by Elie Wiesel
And I nibbled on my crust of bread.
Deep inside me, I felt a great void opening.
THE SS OFFERED us a beautiful present for the new year.
We had just returned from work. As soon as we passed the camp's entrance, we sensed something out of the ordinary in the air. The roll call was shorter than usual. The evening soup was distributed at great speed, swallowed as quickly. We were anxious. I was no longer in the same block as my father. They had transferred me to another Kommando, the construction one, where twelve hours a day I hauled heavy slabs of stone. The head of my new block was a German Jew, small with piercing eyes. That evening he announced to us that henceforth no one was al- lowed to leave the block after the evening soup. A terrible word began to circulate soon thereafter: selection.
We knew what it meant. An SS would examine us. Whenever he found someone extremely frail—a “Muselman” was what we called those inmates—he would write down his number: good for the crematorium.
After the soup, we gathered between the bunks. The veterans told us: “You're lucky to have been brought here so late. Today, this is paradise compared to what the camp was two years ago. Back then, Buna was a veritable hell. No water, no blankets, less soup and bread. At night, we slept almost naked and the temper- ature was thirty below. We were collecting corpses by the hun- dreds every day. Work was very hard. Today, this is a little paradise. The Kapos back then had orders to kill a certain number of prisoners every day. And every week, selection. A merciless selection…Yes, you are lucky.”
“Enough! Be quiet!” I begged them. “Tell your stories tomorrow, or some other day.”
They burst out laughing. They were not veterans for nothing.
“Are you scared? We too were scared. And, at that time, for good reason.”
The old men stayed in their corner, silent, motionless, hunted-down creatures. Some were praying.
One more hour. Then we would know the verdict: death or reprieve.
And my father? I first thought of him now. How would he pass selection? He had aged so much…
Our Blockälteste had not been outside a concentration camp since 1933. He had already been through all the slaughterhouses, all the factories of death. Around nine o'clock, he came to stand in our midst:
“Achtung!”
There was instant silence.
“Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you.” For the first time, his voice quivered. “In a few moments, selection will take place. You will have to undress completely. Then you will go, one by one, before the SS doctors. I hope you will all pass. But you must try to increase your chances. Before you go into the next room, try to move your limbs, give yourself some color. Don't walk slowly, run! Run as if you had the devil at your heels! Don't look at the SS. Run, straight in front of you!”
He paused and then added:
“And most important, don't be afraid!”
That was a piece of advice we would have loved to be able to follow.
I undressed, leaving my clothes on my cot. Tonight, there was no danger that they would be stolen.
Tibi and Yossi, who had changed Kommandos at the same time I did, came to urge me:
“Let's stay together. It will make us stronger.”
Yossi was mumbling something. He probably was praying. I had never suspected that Yossi was religious. In fact, I had always believed the opposite. Tibi was silent and very pale. All the block inmates stood naked between the rows of bunks. This must be how one stands for the Last Judgment.
“They are coming!”
Three SS officers surrounded the notorious Dr. Mengele, the very same who had received us in Birkenau. The Blockälteste at- tempted a smile. He asked us:
“Ready?”
Yes, we were ready. So were the SS doctors. Dr. Mengele was holding a list: our numbers. He nodded to the Blockalteste: we can begin! As if this were a game.
The first to go were the “notables” of the block, the Stubenalteste, the Kapos, the foremen, all of whom were in perfect physical condition, of course! Then came the ordinary prisoners' turns. Dr. Mengele looked them over from head to toe. From time to time, he noted a number. I had but one thought: not to have my number taken down and not to show my left arm.
In front of me, there were only Tibi and Yossi. They passed. I had time to notice that Mengele had not written down their num- bers. Someone pushed me. It was my turn. I ran without looking back. My head was spinning: you are too skinny…you are too weak…you are too skinny, you are good for the ovens… The race seemed endless; I felt as though I had been running for years…You are too skinny, you are too weak…At last I arrived. Exhausted. When I had caught my breath, I asked Yossi and Tibi:
“Did they write me down?”
“No,” said Yossi. Smiling, he added, “Anyway, they couldn't have. You were running too fast.…
I began to laugh. I was happy. I felt like kissing him. At that moment, the others did not matter! They had not written me down.
Those whose numbers had been noted were standing apart, abandoned by the whole world. Some were silently weeping.
THE SS OFFICERS left. The Blockalteste appeared, his face reflecting our collective weariness.
”It all went well. Don't worry. Nothing will happen to anyone. Not to anyone …"
He was still trying to smile. A poor emaciated Jew questioned him anxiously, his voice trembling:
“But…sir. They did write me down!”
At that, the Blockälteste vented his anger: What! Someone refused to take his word?
“What is it now? Perhaps you think I'm lying? I'm telling you, once and for all: nothing will happen to you! Nothing! You just like to wallow in your despair, you fools!”
The bell rang, signaling that the selection had ended in the entire camp.
With all my strength I began to race toward Block 36; midway, I met my father. He came toward me:
“So? Did you pass?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Also.”
