sisters. "I shall stay here with your mother and the
child . . . . "
Naturally, we refused to be separated.
Night. No one prayed, so that the night would pass quickly. The stars were only sparks of the fire which devoured us. Should that fire die out one day, there would be nothing left in the sky but dead stars, dead eyes.
There was nothing else to do but to get into bed, into the beds of the absent ones; to rest, to gather one's strength.
At dawn, there was nothing left of this melancholy.
We felt as though we were on holiday. People were saying: "Who knows? Perhaps we are being deported for our own good. The front isn't very far off; we shall soon be able to hear the guns. And then the civilian population would be evacuated anyway . . . . "
"Perhaps they were afraid we might help the guerril-
" •las . . . .
Night 19
"If you ask me, the whole business of deportation is just a farce. Oh yes, don't laugh. The Boches just want to steal our jewelry. They know we've buried everything, and that they'll have to hunt for it: it's easier when the owners
are on holiday. . . . "
On holiday!
These optimistic speeches, which no one believed, helped to pass the time. The few days we lived here went by pleasantly enough, in peace. People were better dis posed toward one another. There were no longer any questions of wealth, of social distinction, and importance, only people all condemned to the same fate-still un known.
Saturday, the day of rest, was chosen for our expul sion.
The night before, we had the traditional Friday eve ning meal. We said the customary grace for the bread and wine and swallowed our food without a word. We were, we felt, gathered for the last time round the family table . I spent the night turning over thoughts and memories in my mind, unable to find sleep.
At dawn, we were in the street, ready to leave. This time there were no Hungarian police. An agreement had been made with the Jewish Council that they should organize it all themselves.
Our convoy went toward the main synagogue. The town seemed deserted. Yet our friends of yesterday were probably waiting behind their shutters for the moment when they could pillage our houses.
The synagogue was like a huge station : luggage and tears. The altar was broken, the hangings torn down, the walls bare. There were so many of us that we could scarcely breathe. We spent a horrible twenty-four hours there .
There were men downstairs; women on the first floor. It was Saturday; it was as though we had come to attend the
Elie Wiesel20
service. Since no one could go out, people were relieving themselves in a comer. � The following morning, we marched to the station, where a convoy of cattle wagons was waiting. The Hungar ian police made us get in--eighty people in each car. We were left a few loaves of bread and some buckets of water.
The bars at the window were checked, to see that they were not loose. Then the cars were sealed. In each car one person was placed in charge. If anyone escaped, he would be shot.
Two Gestapo officers strolled about on the platform, smiling: all things considered, everything had gone off very well.
A prolonged whistle split the air. The wheels began to grind. We were on our way.