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We were ready. I went out first. I did not want to look at my parents' faces. I did not want to break into tears. We remained sit- ting in the middle of the street, like the others two days earlier. The same hellish sun. The same thirst. Only there was no one left to bring us water. I looked at my house in which I had spent years seeking my God, fasting to hasten the coming of the Messiah, imagining what my life would be like later. Yet I felt little sadness. My mind was empty. “Get up! Roll call!” We stood. We were counted. We sat down. We got up again. Over and over. We waited impatiently to be taken away. What were they waiting for? Finally, the order came: “Forward! March!” My father was crying. It was the first time I saw him cry. I had never thought it possible. As for my mother, she was walking, her face a mask, without a word, deep in thought. I looked at my lit- tle sister, Tzipora, her blond hair neatly combed, her red coat over her arm: a little girl of seven. On her back a bag too heavy for her. She was clenching her teeth; she already knew it was useless to complain. Here and there, the police were lashing out with their clubs: “Faster!” I had no strength left. The journey had just be- gun and I already felt so weak… “Faster! Faster! Move, you lazy good-for-nothings!” the Hun- garian police were screaming. That was when I began to hate them, and my hatred remains our only link today. They were our first oppressors. They were the first faces of hell and death. They ordered us to run. We began to run. Who would have thought that we were so strong? From behind their windows, from behind their shutters, our fellow citizens watched as we passed. 19

We finally arrived at our destination. Throwing down our bun- dles, we dropped to the ground: “Oh God, Master of the Universe, in your infinite compassion, have mercy o n us…” THE SMALL GHETTO. Only three days ago, people were living here. People who owned the things we were using now. They had been expelled. And we had already forgotten all about them. The chaos was even greater here than in the large ghetto. Its inhabitants evidently had been caught by surprise. I visited the rooms that had been occupied by my Uncle Mendel's family. On the table, a half-finished bowl of soup. A platter of dough waiting to be baked. Everywhere on the floor there were books. Had my uncle meant to take them along? We settled in. (What a word!) I went looking for wood, my sisters lit a fire. Despite her fatigue, my mother began to prepare a meal. We cannot give up, we cannot give up, she kept repeating. People's morale was not so bad: we were beginning to get used to the situation. There were those who even voiced optimism. The Germans were running out of time to expel us, they argued… Tragically for those who had already been deported, it would be too late. As for us, chances were that we would be allowed to go on with our miserable little lives until the end of the war. The ghetto was not guarded. One could enter and leave as one pleased. Maria, our former maid, came to see us. Sobbing, she begged us to come with her to her village where she had prepared a safe shelter. My father wouldn't hear of it. He told me and my big sisters, "If you wish, go there. I shall stay here with your mother and the little one… Naturally, we refused to be separated. 20

NIGHT. No one was praying for the night to pass quickly. The stars were but sparks of the immense conflagration that was con- suming us. Were this conflagration to be extinguished one day, nothing would be left in the sky but extinct stars and unseeing eyes. There was nothing else to do but to go to bed, in the beds of those who had moved on. We needed to rest, to gather our strength. At daybreak, the gloom had lifted. The mood was more confi- dent. There were those who said: “Who knows, they may be sending us away for our own good. The front is getting closer, we shall soon hear the guns. And then surely the civilian population will be evacuated…” “They worry lest we join the partisans…” “As far as I'm concerned, this whole business of deportation is nothing but a big farce. Don't laugh. They just want to steal our valuables and jewelry. They know that it has all been buried and that they will have to dig to find it; so much easier to do when the owners are on vacation…” On vacation! This kind of talk that nobody believed helped pass the time. The few days we spent here went by pleasantly enough, in rela- tive calm. People rather got along. There no longer was any dis- tinction between rich and poor, notables and the others; we were all people condemned to the same fate—still unknown. SATURDAY, the day of rest, was the day chosen for our expulsion. The night before, we had sat down to the traditional Friday night meal. We had said the customary blessings over the bread 21

and the wine and swallowed the food in silence. We sensed that we were gathered around the familial table for the last time. I spent that night going over memories and ideas and was unable to fall asleep. At dawn, we were in the street, ready to leave. This time, there were no Hungarian police. It had been agreed that the Jew- ish Council would handle everything by itself. Our convoy headed toward the main synagogue. The town seemed deserted. But behind the shutters, our friends of yester- day were probably waiting for the moment when they could loot our homes. The synagogue resembled a large railroad station: baggage and tears. The altar was shattered, the wall coverings shredded, the walls themselves bare. There were so many of us, we could hardly breathe. The twenty-four hours we spent there were horrendous. The men were downstairs, the women upstairs. It was Saturday— the Sabbath—and it was as though we were there to attend ser- vices. Forbidden to go outside, people relieved themselves in a corner. The next morning, we walked toward the station, where a convoy of cattle cars was waiting. The Hungarian police made us climb into the cars, eighty persons in each one. They handed us some bread, a few pails of water. They checked the bars on the windows to make sure they would not come loose. The cars were sealed. One person was placed in charge of every car: if someone managed to escape, that person would be shot. Two Gestapo officers strolled down the length of the platform. They were all smiles; all things considered, it had gone very smoothly. A prolonged whistle pierced the air. The wheels began to grind. We were on our way. L YING DOWN was not an option, nor could we all sit down. We decided to take turns sitting. There was little air. The lucky ones found themselves near a window; they could watch the blooming countryside flit by. After two days of travel, thirst became intolerable, as did the heat. Freed of normal constraints, some of the young let go of their inhibitions and, under cover of darkness, caressed one another, without any thought of others, alone in the world. The others pre- tended not to notice. There was still some food left. But we never ate enough to satisfy our hunger. Our principle was to economize, to save for tomorrow. Tomorrow could be worse yet. The train stopped in Kaschau, a small town on the Czechoslo- vakian border. We realized then that we were not staying in Hun- gary. Our eyes opened. Too late. The door of the car slid aside. A German officer stepped in accompanied by a Hungarian lieutenant, acting as his interpreter. "From this moment on, you are under the authority of the 22

