Night

by Elie Wiesel

  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…

  “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 began 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.

  THE CAMP looked as though it had been through an epidemic: empty and dead. Only a few “well-dressed” inmates 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 shoulders, the neck of a bull, thick lips, and curly hair. He gave an impression 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 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 decay but for gold teeth. Those who had gold in their mouths were listed by their number. I did have a gold crown.

  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 dangerous. 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 German 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 there was still time. We decided that if we were allowe
d to live until the Liberation, we would not stay another day in Europe. We would board the first ship to Haifa.

  Still lost in his Kabbalistic dreams, Akiba Drumer had discovered a verse from the Bible which, translated into numbers, made it possible for him to predict Redemption in the weeks to come.

  WE HAD LEFT THE TENTS for the musicians' block. We now were entitled to a blanket, a washbowl, and a bar of soap. The Blockälteste was a German Jew.

  It was good to have a Jew as your leader. His name was Alphonse. A young man with a startlingly wizened face. He was totally devoted to defending “his” block. Whenever he could, he would “organize” a cauldron of soup for the young, for the weak, for all those who dreamed more of an extra portion of food than of liberty.

  ONE DAY, when we had just returned from the warehouse, I was summoned by the block secretary:

  “A-7713?”

  “That's me.”

  “After your meal, you'll go to see the dentist.”

  “But…I don't have a toothache…”

  “After your meal. Without fail.”

  I went to the infirmary block. Some twenty prisoners were waiting in line at the entrance. It didn't take long to learn the reason for our summons: our gold teeth were to be extracted.

  The dentist, a Jew from Czechoslovakia, had a face not unlike a death mask. When he opened his mouth, one had a ghastly vi- sion of yellow, rotten teeth. Seated in the chair, I asked meekly:

  “What are you going to do, sir?”

  “I shall remove your gold crown, that's all,” he said, clearly in- different.

  I thought of pretending to be sick:

  “Couldn't you wait a few days, sir? I don't feel well, I have a fever…”

  He wrinkled his brow, thought for a moment, and took my pulse. “All right, son. Come back to see me when you feel better. But don't wait for me to call you!”

  I went back to see him a week later. With the same excuse: I still was not feeling better. He did not seem surprised, and I don't know whether he believed me. Yet he most likely was pleased that I had come back on my own, as I had promised. He granted me a further delay.

  A few days after my visit, the dentist's office was shut down. He had been thrown into prison and was about to be hanged. It appeared that he had been dealing in the prisoners' gold teeth for his own benefit. I felt no pity for him. In fact, I was pleased with what was happening to him: my gold crown was safe. It could be useful to me one day, to buy something, some bread or even time to live. At that moment in time, all that mattered to me was my daily bowl of soup, my crust of stale bread. The bread, the soup— those were my entire life. I was nothing but a body. Perhaps even less: a famished stomach. The stomach alone was measuring time.

  IN THE WAREHOUSE, I often worked next to a young French- woman. We did not speak: she did not know German and I did not understand French.

  I thought she looked Jewish, though she passed for “Aryan.” She was a forced labor inmate.

  One day when Idek was venting his fury, I happened to cross his path. He threw himself on me like a wild beast, beating me in the chest, on my head, throwing me to the ground and picking me up again, crushing me with ever more violent blows, until I was covered in blood. As I bit my lips in order not to howl with pain, he must have mistaken my silence for defiance and so he continued to hit me harder and harder.

  Abruptly, he calmed down and sent me back to work as if nothing had happened. As if we had taken part in a game in which both roles were of equal importance.

  I dragged myself to my corner. I was aching all over. I felt a cool hand wiping the blood from my forehead. It was the French girl. She was smiling her mournful smile as she slipped me a crust of bread. She looked straight into my eyes. I knew she wanted to talk to me but that she was paralyzed with fear. She remained like that for some time, and then her face lit up and she said, in almost perfect German:

  “Bite your lips, little brother…Don't cry. Keep your anger, your hate, for another day, for later. The day will come but not now…Wait. Clench your teeth and wait…”

  MANY YEARS LATER, in Paris, I sat in the Metro, reading my newspaper. Across the aisle, a beautiful woman with dark hair and dreamy eyes. I had seen those eyes before.

  “Madame, don't you recognize me?”

  “I don't know you, sir.”

  “In 1944, you were in Poland, in Buna, weren't you?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “You worked in a depot, a warehouse for electrical parts…”

  “Yes,” she said, looking troubled. And then, after a moment of silence: “Wait…I do remember…”

  “Idek, the Kapo…the young Jewish boy…your sweet words…”

  We left the Métro together and sat down at a café terrace. We spent the whole evening reminiscing. Before parting, I said, “May I ask one more question?”

