Pressed up against the others in an effort to keep out the cold, head empty and heavy at the same time, brain a whirlpool of decaying memories. Indifference deadened the spirit. Here or elsewhere-what difference did it make? To die today or tomorrow, or later? The night was long and never ending. , When at last a gray glimmer of light appeared on the horizon, it revealed a tangle of human shapes, heads sunk upon shoulders, crouched, piled one on top of the other, like a field of dust-covered tombstones in the first light of the dawn. I tried to distinguish those who were still alive from those who had gone. But there was no difference. My gaze was held for a long time by one who lay with his eyes open, staring into the void. His livid face was covered with a layer of frost and snow.
My father was huddled near me, wrapped in his blanket, his shoulders covered with snow. And was he dead, too? I called him. No answer. I would have cried out if I could have done so. He did not move.
My mind was invaded suddenly by this realization -there was no more reason to live, no more ' reason to struggle.
The train stopped in the middle of a deserted field.
The suddenness of the halt woke some of those who were asleep. They straightened themselves up, throwing startled
looks around them.
Outside, the SS went by, shouting:
93
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'Throw out all the dead! All corpses outside!"
The living rejoiced. There would be more room.
Volunteers set to work. They felt those who were still
crouching.
"Here's one! Take him!"
They undressed him, the survivors avidly sharing out his clothes, then two "gravediggers" took him, one by the head and one by the feet, and threw him out of the wagon
like a sack of flour.
From all directions came cries: "Come on! Here's one! This man next to me. He doesn't move. "
I woke from m y apathy just at the moment when two men came up to my father. I threw myself on top of his body. He was cold. I slapped him. I rubbed his hands, crying: "Father! Father! Wake up. They're trying to throw you
out of the caniage. . . . "
His body remained inert.
The two gravediggers seized me by the collar.
"Leave him. You can see perfectly well that he's dead . "
"No!" I cried. " H e isn't dead ! Not yet!"
I set to work to slap him as hard as I could. After a moment my father's eyelids moved slightly over his glazed
eyes. He was breathing weakly.
"You see," I cried.
The two men moved away.
Twenty bodies were thrown out of our wagon. Then the train resumed its journey, leaving behind it a few hundred naked dead, deprived of burial, in the deep snow of a field in Poland.
We were given no food. We lived on snow; it took the place of bread. The days were like nights, and the nights left the dregs of their darkness in our souls. The train was traveling slowly, often stopping for several hours and then setting off again. It never ceased snowing. All through these days and nights we stayed crouching, one on top of the other, never speaking a \\'Ord. We were no more than
Night 95
frozen bodies. Our eyes closed, we waited merely for the next stop, so that we could unload our dead.
Ten days, ten nights of traveling. Sometimes we would pass through German townships. Very early in the morning, usually. The workmen were going to work. They stopped and stared after us, but otherwise showed no surprise.
One day when we had stopped, a workman took a piece of bread out of his bag and threw it into a wagon.
There was a stampede. Dozens of starving men fought each other to the death for a few crumbs. The German workmen took a lively interest in this spectacle.
Some years later, I watched the same kind of scene at Aden. The passengers on our boat were amusing them selves by throwing coins to the "natives, " who were diving in to get them. An attractive, aristocratic Parisienne was deriving special pleasure from the game. I suddenly no ticed that two children were engaged in a death struggle, trying to strangle each other. I turned to the lady.
"Please," I begged, "don't throw any more money in!"
"Why not?" she said. "I like to give charity . . . . "
In the wagon where the bread had fallen, a real battle had broken out. M en threw themselves on top of each other, stamping on each other, tearing at each other, biting each other. Wild beasts of prey, with animal hatred in their eyes; an extraordinary vitality had seized them, sharpening their teeth and nails.
A crowd of workmen and curious spectators had collected along the train. They had probably never seen a train with such a cargo. Soon, nearly everywhere, pieces of bread were being dropped into the wagons. The audience stared at these skeletons of men, fighting one another to the death for a mouthful.