L YING DOWN was not an option, nor could we all sit down. We decided to take turns sitting. There was little air. The lucky ones found themselves near a window; they could watch the blooming countryside flit by. After two days of travel, thirst became intolerable, as did the heat. Freed of normal constraints, some of the young let go of their inhibitions and, under cover of darkness, caressed one another, without any thought of others, alone in the world. The others pre- tended not to notice. There was still some food left. But we never ate enough to satisfy our hunger. Our principle was to economize, to save for tomorrow. Tomorrow could be worse yet. The train stopped in Kaschau, a small town on the Czechoslo- vakian border. We realized then that we were not staying in Hun- gary. Our eyes opened. Too late. The door of the car slid aside. A German officer stepped in accompanied by a Hungarian lieutenant, acting as his interpreter. "From this moment on, you are under the authority of the 23

German Army. Anyone who still owns gold, silver, or watches must hand them over now. Anyone who will be found to have kept any of these will be shot on the spot. Secondly, anyone who is ill should report to the hospital car. That's all.“ The Hungarian lieutenant went around with a basket and re- trieved the last possessions from those who chose not to go on tasting the bitterness of fear. ”There are eighty of you in the car,“ the German officer added. ”If anyone goes missing, you will all be shot, like dogs.“ The two disappeared. The doors clanked shut. We had fallen into the trap, up to our necks. The doors were nailed, the way back irrevocably cut off. The world had become a hermetically sealed cattle car. THERE WAS A WOMAN among us, a certain Mrs. Schächter. She was in her fifties and her ten-year-old son was with her, crouched in a corner. Her husband and two older sons had been deported with the first transport, by mistake. The separation had totally shattered her. I knew her well. A quiet, tense woman with piercing eyes, she had been a frequent guest in our house. Her husband was a pious man who spent most of his days and nights in the house of study. It was she who supported the family. Mrs. Schächter had lost her mind. On the first day of the jour- ney, she had already begun to moan. She kept asking why she had been separated from her family. Later, her sobs and screams be- came hysterical. On the third night, as we were sleeping, some of us sitting, huddled against each other, some of us standing, a piercing cry broke the silence: ”Fire! I see a fire! I see a fire!" 24

There was a moment of panic. Who had screamed? It was Mrs. Schächter. Standing in the middle of the car, in the faint light fil- tering through the windows, she looked like a withered tree in a field of wheat. She was howling, pointing through the window: “Look! Look at this fire! This terrible fire! Have mercy on me!” Some pressed against the bars to see. There was nothing. Only the darkness of night. It took us a long time to recover from this harsh awakening. We were still trembling, and with every screech of the wheels, we felt the abyss opening beneath us. Unable to still our anguish, we tried to reassure each other: “She is mad, poor woman…” Someone had placed a damp rag on her forehead. But she nev- ertheless continued to scream: “Fire! I see a fire!” Her little boy was crying, clinging to her skirt, trying to hold her hand: “It's nothing, Mother! There's nothing there…Please sit down…” He pained me even more than did his mother's cries. Some of the women tried to calm her: “You'll see, you'll find your husband and sons again…In a few days…” She continued to scream and sob fitfully. “Jews, listen to me,” she cried. “I see a fire! I see flames, huge flames!” It was as though she were possessed by some evil spirit. We tried to reason with her, more to calm ourselves, to catch our breath, than to soothe her: “She is hallucinating because she is thirsty, poor woman… That's why she speaks of flames devouring her…” But it was all in vain. Our terror could no longer be contained. 25

Our nerves had reached a breaking point. Our very skin was aching. It was as though madness had infected all of us. We gave up. A few young men forced her to sit down, then bound and gagged her. Silence fell again. The small boy sat next to his mother, crying. I started to breathe normally again as I listened to the rhythmic pounding of the wheels on the tracks as the train raced through the night. We could begin to doze again, to rest, to dream… And so an hour or two passed. Another scream jolted us. The woman had broken free of her bonds and was shouting louder than before: “Look at the fire! Look at the flames! Flames everywhere…” Once again, the young men bound and gagged her. When they actually struck her, people shouted their approval: “Keep her quiet! Make that madwoman shut up. She's not the only one here…” She received several blows to the head, blows that could have been lethal. Her son was clinging desperately to her, not uttering a word. He was no longer crying. The night seemed endless. By daybreak, Mrs. Schächter had settled down. Crouching in her corner, her blank gaze fixed on some faraway place, she no longer saw us. She remained like that all day, mute, absent, alone in the midst of us. Toward evening she began to shout again: “The fire, over there!” She was pointing somewhere in the distance, always the same place. No one felt like beating her anymore. The heat, the thirst, the stench, the lack of air, were suffocating us. Yet all that was nothing compared to her screams, which tore us apart. A few more days and all of us would have started to scream. 26