  “I know what it is: Am I Jewish…? Yes, I am. From an observant family. During the Occupation, I had false papers and passed as Aryan. And that was how I was assigned to a forced labor unit. When they deported me to Germany, I eluded being sent to a concentration camp. At the depot, nobody knew that I spoke Ger- man; it would have aroused suspicion. It was imprudent of me to say those few words to you, but I knew that you would not betray me…”

  ANOTHER TIME we were loading diesel motors onto freight cars under the supervision of some German soldiers. Idek was on edge, he had trouble restraining himself. Suddenly, he exploded. The victim this time was my father.

  “You old loafer!” he started yelling. “Is this what you call working?”

  And he began beating him with an iron bar. At first, my father simply doubled over under the blows, but then he seemed to break in two like an old tree struck by lightning.

  I had watched it all happening without moving. I kept silent. In fact, I thought of stealing away in order not to suffer the blows. What's more, if I felt anger at that moment, it was not directed at the Kapo but at my father. Why couldn't he have avoided Idek's wrath? That was what life in a concentration camp had made of me…

  Franek, the foreman, one day noticed the gold crown in my mouth:

  “Let me have your crown, kid.”

  I answered that I could not because without that crown I could no longer eat.

  “For what they give you to eat, kid…”

  I found another answer: my crown had been listed in the register during the medical checkup; this could mean trouble for us both.

  “If you don't give me your crown, it will cost you much more!”

  All of a sudden, this pleasant and intelligent young man had changed. His eyes were shining with greed. I told him that I needed to get my father's advice.

  “Go ahead, kid, ask. But I want the answer by tomorrow.”

  When I mentioned it to my father, he hesitated. After a long silence, he said:

  “No, my son. We cannot do this.”

  “He will seek revenge!”

  “He won't dare, my son.”

  Unfortunately, Franek knew how to handle this; he knew my weak spot. My father had never served in the military and could not march in step. But here, whenever we moved from one place to another, it was in step. That presented Franek with the opportunity to torment him and, on a daily basis, to thrash him savagely. Left, right: he punched him. Left, right: he slapped him.

  I decided to give my father lessons in marching in step, in keeping time. We began practicing in front of our block. I would command: “Left, right!” and my father would try.

  The inmates made fun of us: “Look at the little officer, teach- ing the old man to march…Hey, little general, how many rations of bread does the old man give you for this?”

  But my father did not make sufficient progress, and the blows continued to rain on him.

  “So! You still don't know how to march in step, you old good-for-nothing?”

  This went on for two weeks. It was untenable. We had to give in. That day, Franek burst into savage laughter:

  “I knew
it, I knew that I would win, kid. Better late than never. And because you made me wait, it will also cost you a ration of bread. A ration of bread for one of my pals, a famous den- tist from Warsaw. To pay him for pulling out your crown.”

  “What? My ration of bread so that you can have my crown?”

  Franek smiled.

  “What would you like? That I break your teeth by smashing your face?”

  That evening, in the latrines, the dentist from Warsaw pulled my crown with the help of a rusty spoon.

  Franek became pleasant again. From time to time, he even gave me extra soup. But it didn't last long. Two weeks later, all the Poles were transferred to another camp. I had lost my crown for nothing.

  A FEW DAYS BEFORE the Poles left, I had a novel experience.

  It was on a Sunday morning. Our Kommando was not required to work that day. Only Idek would not hear of staying in the camp. We had to go to the depot. This sudden enthusiasm for work astonished us. At the depot, Idek entrusted us to Franek, saying, “Do what you like. But do something. Or else, you'll hear from me…”

  And he disappeared.

  We didn't know what to do. Tired of huddling on the ground, we each took turns strolling through the warehouse, in the hope of finding something, a piece of bread, perhaps, that a civilian might have forgotten there.

  When I reached the back of the building, I heard sounds com- ing from a small adjoining room. I moved closer and had a glimpse of Idek and a young Polish girl, half naked, on a straw mat. Now I understood why Idek refused to leave us in the camp. He moved one hundred prisoners so that he could copulate with this girl! It struck me as terribly funny and I burst out laughing.

  Idek jumped, turned and saw me, while the girl tried to cover her breasts. I wanted to run away, but my feet were nailed to the floor. Idek grabbed me by the throat.

  Hissing at me, he threatened:

  “Just you wait, kid…You will see what it costs to leave your work…You'll pay for this later…And now go back to your place…”