The camp looked as though it had suffered an epi demic: empty and dead. There were just a few well-clad prisoners walking about between the blocks.
Of course, we had to go through the showers first. The head of our camp joined us there. He was a strong, well-built, broad-shouldered man: bull neck, thick lips, frizzled hair. He looked kind. A smile shone from time to time in his gray-blue eyes. Our convoy included a few children ten and twelve years old. The officer took an interest in them and gave orders for them to be brought food.
After we had been given new clothes, we were in stalled in two tents. We had to wait to be enlisted in the labor units, then we could pass into the block.
That evening, the labor units came back from the work yards. Roll call. We began to look for familiar faces, to seek information, to question the veteran prisoners about which labor unit was the best, which block one should try to get into. The prisoners all agreed, saying, "Buna' s a very good camp. You can stand it. The important thing is not to get transferred to the building unit. . . . "
As if the choice were in our own hands.
The head of our tent was a German. An assassin's face, fleshy lips, hands like a wolf's paws. He was so fat he could hardly move. Like the leader of the camp, he loved
45
Elie Wiesel46
children. As soon as we arrived, he had brought them bread, soup, and margarine. (Actually, this was not disin terested affection: there was a considerable traffic in chil dren among homosexuals here, I learned later.) The head told us: "You're staying here three days in quarantine. Then you're going to work. Tomorrow, medical inspection . "
One of his assistants-a hard-faced boy, with hooli
gan's eyes--came up to me: "Do you want to get into a good unit?"
"I certainly do. But on one condition: I want to stay with my father. "
"All right," he said. "I can arrange that. For a small consideration: your shoes. I'll give you some others. "
I refused to give him m y shoes. They were all I had left. 'Til give you an extra ration of bread and margarine. "
He was very keen on my shoes; but I did not give them
(Later on they were taken from me just theup to him . same. But in exchange for nothing this time.)
Medical examination in the open air in the early hours of the morning, before three doctors seated on a bench.
The first barely examined me at all. He was content
merely to ask: "Are you in good health?"
Who would have dared say anything to the contrary?
The dentist, on the other hand, seemed most consci- entious: he would order us to open our mouths wide.
Actually he was not looking for decayed teeth, but gold ones. Anyone who had gold in his mouth had his number added to a list. I myself had a gold crown .
The first three days passed by rapidly. On the fourth day, at dawn, when we were standing in front of the tent, the Kapos appeared. Then each began to choose the men who suited him:
Night 47
"You . . . you . . . you and you. . " They pointed a finger, as though choosing cattle or merchandise.
We followed our Kapo, a young man. He made us stop at the entrance to the first block, near the door of the camp.
This was the orchestra block. "Go in, " he ordered. We were surprised. What had we to do with music?
The band played a military march, always the same one. Dozens of units left for the workyards , in step. The Kapos beat time: "Left, right, left, right."
Some S S officers, pen and paper in hand, counted the men as they went out. The band went on playing the same march until the last unit had gone by. Then the conductor's baton was still. The band stopped dead, and the Kapos
yelled: "Form fives!"
We left the camp without music, but in step: we still
had the sound of the march in our ears.
"Left, right! Left, right!"
We started talking to the musicians next to us.
We drew up in ranks of five, with the musicians. They were nearly all Jews: Juliek, a bespectacled Pole with a cynical smile on his pale face; Louis, a distinguished violinist who came from Holland-he complained that they would not let him play Beethoven: Jews were not allowed to play German music; Hans, a lively young Berliner. The foreman was a Pole, Franek, a former student from War saw.
Juliek explained to me: "We work in a warehouse for electrical equipment, not far from here. The work isn't in the least difficult or dangerous. But Idek, the Kapo, has bouts of madness now and then, when it's best to keep out of his way . "
"You're lucky, son," smiled Hans. "You've landed i n a good unit . . . . "
Ten minutes later, we were in front of the warehouse.
A German employee, a civilian, the meister, came to meet us. He paid us about as much attention as a dealer might who was just receiving a delivery of old rags.
Elie Wiesel48
Our comrades had been right; the work was not difficult. Sitting on the ground, we had to count bolts, bulbs, and small electrical fittings. The Kapo explained to us at great length the vast importance of our work, warning us that anyone found slacking would have him to reckon with. My new comrades reassured me.