But we were pulling into a station. Someone near a window read to us: “Auschwitz.” Nobody had ever heard that name. THE TRAIN did not move again. The afternoon went by slowly. Then the doors of the wagon slid open. Two men were given per- mission to fetch water. When they came back, they told us that they had learned, in exchange for a gold watch, that this was the final destination. We were to leave the train here. There was a labor camp on the site. The conditions were good. Families would not be separated. Only the young would work in the factories. The old and the sick would find work in the fields. Confidence soared. Suddenly we felt free of the previous nights' terror. We gave thanks to God. Mrs. Schächter remained huddled in her corner, mute, un- touched by the optimism around her. Her little one was stroking her hand. Dusk began to fill the wagon. We ate what was left of our food. At ten o'clock in the evening, we were all trying to find a position for a quick nap and soon we were dozing. Suddenly: “Look at the fire! Look at the flames! Over there!” With a start, we awoke and rushed to the window yet again. We had believed her, if only for an instant. But there was nothing outside but darkness. We returned to our places, shame in our souls but fear gnawing at us nevertheless. As she went on howl- ing, she was struck again. Only with great difficulty did we suc- ceed in quieting her down. The man in charge of our wagon called out to a German officer 27

strolling down the platform, asking him to have the sick woman moved to a hospital car. “Patience,” the German replied, “patience. She'll be taken there soon.” Around eleven o'clock, the train began to move again. We pressed against the windows. The convoy was rolling slowly. A quarter of an hour later, it began to slow down even more. Through the windows, we saw barbed wire; we understood that this was the camp. We had forgotten Mrs. Schächter's existence. Suddenly there was a terrible scream: “Jews, look! Look at the fire! Look at the flames!” And as the train stopped, this time we saw flames rising from a tall chimney into a black sky. Mrs. Schächter had fallen silent on her own. Mute again, indif- ferent, absent, she had returned to her corner. We stared at the flames in the darkness. A wretched stench floated in the air. Abruptly, our doors opened. Strange-looking creatures, dressed in striped jackets and black pants, jumped into the wagon. Holding flashlights and sticks, they began to strike at us left and right, shouting: “Everybody out! Leave everything inside. Hurry up!” We jumped out. I glanced at Mrs. Schächter. Her little boy was still holding her hand. In front of us, those flames. In the air, the smell of burning flesh. It must have been around midnight. We had arrived. In Birkenau. T HE BELOVED OBJECTS that we had carried with us from place to place were now left behind in the wagon and, with them, finally, our illusions. Every few yards, there stood an SS man, his machine gun trained on us. Hand in hand we followed the throng. An SS came toward us wielding a club. He commanded: “Men to the left! Women to the right!” Eight words spoken quietly, indifferently, without emotion. Eight simple, short words. Yet that was the moment when I left my mother. There was no time to think, and I already felt my fa- ther's hand press against mine: we were alone. In a fraction of a second I could see my mother, my sisters, move to the right. Tzi- pora was holding Mother's hand. I saw them walking farther and farther away; Mother was stroking my sister's blond hair, as if to protect her. And I walked on with my father, with the men. I didn't know that this was the moment in time and the place where I was leaving my mother and Tzipora forever. I kept walk- ing, my father holding my hand. 28

T HE BELOVED OBJECTS that we had carried with us from place to place were now left behind in the wagon and, with them, finally, our illusions. Every few yards, there stood an SS man, his machine gun trained on us. Hand in hand we followed the throng. An SS came toward us wielding a club. He commanded: “Men to the left! Women to the right!” Eight words spoken quietly, indifferently, without emotion. Eight simple, short words. Yet that was the moment when I left my mother. There was no time to think, and I already felt my fa- ther's hand press against mine: we were alone. In a fraction of a second I could see my mother, my sisters, move to the right. Tzi- pora was holding Mother's hand. I saw them walking farther and farther away; Mother was stroking my sister's blond hair, as if to protect her. And I walked on with my father, with the men. I didn't know that this was the moment in time and the place where I was leaving my mother and Tzipora forever. I kept walk- ing, my father holding my hand. 29

Behind me, an old man fell to the ground. Nearby, an SS man replaced his revolver in its holster. My hand tightened its grip on my father. All I could think of was not to lose him. Not to remain alone. The SS officers gave the order. “Form ranks of fives!” There was a tumult. It was imperative to stay together. “Hey, kid, how old are you?” The man interrogating me was an inmate. I could not see his face, but his voice was weary and warm. “Fifteen.” “No. You're eighteen.” “But I'm not,” I said. “I'm fifteen.” “Fool. Listen to what I say.” Then he asked my father, who answered: “I'm fifty.” “No.” The man now sounded angry. “Not fifty. You're forty. Do you hear? Eighteen and forty.” He disappeared into the darkness. Another inmate appeared, unleashing a stream of invectives: “Sons of bitches, why have you come here? Tell me, why?” Someone dared to reply: “What do you think? That we came here of our own free will? That we asked to come here?” The other seemed ready to kill him: “Shut up, you moron, or I'll tear you to pieces! You should have hanged yourselves rather than come here. Didn't you know what was in store for you here in Auschwitz? You didn't know? In 1944?” True. We didn't know. Nobody had told us. He couldn't be- lieve his ears. His tone became even harsher: "Over there. Do you see the chimney over there? Do you see 30