We were able to breathe again. My father had a present for me: a half ration of bread, bartered for something he had found at the depot, a piece of rubber that could be used to repair a shoe.
The bell. It was already time to part, to go to bed. The bell regulated everything. It gave me orders and I executed them blindly. I hated that bell. Whenever I happened to dream of a better world, I imagined a universe without a bell.
A FEW DAYS passed. We were no longer thinking about the selection. We went to work as usual and loaded the heavy stones onto the freight cars. The rations had grown smaller; that was the only change.
We had risen at dawn, as we did every day. We had received our black coffee, our ration of bread. We were about to head to the work yard as always. The Blockälteste came running:
“Let's have a moment of quiet. I have here a list of numbers. I shall read them to you. All those called will not go to work this morning; they will stay in camp.”
Softly, he read some ten numbers. We understood. These were the numbers from the selection. Dr. Mengele had not forgotten.
The Blockälteste turned to go to his room. The ten prisoners surrounded him, clinging to his clothes:
“Save us! You promised…We want to go to the depot, we are strong enough to work. We are good workers. We can…we want…”
He tried to calm them, to reassure them about their fate, to explain to them that staying in the camp did not mean much, had no tragic significance: “After all, I stay here every day…”
The argument was more than flimsy. He realized it and, without another word, locked himself in his room.
The bell had just rung.
“Form ranks!”
Now, it no longer mattered that the work was hard. All that mattered was to be far from the block, far from the crucible of death, from the center of hell.
I saw my father running in my direction. Suddenly, I was afraid.
“What is happening?”
He was out of breath,
hardly able to open his mouth.
“Me too, me too…They told me too to stay in the camp.”
They had recorded his number without his noticing.
“What are we going to do?” I said anxiously.
But it was he who tried to reassure me:
“It's not certain yet. There's still a chance. Today, they will do another selection… a decisive one…”
I said nothing.
He felt time was running out. He was speaking rapidly, he wanted to tell me so many things. His speech became confused, his voice was choked. He knew that I had to leave in a few mo- ments. He was going to remain alone, so alone…
“Here, take this knife,” he said. “I won't need it anymore. You may find it useful. Also take this spoon. Don't sell it. Quickly! Go ahead, take what I'm giving you!”
My inheritance…
“Don't talk like that, Father.” I was on the verge of breaking into sobs. “I don't want you to say such things. Keep the spoon and knife. You will need them as much as I. We'll see each other tonight, after work.”
He looked at me with his tired eyes, veiled by despair. He insisted:
“I am asking you…Take it, do as I ask you, my son. Time is running out. Do as your father asks you…”
Our Kapo shouted the order to march.
The Kommando headed toward the camp gate. Left, right! I was biting my lips. My father had remained near the block, lean- ing against the wall. Then he began to run, to try to catch up with us. Perhaps he had forgotten to tell me something…But we were marching too fast…Left, right!
We were at the gate. We were being counted. Around us, the din of military music. Then we were outside.
ALL DAY, I PLODDED AROUND like a sleepwalker. Tibi and Yossi would call out to me, from time to time, trying to reassure me. As did the Kapo who had given me easier tasks that day. I felt sick at heart. How kindly they treated me. Like an orphan. I thought: Even now, my father is helping me.
I myself didn't know whether I wanted the day to go by quickly or not. I was afraid of finding myself alone that evening. How good it would be to die right here!
At last, we began the return journey. How I longed for an order to run! The military march. The gate. The camp. I ran toward Block 36.
Were there still miracles on this earth? He was alive. He had passed the second selection. He had still proved his usefulness… I gave him back his knife and spoon.
AKIBA DRUMER HAS LEFT us, a victim of the selection. Lately, he had been wandering among us, his eyes glazed, telling everyone how weak he was: “I can't go on…It's over…” We tried to raise his spirits, but he wouldn't listen to anything we said. He just kept repeating that it was all over for him, that he could no longer fight, he had no more strength, no more faith. His eyes would suddenly go blank, leaving two gaping wounds, two wells of terror.
He was not alone in having lost his faith during those days of selection. I knew a rabbi, from a small town in Poland. He was old and bent, his lips constantly trembling. He was always praying, in the block, at work, in the ranks. He recited entire pages from the Talmud, arguing with himself, asking and answering himself end- less questions. One day, he said to me:
“It's over. God is no longer with us.”
And as though he regretted having uttered such words so coldly, so dryly, he added in his broken voice, "I know. No one has the right to say things like that. I know that very well. Man is too insignificant, too limited, to even try to comprehend God's mysterious ways. But what can someone like myself do? I'm nei- ther a sage nor a just man. I am not a saint. I'm a simple creature of flesh and bone. I suffer hell in my soul and my flesh. I also have eyes and I see what is being done here. Where is God's mercy? Where's God? How can I believe, how can anyone believe in this God of Mercy?“
Poor Akiba Drumer, if only he could have kept his faith in God, if only he could have considered this suffering a divine test, he would not have been swept away by the selection. But as soon as he felt the first chinks in his faith, he lost all incentive to fight and opened the door to death.