"There's nothing to be scared of. He has to say that because of the meister. "
There were a number of Polish civilians there, and a few French women, who were casting friendly glances at the musicians.
Franek, the foreman, put me in a corner. "Don't kill yourself; there's no hurry. But mind an SS man doesn't catch you unawares. "
"Please . . . I would have liked to be by m y father."
"All right. Your father'll be working here by your
side."
We were lucky.
There were two boys attached to our group: Yossi and Tibi, two brothers. They were Czechs whose parents had been exterminated at Birkenau . They lived, body and soul, for each other.
They and I very soon became friends. Having once belonged to a Zionist youth organization, they knew innu merable Hebrew chants. Thus we would often hum tunes evoking the calm waters of Jordan and the majestic sanctity of Jerusalem. And we would often talk of Palestine. Their parents, like mine, had lacked the courage to wind up their affairs and emigrate while there was still time. We decided that, if we were granted our lives until the liberation, we would not stay in Europe a day longer. We would take the first boat for Haifa.
Still lost in his cabbalistic dreams, Akiba Drumer had discovered a verse in the Bible which, interpreted in terms of numerology, enabled him to predict that the deliverance was due within the coming weeks.
Night 49
We had left the tents for the musicians' block. We were entitled to a blanket, a wash bowl, and a bar of soap.
The head of the block was a Gennan Jew.
It was good to be under a Jew. He was called Alphonse. A young man with an extraordinarily aged face, he was entirely devoted to the cause of "his" block.
Whenever he could, he would organize a cauldron of soup for the young ones, the weak, all those who were dreaming more about an extra plateful than of liberty.
One day when we had just come back from the warehouse, I was sent for by the secretary of the block.
"A-7713?" 'That's me. "
"After eating, you're to go to the dentist. "
"But I haven't got toothache. " uAfter eating. Without fail . "
I went t o the hospital block. There were about twenty prisoners waiting in a queue in front of the door. It did not take long to discover why we had been summoned: it was for the extraction of our gold teeth.
The dentist, a Jew from Czechoslovakia, had a face like a death mask. When he opened his mouth, there was a horrible sight of yellow, decaying teeth. I sat in the chair and asked him humbly: "Please, what are you going to do?"
"Simply take out your gold crown, " he replied, indif
ferently.
I had the idea of pretending to be ill. uYou couldn't wait a few days, Doctor? I don't feel very well. I've got a temperature . . . . "
He wrinkled his brow, thought for a moment, and took my pulse.
"All right, son. When you feel better, come back and see me. But don't wait till I send for you!"
I went to see him a week later. With the same excuse:
Elie Wiesel50
I still did not feel any better. He did not seem to show any surprise, and I do not know if he believed me. He was probably glad to see that I had come back of my own accord, as I had promised. He gave me another reprieve.
A few days after this visit of mine, they closed the dentist's surgery, and he was thrown into prison. He was going to be hanged. It was alleged that he had been running a private traffic of his own in the prisoners' gold teeth. I did not feel any pity for him. I was even pleased about what had happened. I had saved my gold crown. It might be useful to me one day to buy something-bread or life. I now took little interest in anything except my daily plate of soup and my crust of stale bread. Bread, soup -these were my whole life. I was a body . Perhaps less than that even: a starved stomach. The stomach alone was aware of the passage of time.
At the warehouse I often worked next to a young French girl. We did not speak to one another, since she knew no German and I did not understand French.
She seemed to me to be a Jewess, though here she passed as Aryan. She was a forced labor deportee.
One day when Idek was seized with one of his fits of frenzy, I got in his way . He leapt on me, like a wild animal, hitting me in the chest, on the head, throwing me down and pulling me up again, his blows growing more and more violent, until I was covered with blood. As I was biting my lips to stop myself from screaming with pain, he must have taken my silence for defiance, for he went on hitting me even harder.
Suddenly he calmed down. As if nothing had hap pened, he sent me back to work. It was as though we had been taking part together in some game where we each had our role to play.