it? And the flames, do you see them?“ (Yes, we saw the flames.) ”Over there, that's where they will take you. Over there will be your grave. You still don't understand? You sons of bitches. Don't you understand anything? You will be burned! Burned to a cin- der! Turned into ashes!“ His anger changed into fury. We stood stunned, petrified. Could this be just a nightmare? An unimaginable nightmare? I heard whispers around me: ”We must do something. We can't let them kill us like that, like cattle in the slaughterhouse. We must revolt.“ There were, among us, a few tough young men. They actually had knives and were urging us to attack the armed guards. One of them was muttering: ”Let the world learn about the existence of Auschwitz. Let everybody find out about it while they still have a chance to es- cape“ But the older men begged their sons not to be foolish: ”We mustn't give up hope, even now as the sword hangs over our heads. So taught our sages…“ The wind of revolt died down. We continued to walk until we came to a crossroads. Standing in the middle of it was, though I didn't know it then, Dr. Mengele, the notorious Dr. Mengele. He looked like the typical SS officer: a cruel, though not unintelli- gent, face, complete with monocle. He was holding a conductor's baton and was surrounded by officers. The baton was moving constantly, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left. In no time, I stood before him. ”Your age?“ he asked, perhaps trying to sound paternal. ”I'm eighteen.“ My voice was trembling. ”In good health?“ ”Yes.“ ”Your profession?" 31

Tell him that I was a student? “Farmer,” I heard myself saying. This conversation lasted no more than a few seconds. It seemed like an eternity. The baton pointed to the left. I took half a step forward. I first wanted to see where they would send my father. Were he to have gone to the right, I would have run after him. The baton, once more, moved to the left. A weight lifted from my heart. We did not know, as yet, which was the better side, right or left, which road led to prison and which to the crematoria. Still, I was happy, I was near my father. Our procession continued slowly to move forward. Another inmate came over to us: “Satisfied?” “Yes,” someone answered. “Poor devils, you are heading for the crematorium.” He seemed to be telling the truth. Not far from us, flames, huge flames, were rising from a ditch. Something was being burned there. A truck drew close and unloaded its hold: small children. Babies! Yes, I did see this, with my own eyes…chil- dren thrown into the flames. (Is it any wonder that ever since then, sleep tends to elude me?) So that was where we were going. A little farther on, there was another, larger pit for adults. I pinched myself: Was I still alive? Was I awake? How was it possible that men, women, and children were being burned and that the world kept silent? No. All this could not be real. A night- mare perhaps…Soon I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and find that I was back in the room of my childhood, with my books… My father's voice tore me from my daydreams: 32

“What a shame, a shame that you did not go with your mother…I saw many children your age go with their mothers…” His voice was terribly sad. I understood that he did not wish to see what they would do to me. He did not wish to see his only son go up in flames. My forehead was covered with cold sweat. Still, I told him that I could not believe that human beings were being burned in our times; the world would never tolerate such crimes… “The world? The world is not interested in us. Today, every- thing is possible, even the crematoria…His voice broke. ”Father,“ I said. ”If that is true, then I don't want to wait. I'll run into the electrified barbed wire. That would be easier than a slow death in the flames.“ He didn't answer. He was weeping. His body was shaking. Everybody around us was weeping. Someone began to recite Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. I don't know whether, during the history of the Jewish people, men have ever before recited Kaddish for themselves. ”Yisgadal, veyiskadash, shmey raba…May His name be cele- brated and sanctified…" whispered my father. For the first time, I felt anger rising within me. Why should I sanctify His name? The Almighty, the eternal and terrible Master of the Universe, chose to be silent. What was there to thank Him for? We continued our march. We were coming closer and closer to the pit, from which an infernal heat was rising. Twenty more steps. If I was going to kill myself, this was the time. Our column had only some fifteen steps to go. I bit my lips so that my father would not hear my teeth chattering. Ten more steps. Eight. Seven. We were walking slowly, as one follows a hearse, our own funeral procession. Only four more steps. Three. There it was now, very close to us, the pit and its flames. I gathered all that re- 33

mained of my strength in order to break rank and throw myself onto the barbed wire. Deep down, I was saying good-bye to my father, to the whole universe, and, against my will, I found myself whispering the words: “Yisgadal, veyiskadash, shmey raba…May His name be exalted and sanctified…” My heart was about to burst. There. I was face-to-face with the Angel of Death… No. Two steps from the pit, we were ordered to turn left and herded into barracks. I squeezed my father's hand. He said: “Do you remember Mrs. Schächter, in the train?” NEVER SHALL I FORGET that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bod- ies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky. Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith for- ever. Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes. Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never. THE BARRACK we had been assigned to was very long. On the roof, a few bluish skylights. I thought: This is what the antecham- ber of hell must look like. So many crazed men, so much shout- ing, so much brutality. 34