A piece fell into our wagon . I decided that I would not move. Anyway, I knew that I would never have the strength to fight with a dozen savage men! Not far away I
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noticed an old man dragging himself along on all fours. He was trying to disengage himself from the struggle. He held one hand to his heart. I thought at first he had received a blow in the chest. Then I understood; he had a bit of bread under his shirt. With remarkable speed he drew it out and put it to his mouth. His eyes gleamed; a smile, like a grimace, lit up his dead face. And was immediately extin guished. A shadow had just loomed up near him. The shadow threw itself upon him . Felled to the ground, stunned with blows, the old man cried: "Meir. Meir, my boy! Don't you recognize me? I'm your father . . . you're hurting me . . . you're killing your father! I've got some bread . . . for you too . . . for you too. . . . "
He collapsed. His fist was still clenched around a small piece. He tried to carry it to his mouth. But the other one threw himself upon him and snatched it. The old man again whispered something, let out a rattle, and died amid the general indifference. His son searched him, took the bread, and began to devour it. He was not able to get very far. Two men had seen and hurled themselves upon him. Others joined in. When they withdrew, next to me were two corpses, side by side, the father and the son.
I was fifteen years old.
In our wagon, there was a friend of my father's called Meir Katz. He had worked as a gardener at Buna and used to bring us a few green vegetables occasionally. Being less undernourished than the rest of us, he had stood up to imprisonment better. Because he was relatively more vigorous, he had been put in charge of the wagon.
On the third night of our journey I woke up suddenly and felt tWo hands on my throat, trying to strangle me. I just had the time to shout, "Father!"
Nothing but this word. I felt myself suffocating. But my father had woken up and seized my attacker. Too weak to overcome him, he had the _idea of calling Meir Katz.
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"Come here! Come quickly! There's someone stran gling my son."
A few moments later I was free. I still do not know why the man wanted to strangle me.
After a few days, Meir Katz spoke to my father: "Chlomo, I'm getting weak. I'm losing my strength. I can't hold on . . . . "
"Don't let yourself go under," my father said, trying to encourage him. "You must resist. Don't lose faith in
yourself. "
But Meir Katz groaned heavily in reply.
"I can't go on any longer, Chlomo! What can I do? I can't carry on . . . . "
My father took his arm. And Meir Katz, the strong man, the most robust of us all, wept. His son had been taken from him at the time of the first selection, but it was now that he wept. It was now that he cracked up. He was finished, at the end of his tether.
On the last day of our journey a terrible wind arose; it snowed without ceasing. We felt that the end was near -the real end. We could never hold out in this icy wind, in
these gusts.
Someone got up and shouted: "We mustn't stay sitting down at a time like this. We shall freeze to death! Let's all get up and move a bit. . . . "
We all got up. We held our damp blankets more tightly around us. And we forced ourselves to move a few steps, to tum around where we were.
Suddenly a cry rose up from the wagon, the cry of a wounded animal. Someone had just died.
Others, feeling that they too were about to die,
And their cries seemed to come fromimitated his cry. beyond the grave. Soon everyone was crying out. Wailing, groaning, cries of distress hurled into the wind and the snow.
The contagion spread to the other carriages. Hundreds of cries rose up simultaneously. Not knowing against whom we cried. Not knowing why. The death rattle of a whole
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convoy who felt the end upon them. We were all going to die here. All limits had been passed . No one had any strength left. And again the night would be long.
Meir Katz groaned: "Why don't they shoot us all right away?"
That same evening, we reached our destination.
It was late at night. The guards came to unload us. The dead were abandoned in the train. Only those who could still stand were able to get out.
Meir Katz stayed in the train. The last day had been the most murderous. A hundred of us had got into the wagon. A dozen of us got out-among them, my father and
I.
We had arrived at Buchenwald .