I dragged myself to my comer. I ached all over. I felt a cool hand wiping my blood-stained forehead. It was the French girl. She gave me her gtoumful smile and slipped a
Night 51
bit of bread into my hand. She looked into my eyes. I felt that she wanted to say something but was choked by fear.
For a long moment she stayed like that, then her face cleared and she said to me in almost perfect German:
. . . . Don't cry. Keep�Bite your lip, little brother your anger and hatred for another day, for later on. The day will come, but not now. . . . Wait. Grit your teeth and wait. . . . "
M any years later, in Paris, I was reading my paper in the M etro. Facing m� was a very beautiful woman with black hair and dreamy eyes. I had setm those eyes before
somewhere. It was she.
�You don't recognize me?'' �I don't know you. "
"In 1944 you were i n Germany, at Buna, weren't you?"
"Yes . . . . "
"You used to work in the electrical warehouse . . . . "
"Yes," she said, somewhat disturbed. And then, after a moment's silence: "Wait a minute . . . I do remem ber. . . . "
"Idek, the Kapo . . . the little Jewish boy . . . your kind words. . . . "
We left the M etro together to sit down on the terrace of a cafe. We spent the whole evening reminiscing.
Before I parted from her, I asked her: "May I ask you a
question?"
"I know what it will be-go on." �What?"
"Am I Jewish . . . ? Yes, I am Jewish. From a religious family. During the occupation I obtained forged papers and passed myself off as an Aryan. That's how I was enlisted in the forced labor groups, and when I was deported to Germany, I escaped the concentration camp.
At the warehouse, no one knew I could speak German.
That would have aroused suspicions. Saying those few words to you was risky: but I knew you wouldn't give me away . . . . "
Elie Wiesel52
Another time we had to load Diesel engines onto trains supervised by German soldiers. Idek's nerves were on edge. He was restraining himself with great difficulty.
Suddenly, his frenzy broke out. The victim was my father.
"You lazy old devil!" Idek began to yell. "Do you call that work?"
And he began to beat him with an iron bar. At first my father crouched under the blows, then he broke in two, like a dry tree struck by lightning, and collapsed .
I had watched the whole scene without moving. I kept quiet. In fact I was thinking of how to get farther away so that I would not be hit myself. What is more, any anger I felt at that moment was directed, not against the Kapo, but against my father. I was angry with him, for not knowing how to avoid Idek's outbreak. That is what concentration camp life had made of me.
Franek, the foreman, one day noticed the gold
crowned tooth in my mouth.
"Give me your crown, kid . "
I told him i t was impossible, that I could not eat
without it.
"What do they give you to eat, anyway?"
I found another answer; the crown had been put down on a list after the medical inspection. This could bring trouble on us both.
"If you don't give me your crown, you'll pay for it even more."
This sympathetic, intelligent youth was suddenly no longer the same person. His eyes gleamed with desire. I told him I had to ask my father's advice.
"Ask your father, kid. But I want an answer by tomorrow. "
When I spoke to my father about it, h e turned pale, was silent a long while, and t�n said:
Night53
"No, son, you mustn't do it."
"He'll take it out on us!"
"He won't dare."
But alas, Franek knew where to touch me; he knew my weak point. My father had never done military service, and he never succeeded in marching in step. Here, every time we moved from one place to another in a body, we marched in strict rhythm. This was Franek's chance to torment my father and to thrash him savagely every day. Left, right: punch! Left, right: clout!
I decided to give my father lessons myself, to teach him to change step, and to keep to the rhythm . We began to do exercises in front of our block. I would give the commands: "Left, right!" and my father would practice.
Some of the prisoners began to laugh at us.
"Look at this little officer teaching the old chap to march . . . . Hey, general, how many rations of bread does the old boy give you for this?"
But my father's progress was still inadequate, and blows continued to rain down on him.
"So you still can't march in step, you lazy old devil?"
These scenes were repeated for two weeks. We could not stand any more. We had to give in. When the day came, Franek burst into wild laughter.
"I knew it, I knew quite well I would win. Better late than never. And because you've made me wait, that's going to cost you a ration of bread. A ration of bread for one of my pals, a famous dentist from Warsaw, so that he can take your crown out."
"What? My ration of bread so that you can have my
crown?"
Franek grinned.