Dozens of inmates were there to receive us, sticks in hand, striking anywhere, anyone, without reason. The orders came: “Strip! Hurry up! Raus! Hold on only to your belt and your shoes…” Our clothes were to be thrown on the floor at the back of the barrack. There was a pile there already. New suits, old ones, torn overcoats, rags. For us it meant true equality: nakedness. We trembled in the cold. A few SS officers wandered through the room, looking for strong men. If vigor was that appreciated, perhaps one should try to appear sturdy? My father thought the opposite. Better not to draw attention. (We later found out that he had been right. Those who were selected that day were incorporated into the Sonder- Kommando, the Kommando working in the crematoria. Béla Katz, the son of an important merchant of my town, had arrived in Birkenau with the first transport, one week ahead of us. When he found out that we were there, he succeeded in slipping us a note. He told us that having been chosen because of his strength, he had been forced to place his own father's body into the furnace.) The blows continued to rain on us: “To the barber!” Belt and shoes in hand, I let myself be dragged along to the barbers. Their clippers tore out our hair, shaved every hair on our bodies. My head was buzzing; the same thought surfacing over and over: not to be separated from my father. Freed from the barbers' clutches, we began to wander about the crowd, finding friends, acquaintances. Every encounter filled us with joy—yes, joy: Thank God! You are still alive! Some were crying. They used whatever strength they had left to cry. Why had they let themselves be brought here? Why didn't they die in their beds? Their words were interspersed with sobs. 35

Suddenly someone threw his arms around me in a hug: Yehiel, the Sigheter rebbe's brother. He was weeping bitterly. I thought he was crying with joy at still being alive. “Don't cry, Yehiel,” I said. “Don't waste your tears…” “Not cry? We're on the threshold of death. Soon, we shall be inside…Do you understand? Inside. How could I not cry?” I watched darkness fade through the bluish skylights in the roof. I no longer was afraid. I was overcome by fatigue. The absent no longer entered our thoughts. One spoke of them—who knows what happened to them?—but their fate was not on our minds. We were incapable of thinking. Our senses were numbed, everything was fading into a fog. We no longer clung to anything. The instincts of self-preservation, of self- defense, of pride, had all deserted us. In one terrifying moment of lucidity, I thought of us as damned souls wandering through the void, souls condemned to wander through space until the end of time, seeking redemption, seeking oblivion, without any hope of finding either. AROUND FIVE O'CLOCK in the morning, we were expelled from the barrack. The Kapos were beating us again, but I no longer felt the pain. A glacial wind was enveloping us. We were naked, hold- ing our shoes and belts. An order: “Run!” And we ran. After a few minutes of running, a new barrack. A barrel of foul-smelling liquid stood by the door. Disinfec- tion. Everybody soaked in it. Then came a hot shower. All very fast. As we left the showers, we were chased outside. And ordered to run some more. Another barrack: the storeroom. Very long ta- bles. Mountains of prison garb. As we ran, they threw the clothes at us: pants, jackets, shirts… 36

In a few seconds, we had ceased to be men. Had the situation not been so tragic, we might have laughed. We looked pretty strange! Meir Katz, a colossus, wore a child's pants, and Stern, a skinny little fellow, was floundering in a huge jacket. We immedi- ately started to switch. I glanced over at my father. How changed he looked! His eyes were veiled. I wanted to tell him something, but I didn't know what. The night had passed completely. The morning star shone in the sky. I too had become a different person. The student of Talmud, the child I was, had been consumed by the flames. All that was left was a shape that resembled me. My soul had been invaded—and devoured—by a black flame. So many events had taken place in just a few hours that I had completely lost all notion of time. When had we left our homes? And the ghetto? And the train? Only a week ago? One night? One single night? How long had we been standing in the freezing wind? One hour? A single hour? Sixty minutes? Surely it was a dream. NOT FAR FROM US, prisoners were at work. Some were digging holes, others were carrying sand. None as much as glanced at us. We were withered trees in the heart of the desert. Behind me, people were talking. I had no desire to listen to what they were saying, or to know who was speaking and what about. Nobody dared raise his voice, even though there was no guard around. We whispered. Perhaps because of the thick smoke that poisoned the air and stung the throat. We were herded into yet another barrack, inside the Gypsy camp. We fell into ranks of five. 37

“And now, stop moving!” There was no floor. A roof and four walls. Our feet sank into the mud. Again, the waiting. I fell asleep standing up. I dreamed of a bed, of my mother's hand on my face. I woke: I was standing, my feet in the mud. Some people collapsed, sliding into the mud. Others shouted: “Are you crazy? We were told to stand. Do you want to get us all in trouble?” As if all the troubles in the world were not already upon us. Little by little, we all sat down in the mud. But we had to get up whenever a Kapo came in to check if, by chance, somebody had a new pair of shoes. If so, we had to hand them over. No use protesting; the blows multiplied and, in the end, one still had to hand them over. I had new shoes myself. But as they were covered with a thick coat of mud, they had not been noticed. I thanked God, in an im- provised prayer, for having created mud in His infinite and won- drous universe. Suddenly, the silence became more oppressive. An SS officer had come in and, with him, the smell of the Angel of Death. We stared at his fleshy lips. He harangued us from the center of the barrack: “You are in a concentration camp. In Auschwitz… A pause. He was observing the effect his words had produced. His face remains in my memory to this day. A tall man, in his thir- ties, crime written all over his forehead and his gaze. He looked at us as one would a pack of leprous dogs clinging to life. ”Remember,“ he went on. ”Remember it always, let it be graven in your memories. You are in Auschwitz. And Auschwitz is not a convalescent home. It is a concentration camp. Here, you 38