When the selection came, he was doomed from the start, of- fering his neck to the executioner, as it were. All he asked of us was:
”In three days, I'll be gone…Say Kaddish for me.“
We promised: in three days, when we would see the smoke rising from the chimney, we would think of him. We would gather ten men and hold a special service. All his friends would say Kaddish.
Then he left, in the direction of the hospital. His step was almost steady and he never looked back. An ambulance was waiting to take him to Birkenau.
There followed terrible days. We received more blows than food. The work was crushing. And three days after he left, we forgot to say Kaddish.
WINTER HAD ARRIVED. The days became short and the nights almost unbearable. From the first hours of dawn, a glacial wind lashed us like a whip. We were handed winter clothing: striped shirts that were a bit heavier. The veterans grabbed the opportu- nity for further sniggering:
”Now you'll really get a taste of camp!"
We went off to work as usual, our bodies frozen. The stones were so cold that touching them, we felt that our hands would remain stuck. But we got used to that too.
Christmas and New Year's we did not work. We were treated to a slightly less transparent soup.
Around the middle of January, my right foot began to swell from the cold. I could not stand on it. I went to the infirmary. The doctor, a great Jewish doctor, a prisoner like ourselves, was cate-gorical: “We have to operate! If we wait, the toes and perhaps the leg will have to be amputated.”
That was all I needed! But I had no choice. The doctor had decided to operate and there could be no discussion. In fact, I was rather glad that the decision had been his.
They put me in a bed with white sheets. I had forgotten that people slept in sheets.
Actually, being in the infirmary was not bad at all: we were en- titled to good bread, a thicker soup. No more bell, no more roll call, no more work. From time to time, I was able to send a piece of bread to my father.
Next to me lay a Hungarian Jew suffering from dysentery. He was skin and bones, his eyes were dead. I could just hear his voice, the only indication that he was alive. Where did he get the strength to speak?
“Don't rejoice too soon, son. Here too there is selection. In fact, more often than outside. Germany has no need of sick Jews. Germany has no need of me. When the next transport arrives, you'll have a new neighbor. Therefore, listen to me: leave the infirmary before the next selection!”
These words, coming from the grave, as it were, from a faceless shape, filled me with terror. True, the infirmary was very small, and if new patients were to arrive, room would have to be made.
But then perhaps my faceless neighbor, afraid of being among the first displaced, simply wanted to get rid of me, to free my bed, to give himself a chance to survive…Perhaps he only wanted to frighten me. But then again, what if he was telling the truth? I decided to wait and see.
THE DOCTOR CAME TO TELL ME that he would operate the next day.
“Don't be afraid,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”
At ten o'clock in the morning, I was taken to the operating room. My doctor was there. That reassured me. I felt that in his presence, nothing serious could happen to me. Every one of his words was healing and every glance of his carried a message of hope. “It will hurt a little,” he said, “but it will pass. Be brave.”
The operation lasted one hour. They did not put me to sleep. I did not take my eyes off my doctor. Then I felt myself sink…
When I came to and opened my eyes, I first saw nothing but a huge expanse of white, my sheets, then I saw my doctor's face above me.
“Everything went well. You have spunk, my boy. Next, you'll stay here two weeks for some proper rest and that will be it. You'll eat well, you'll relax your body and your nerves…”
All I could do was follow the movements of his li
ps. I barely understood what he was telling me, but the inflection of his voice soothed me. Suddenly, I broke into a cold sweat; I couldn't feel my leg! Had they amputated it?
“Doctor,” I stammered. “Doctor?”
“What is it, son?”
I didn't have the courage to ask him.
“Doctor, I'm thirsty…”
He had water brought to m e … He was smiling. He was ready to walk out, to see other patients.
“Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Will I be able to use my leg?”
He stopped smiling. I became very frightened. He said, “Listen, son. Do you trust me?”
“Very much, Doctor.”
“Then listen well: in two weeks you'll be fully recovered. You'll be able to walk like the others. The sole of your foot was full of pus. I just had to open the sac. Your leg was not amputated. You'll see, in two weeks, you'll be walking around like everybody else.”
All I had to do was wait two weeks.
BUT TWO DAYS AFTER my operation, rumors swept through the camp that the battlefront had suddenly drawn nearer. The Red Army was racing toward Buna: it was only a matter of hours.
We were quite used to this kind of rumor. It wasn't the first time that false prophets announced to us: peace-in-the-world, the-Red-Cross-negotiating-our-liberation, or other fables…And often we would believe them… It was like an injection of morphine.
Only this time, these prophecies seemed more founded. Dur- ing the last nights we had heard the cannons in the distance.
My faceless neighbor spoke up:
“Don't be deluded. Hitler has made it clear that he will annihilate all Jews before the clock strikes twelve.”
I exploded:
“What do you care what he said? Would you want us to con- sider him a prophet?”
His cold eyes stared at me. At last, he said wearily:
“I have more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He alone has kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people.”