"What would you like then? Shall I break your teeth with my fist?'' That same evening, in the lavatory, the dentist from Warsaw pulled out my crowned tooth, with the aid of a rusty spoon.
Franek grew kinder. Occasionally, he even gave me
54 Elie Wiesel
extra soup. But that did not last long. A fortnight later, afl the Poles were transferred to another camp. I had lost my crown for nothing.
A few days before the Poles left, I had a new experi ence.
It was a Sunday morning. Our unit did not need to go to work that day. But all the same Idek would not hear of our staying in the camp. We had to go to the warehouse.
This sudden enthusiasm for work left us stunned.
At the warehouse, Idek handed us over to Franek, saying, "Do what you like. But do something. If not, you'll
hear from me. . . . "
And he disappeared.
We did not know what to do. Tired of squatting down, we each in tum went for a walk through the warehouse, looking for a bit of bread some civilian might have left behind.
When I came to the back of the building, I heard a noise coming from a little room next door. I went up and saw Idek with a young Polish girl, half-naked, on a mattress. Then I understood why Idek had refused to let us stay in the camp. Moving a hundred prisoners so that he could lie with a girl! It struck me as so funny that I burst out laughing.
Idek leapt up, turned around, and saw me, while the girl tried to cover up her breasts. I wanted to run away, but my legs were glued to the ground. Idek seized me by the throat.
Speaking in a low voice, he said, "You wait and see, kid. . . . You'll soon find out what leaving your work's going to cost you . . . . You're going to pay for this pretty soon . . . . And now, go back to your place. "
Half an hour before work usually ended, the Kapo collected together the whole Wtit. Roll call. Nobody knew
Night 55
what had happened. Roll call at this time of day? Here? But I knew. The Kapo gave a short speech.
"An ordinary prisoner has no right to meddle in other people's affairs. One of you does not seem to have under stood this. I'm obliged, therefore, to make it very clear to
him once and for all. "
I felt the sweat ru n down m y back.
"A-7713!"
I came forward.
"A box!" he ordered.
They brought him a box.
"Lie down on it! On your stomach!"
I obeyed.
Then I was aware of nothing but the strokes of the
whip.
"One . . . two . . . , " he counted.
He took his time between each stroke. Only the first ones really hurt me. I could hear him counting: "Ten . . . eleven . . . "
His voice was calm and reached me as through a thick
wall.
"Twenty-three Two more, I thought, half conscious. The Kapo
waited. ''Twenty-four . . . twenty-five!"
It was over. But I did not realize it, for I had fainted. I felt myself come round as a bucket of cold water was thrown over me. I was still lying on the box. I could just vaguely make out the wet ground surrounding me. Then I heard someone cry out. It must have been the Kapo. I began to distinguish the words he was shouting.
"Get up!"
I probably made some movement to raise myself, because I felt myself falling back onto the box. How I
longed to get up!
"Get up!" he yelled more loudly.
If only I could have answered him, at least; if only I
56 Elie Wiesel
could have told him that I could not move! But I could not manage to open my lips.
At Idek's command, two prisoners lifted me up and led
me in front of him.
"Look me in the eye!"
I looked at him without seeing him. I was thinking of my father. He must have suffered more than I did.
"Listen to me, you bastard!" said Idek, coldly. 'That's for your curiosity. You'll get five times more if you dare tell anyone what you saw! Understand?"
I nodded my head, once, ten times. I nodded cease lessly, as if my head had decided to say yes without ever stopping.
f of us-including my fatherOne Sunday, when hal
-were at work, the rest-including myself-were in the block, taking advantage of the chance to stay in bed late in the morning.
At about ten o'clock, the air-raid sirens began to wail.
An alert. The leaders of the block ran to assemble us inside, while the SS took refuge in the shelters . As it was relatively easy to escape during a warning-the guards left their lookout posts and the electric current was cut off in the barbed-wire fences-the SS had orders to kill anyone found outside the blocks.
Within a few minutes, the camp looked like an aban doned ship. Not a living soul on the paths. Near the kitchen, two cauldrons of steaming hot soup had been left, half full. Two cauldrons of soup, right in the middle of the path, with no one guarding them! A feast for kings, abandoned, supreme temptation! Hundreds of eyes looked at them, sparkling with desire. Two lambs, with a hundred wolves lying in wait for them . Two lambs without a shepherd-a gift. But who would dare?