must work. If you don't you will go straight to the chimney. To the crematorium. Work or crematorium—the choice is yours.“ We had already lived through a lot that night. We thought that nothing could frighten us anymore. But his harsh words sent shiv- ers through us. The word ”chimney“ here was not an abstraction; it floated in the air, mingled with the smoke. It was, perhaps, the only word that had a real meaning in this place. He left the bar- rack. The Kapos arrived, shouting: ”All specialists—locksmiths, carpenters, electricians, watch- makers—one step forward!“ The rest of us were transferred to yet another barrack, this one of stone. We had permission to sit down. A Gypsy inmate was in charge. My father suddenly had a colic attack. He got up and asked politely, in German,”Excuse me…Could you tell me where the toilets are located?“ The Gypsy stared at him for a long time, from head to toe. As if he wished to ascertain that the person addressing him was actu- ally a creature of flesh and bone, a human being with a body and a belly. Then, as if waking from a deep sleep, he slapped my fa- ther with such force that he fell down and then crawled back to his place on all fours. I stood petrified. What had happened to me? My father had just been struck, in front of me, and I had not even blinked. I had watched and kept silent. Only yesterday, I would have dug my nails into this criminal's flesh. Had I changed that much? So fast? Remorse began to gnaw at me. All I could think was: I shall never forgive them for this. My father must have guessed my thoughts, because he whispered in my ear: ”It doesn't hurt." His cheek still bore the red mark of the hand. 39

“EVERYBODY outside!” A dozen or so Gypsies had come to join our guard. The clubs and whips were cracking around me. My feet were running on their own. I tried to protect myself from the blows by hiding be- hind others. It was spring. The sun was shining. “Fall in, five by five!” The prisoners I had glimpsed that morning were working nearby. No guard in sight, only the chimney's shadow…Lulled by the sunshine and my dreams, I felt someone pulling at my sleeve. It was my father: “Come on, son.” We marched. Gates opened and closed. We continued to march between the barbed wire. At every step, white signs with black skulls looked down on us. The inscription: WARNING! DAN- GER OF DEATH. What irony. Was there here a single place where one was not in danger of death? The Gypsies had stopped next to a barrack. They were re- placed by SS men, who encircled us with machine guns and po- lice dogs. The march had lasted half an hour. Looking around me, I noticed that the barbed wire was behind us. We had left the camp. It was a beautiful day in May. The fragrances of spring were in the air. The sun was setting. But no sooner had we taken a few more steps than we saw the barbed wire of another camp. This one had an iron gate with the overhead inscription: ARBEIT MACHT FREI. Work makes you free. Auschwitz. 40

FIRST IMPRESSION: better than Birkenau. Cement buildings with two stories rather than wooden barracks. Little gardens here and there. We were led toward one of those “blocks.” Seated on the ground by the entrance, we began to wait again. From time to time somebody was allowed to go in. These were the showers, a compulsory routine. Going from one camp to the other, several times a day, we had, each time, to go through them. After the hot shower, we stood shivering in the darkness. Our clothes had been left behind; we had been promised other clothes. Around midnight, we were told to run. “Faster!” yelled our guards. “The faster you run, the faster you'll get to go to sleep.” After a few minutes of racing madly, we came to a new block. The man in charge was waiting. He was a young Pole, who was smiling at us. He began to talk to us and, despite our weariness, we listened attentively. “Comrades, you are now in the concentration camp Ausch- witz. Ahead of you lies a long road paved with suffering. Don't lose hope. You have already eluded the worst danger: the selec- tion. Therefore, muster your strength and keep your faith. We shall all see the day of liberation. Have faith in life, a thousand times faith. By driving out despair, you will move away from death. Hell does not last forever…And now, here is a prayer, or rather a piece of advice: let there be camaraderie among you. We are all brothers and share the same fate. The same smoke hovers over all our heads. Help each other. That is the only way to sur- vive. And now, enough said, you are tired. Listen: you are in Block 17; I am responsible for keeping order here. Anyone with a complaint may come to see me. That is all. Go to sleep. Two peo- ple to a bunk. Good night.” Those were the first human words. 41

NO SOONER HAD WE CLIMBED into our bunks than we fell into a deep sleep. The next morning, the “veteran” inmates treated us without brutality. We went to wash. We were given new clothing. They brought us black coffee. We left the block around ten o'clock so it could be cleaned. Outside, the sun warmed us. Our morale was much improved. A good night's sleep had done its work. Friends met, exchanged a few sentences. We spoke of everything without ever mentioning those who had disappeared. The prevailing opinion was that the war was about to end. At about noon, we were brought some soup, one bowl of thick soup for each of us. I was terribly hungry, yet I refused to touch it. I was still the spoiled child of long ago. My father swallowed my ration. We then had a short nap in the shade of the block. That SS of- ficer in the muddy barrack must have been lying: Auschwitz was, after all, a convalescent home… In the afternoon, they made us line up. Three prisoners brought a table and some medical instruments. We were told to roll up our left sleeves and file past the table. The three “vet- eran” prisoners, needles in hand, tattooed numbers on our left arms. I became A-7713. From then on, I had no other name. At dusk, a roll call. The work Kommandos had returned. The orchestra played military marches near the camp entrance. Tens of thousands of inmates stood in rows while the SS checked their numbers. After the roll call, the prisoners from all the blocks dispersed, looking for friends, relatives, or neighbors among the arrivals of the latest convoy. 42

DAYS WENT BY. In the mornings: black coffee. At midday: soup. By the third day, I was eagerly eating any kind of soup…At six o'clock in the afternoon: roll call. Followed by bread with some- thing. At nine o'clock: bedtime. We had already been in Auschwitz for eight days. It was after roll call. We stood waiting for the bell announcing its end. Sud- denly I noticed someone passing between the rows. I heard him ask: “Who among you is Wiesel from Sighet?” The person looking for us was a small fellow with spectacles in a wizened face. My father answered: “That's me. Wiesel from Sighet.” The fellow's eyes narrowed. He took a long look at my father. “You don't know me?…You don't recognize me. I'm your relative, Stein. Already forgotten? Stein. Stein from Antwerp. Reizel's husband. Your wife was Reizel's aunt…She often wrote to us…and such letters!” My father had not recognized him. He must have barely known him, always being up to his neck in communal affairs and not knowledgeable in family matters. He was always elsewhere, lost in thought. (Once, a cousin came to see us in Sighet. She had stayed at our house and eaten at our table for two weeks before my father noticed her presence for the first time.) No, he did not remember Stein. I recognized him right away. I had known Reizel, his wife, before she had left for Belgium. He told us that he had been deported in 1942. He said, “I heard people say that a transport had arrived from your re- gion and I came to look for you. I thought you might have some news of Reizel and my two small boys who stayed in Antwerp…” 43

I knew nothing about them…Since 1940, my mother had not received a single letter from them. But I lied: “Yes, my mother did hear from them. Reizel is fine. So are the children…” He was weeping with joy. He would have liked to stay longer, to learn more details, to soak up the good news, but an SS was heading in our direction and he had to go, telling us that he would come back the next day. The bell announced that we were dismissed. We went to fetch the evening meal: bread and margarine. I was terribly hungry and swallowed my ration on the spot. My father told me, “You mustn't eat all at once. Tomorrow is another day…” But seeing that his advice had come too late, and that there was nothing left of my ration, he didn't even start his own. “Me, I'm not hungry,” he said. WE REMAINED IN AUSCHWITZ for three weeks. We had nothing to do. We slept a lot. In the afternoon and at night. Our one goal was to avoid the transports, to stay here as long as possible. It wasn't difficult; it was enough never to sign up as a skilled worker. The unskilled were kept until the end. At the start of the third week, our Blockälteste was removed; he was judged too humane. The new one was ferocious and his aides were veritable monsters. The good days were over. We began to wonder whether it wouldn't be better to let ourselves be chosen for the next transport. Stein, our relative from Antwerp, continued to visit us and, from time to time, he would bring a half portion of bread: “Here, this is for you, Eliezer.” Every time he came, tears would roll down his icy cheeks. He would often say to my father: 44

“Take care of your son. He is very weak, very dehydrated. Take care of yourselves, you must avoid selection. Eat! Anything, anytime. Eat all you can. The weak don't last very long around here…” And he himself was so thin, so withered, so weak… “The only thing that keeps me alive,” he kept saying, “is to know that Reizel and the little ones are still alive. Were it not for them, I would give up.” One evening, he came to see us, his face radiant. “A transport just arrived from Antwerp. I shall go to see them tomorrow. Surely they will have news…” He left. We never saw him again. He had been given the news. The real news. EVENINGS, AS WE LAY on our cots, we sometimes tried to sing a few Hasidic melodies. Akiba Drumer would break our hearts with his deep, grave voice. Some of the men spoke of God: His mysterious ways, the sins of the Jewish people, and the redemption to come. As for me, I had ceased to pray. I concurred with Job! I was not denying His existence, but I doubted His absolute justice. Akiba Drumer said: “God is testing us. He wants to see whether we are capable of overcoming our base instincts, of killing the Satan within our- selves. We have no right to despair. And if He punishes us merci- lessly, it is a sign that He loves us that much more…” Hersh Genud, well versed in Kabbalah, spoke of the end of the world and the coming of the Messiah. From time to time, in the middle of all that talk, a thought crossed my mind: Where is Mother right now…and Tzipora… 45

“Mother is still a young woman,” my father once said. “She must be in a labor camp. And Tzipora, she is a big girl now. She too must be in a camp…” How we would have liked to believe that. We pretended, for what if one of us still did believe? ALL THE SKILLED WORKERS had already been sent to other camps. Only about a hundred of us, simple laborers, were left. “Today, it's your turn,” announced the block secretary. “You are leaving with the next transport.” At ten o'clock, we were handed our daily ration of bread. A dozen or so SS surrounded us. At the gate, the sign proclaimed that work meant freedom. We were counted. And there we were, in the countryside, on a sunny road. In the sky, a few small white clouds. We were walking slowly. The guards were in no hurry. We were glad of it. As we were passing through some of the villages, many Germans watched us, showing no surprise. No doubt they had seen quite a few of these processions… On the way, we saw some young German girls. The guards be- gan to tease them. The girls giggled. They allowed themselves to be kissed and tickled, bursting with laughter. They all were laughing, joking, and passing love notes to one another. At least, during all that time, we endured neither shouting nor blows. After four hours, we arrived at the new camp: Buna. The iron gate closed behind us. T HE CAMP looked as though it had been through an epi- demic: empty and dead. Only a few “well-dressed” in- mates were wandering between the blocks. Of course, we first had to pass through the showers. The head of the camp joined us there. He was a stocky man with big shoul- ders, the neck of a bull, thick lips, and curly hair. He gave an im- pression of kindness. From time to time, a smile would linger in his gray-blue eyes. Our convoy included a few ten- and twelve- year-olds. The officer took an interest in them and gave orders to bring them food. We were given new clothing and settled in two tents. We were to wait there until we could be incorporated into work Komman- dos. Then we would be assigned to a block. In the evening, the Kommandos returned from the work yards. Roll call. We began looking for people we knew, asking the “veterans” which work Kommandos were the best and which block one should try to enter. All the inmates agreed: "Buna is a very good camp. One can hold one's own here. The 46