Terror was stronger than hunger. Suddenly, we saw the door of Block 37 open imperceptibly. A man appeared, crawling like a worm in the dlrection of the cauldrons.
Night 57
Hundreds of eyes followed his movements. Hundreds of men crawled with him, scraping their knees with his on the gravel. Every heart trembled, but with envy above all.
This man had dared.
He reached the first cauldron. Hearts raced: he had succeeded. Jealousy consumed us, burned us up like straw.
We never thought for a moment of admiring him. Poor hero, committing suicide for a ration of soup! In our thoughts we were murdering him.
Stretched out by the cauldron, he was now trying to raise himself up to the edge. Either from weakness or fear he stayed there, trying, no doubt, to muster up the last of his strength. At last he succeeded in hoisting himself onto the edge of the pot. For a moment, he seemed to be looking at himself, seeking his ghostlike reflection in the soup. Then, for no apparent reason, he let out a terrible cry, a rattle such as I had never heard before, and, his mouth open, thrust his head toward the still steaming liquid. We jumped at the explosion. Falling back onto the ground, his face stained with soup, the man writhed for a few seconds at the foot of the cauldron, then he moved no more .
Then we began to hear the airplanes . Almost at once, the barracks began to shake. 'They're bombing Buna!" someone shouted.
I thought of my father. But I was glad all the same. To see the whole works go up in fire--what revenge! We had heard so much talk about the defeats of German troops on various fronts, but we did not know how much to believe.
This, today, was real!
We were not afraid. And yet, if a bomb had fallen on the blocks, it alone would have claimed hundreds of victims on the spot. But we were no longer afraid of death; at any rate, not of that death. Every bomb that exploded filled us with joy and gave us new confidence in life.
The raid lasted over an hour. If it could only have lasted ten times ten hours! . . . Then silence fell once more. The last sound of an American plane was lost on the
Elie Wiesel58
wind, and we found ourselves back again in the cemetery.
A great trail of black smoke was rising up on the horizon.
The sirens began to wail once more. It was the end of the alert.
Everyone came out of the blocks. We filled our lungs with the fire- and smoke-laden air, and our eyes shone with hope. A bomb had fallen in the middle of the camp, near the assembly point, but it had not gone off. We had to take it outside the camp.
The head of the camp, accompanied by his assistant and the chief Kapo, made a tour of inspection along the paths. The raid had left traces of terror on his face.
Right in the middle of the camp lay the body of the man with the soup-stained face, the only victim. The cauldrons were taken back into the kitchen.
The SS had gone back to their lookout posts, behind their machine guns. The interlude was over.
At the end of an hour, we saw the units come back, in step, as usual. Joyfully, I caught sight of my father.
"Several buildings have been flattened right out," he said, "but the warehouse hasn't suffered. "
I n the afternoon w e went cheerfully t o clear away the ruins.
A week later, on the way back from work, we noticed in the center of the camp, at the assembly place, a black gallows.
We were told that soup would not be distributed until after roll call. This took longer than usual. The orders were given in a sharper manner than on other days, and in the air there were strange undertones.
"Bare your heads!" yelled the head of the camp, suddenly.
Ten thousand caps were simultaneously removed.
"Cover your heads!"
Ten thousand caps went back onto their skulls, as quick as lightning.
Night 59
The gate to the camp opened. An SS section appeared and surrounded us: one SS at every three paces. On the lookout towers the machine guns were trained on the
assembly place. 'They fear trouble, � whispered Juliek.
Two SS men had gone to the cells. They came back with the condemned man between them. He was a youth from Warsaw. He had three years of concentration camp life behind him. He was a strong, well-built boy, a giant in comparison with me.
His back to the gallows, his face turned toward his judge, who was the head of the camp, the boy was pale, but seemed more moved than afraid. His manacled hands did not tremble. His eyes gazed coldly at the hundreds of SS guards, the thousands of prisoners who surrounded him.
The head of the camp began to read his verdict, hammering out each phrase: "In the name of Himmler . . . prisoner Number . . . stole during the alert. . . . According to the law . . . paragraph . . . prisoner Number . . . is condemned to death. May this be a warning and an example to all
prisoners. "
N o one moved.