T HE CAMP looked as though it had been through an epi- demic: empty and dead. Only a few “well-dressed” in- mates were wandering between the blocks. Of course, we first had to pass through the showers. The head of the camp joined us there. He was a stocky man with big shoul- ders, the neck of a bull, thick lips, and curly hair. He gave an im- pression of kindness. From time to time, a smile would linger in his gray-blue eyes. Our convoy included a few ten- and twelve- year-olds. The officer took an interest in them and gave orders to bring them food. We were given new clothing and settled in two tents. We were to wait there until we could be incorporated into work Komman- dos. Then we would be assigned to a block. In the evening, the Kommandos returned from the work yards. Roll call. We began looking for people we knew, asking the “veterans” which work Kommandos were the best and which block one should try to enter. All the inmates agreed: "Buna is a very good camp. One can hold one's own here. The 47

most important thing is not to be assigned to the construction Kommando…“ As if we had a choice… Our tent leader was a German. An assassin's face, fleshy lips, hands resembling a wolf's paws. The camp's food had agreed with him; he could hardly move, he was so fat. Like the head of the camp, he liked children. Immediately after our arrival, he had bread brought for them, some soup and margarine. (In fact, this affection was not entirely altruistic; there existed here a veri- table traffic of children among homosexuals, I learned later.) He told us: ”You will stay with me for three days in quarantine. Afterward, you will go to work. Tomorrow: medical checkup.“ One of his aides—a tough-looking boy with shifty eyes—came over to me: ”Would you like to get into a good Kommando?“ ”Of course. But on one condition: I want to stay with my father.“ ”All right,“ he said. ”I can arrange it. For a pittance: your shoes. I'll give you another pair.“ I refused to give him my shoes. They were all I had left. ”I'll also give you a ration of bread with some margarine…“ He liked my shoes; I would not let him have them. Later, they were taken from me anyway. In exchange for nothing, that time. The medical checkup took place outside, early in the morn- ing, before three doctors seated on a bench. The first hardly examined me. He just asked: ”Are you in good health?" Who would have dared to admit the opposite? On the other hand, the dentist seemed more conscientious: he asked me to open my mouth wide. In fact, he was not looking for 48

The first three days went by quickly. On the fourth day, as we stood in front of our tent, the Kapos appeared. Each one began to choose the men he liked: “You…you…you…” They pointed their fingers, the way one might choose cattle, or merchandise. We followed our Kapo, a young man. He made us halt at the door of the first block, near the entrance to the camp. This was the orchestra's block. He motioned us inside. We were surprised; what had we to do with music? The orchestra was playing a military march, always the same. Dozens of Kommandos were marching off, in step, to the work yards. The Kapos were beating the time: “Left, right, left, right.” SS officers, pen in hand, recorded the number of men leaving. The orchestra continued to play the same march until the last Kommando had passed. Then the conductor's baton stopped moving and the orchestra fell silent. The Kapo yelled: “Fall in!” We fell into ranks of five, with the musicians. We left the camp without music but in step. We still had the march in our ears. “Left, right, left, right!” We struck up conversations with our neighbors, the musicians. Almost all of them were Jews. Juliek, a Pole with eyeglasses and a cynical smile in a pale face. Louis, a native of Holland, a well- known violinist. He complained that they would not let him play Beethoven; Jews were not allowed to play German music. Hans, the young man from Berlin, was full of wit. The foreman was a Pole: Franek, a former student in Warsaw. Juliek explained to me, "We work in a warehouse of electrical materials, not far from here. The work is neither difficult nor dan- decay but for gold teeth. Those who had gold in their mouths were listed by their number. I did have a gold crown. 49

gerous. Only Idek, the Kapo, occasionally has fits of madness, and then you'd better stay out of his way.“ ”You are lucky, little fellow,“ said Hans, smiling. ”You fell into a good Kommando…“ Ten minutes later, we stood in front of the warehouse. A Ger- man employee, a civilian, the Meister, came to meet us. He paid as much attention to us as would a shopkeeper receiving a delivery of old rags. Our comrades were right. The work was not difficult. Sitting on the ground, we counted bolts, bulbs, and various small electri- cal parts. The Kapo launched into a lengthy explanation of the importance of this work, warning us that anyone who proved to be lazy would be held accountable. My new comrades reassured me: ”Don't worry. He has to say this because of the Meister.“ There were many Polish civilians here and a few French- women as well. The women silently greeted the musicians with their eyes. Franek, the foreman, assigned me to a corner: ”Don't kill yourself. There's no hurry. But watch out. Don't let an SS catch you.“ ”Please, sir…I'd like to be near my father.“ ”All right. Your father will work here, next to you." We were lucky. Two boys came to join our group: Yossi and Tibi, two brothers from Czechoslovakia whose parents had been exterminated in Birkenau. They lived for each other, body and soul. They quickly became my friends. Having once belonged to a Zionist youth organization, they knew countless Hebrew songs. And so we would sometimes hum melodies evoking the gentle waters of the Jordan River and the majestic sanctity of Jerusalem. We also spoke often about Palestine. Their parents, like mine, had not had the courage to sell everything and emigrate while 50