I could hear my heart beating. The thousands who had died daily at Auschwitz and at Birkenau in the crematory ovens no longer troubled me. But this one, leaning against his gallows-he overwhelmed me.
"Do you think this ceremony'll be over soon? I'm hungry . . . . " whispered Juliek.
At a sign from the head of the camp, the Lagerkapo advanced toward the condemned man. Two prisoners helped him in his task-for two plates of soup.
The Kapo wanted to bandage the victim's eyes, but he refused.
After a long moment of waiting, the executioner put the rope round his neck. He was on the point of motioning to his assistants to draw the chair away from the prisoner's feet, when the latter cried, in a calm, strong voice:
60 Elie Wiesel
"Long live liberty! A curse upon Gennanyl A curse . I A cur-"
The executioners had completed their task.
A command cleft the air like a sword.
"Bare your heads. "
Ten thousand prisoners paid their last respects.
"Cover your heads!"
Then the whole camp, block after block, had to march past the hanged man and stare at the dimmed eyes, the lolling tongue of death. The Kapos and heads of each block forced everyone to look him full in the face.
After the march, we were given pennission to return to the blocks for our meal.
I remember that I found the soup excellent that evening . . . .
I witnessed other hangings. I never saw a single one of the victims weep. For a long time those dried-up bodies had forgotten the bitter taste of tears.
Except once. The Oberkapo of the fifty-second cable unit was a Dutchman, a giant, well over six feet. Seven hundred prisoners worked under his orders, and they all loved him like a brother. No one had ever received a blow at his hands, nor an insult from his lips.
He had a young boy under him, a pipel, as they were called-a child with a refined and beautiful face, unheard of in this camp. (At Buna, the pipel were loathed; they were often crueller than adults. I once saw one of thirteen beating his father because the latter had not made his bed properly.
The old man was crying softly while the boy shouted: "If you don't stop crying at once I shan't bring you any more bread. Do you understand?" But the Dutchman's little servant was loved by all. He had the face of a sad angel. ) One day, the electric power station· at Buna was blown up. The Gestapo, summoned to the spot, suspected sabo tage. They found a trail. It eventually led to the Dutch
Night 61
Oberkapo. And there, after a search, they found an impor tant stock of arms.
The Oberkapo was arrested immediately. He was tortured for a period of weeks, but in vain. He would not give a single name. He was transferred to Auschwitz. We never heard of him again.
But his little servant had been left behind in the camp in prison. Also put to torture, he too would not speak. Then the SS sentenced him to death, with two other prisoners who had been discovered with arms.
One day when we came back from work, we saw three gallows rearing up in the assembly place, three black crows. Roll call. SS all round us, machine guns trained : the traditional ceremony. Three victims in chains-and one of them, the little servant, the sad-eyed angel.
The SS seemed more preoccupied, more disturbed than usual. To hang a young boy in front of thousands of spectators was no light matter. The head of the camp read the verdict. All eyes were on the child. He was lividly pale, almost calm, biting his lips. The gallows threw its shadow over him.
This time the Lagerkapo refused to act as executioner.
Three SS replaced him.
The three victims mounted together onto the chairs.
The three necks were placed at the same moment within the nooses.
"Long live liberty!" cried the two adults.
But the child was silent.
"Where is God? Where is He?" someone behind me asked.
At a sign from the head of the camp, the three chairs tipped over.
Total silence throughout the camp. On the horizon, the sun was setting.
"Bare your heads!" yelled the head of the camp. His
voice was raucous. We were weeping.
"Cover your heads!"
Then the march past began. The two adults were no
Elie Wiesel62
longer alive. Their tongues hung swollen, blue-tinged. But the third rope was still moving; being so light, the child was still alive. . . .
For more than half an hour he stayed there, struggling between life and death, dying in slow agony under our eyes. And we had to look him full in the face. He was still alive when I passed in front of him. His tongue was still
red, his eyes were not yet glazed.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking: "Where is God now?"
And I heard a voice within me answer him: "Where is He? Here He is-He is hanging here on this
gallows . . . . "
That night the soup tasted of corpses.