by Elie Wiesel
THAT AFTERNOON AT FOUR O'CLOCK, as usual, the bell called all the Blockälteste for their daily report.
They came back shattered. They had difficulty opening their mouths. All they could utter was one word: “Evacuation.” The camp was going to be emptied and we would be sent to the rear. Where to? Somewhere in deepest Germany. To other camps; there was no shortage of them.
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Perhaps the Russians will arrive before…”
“Perhaps.”
We knew perfectly well they would not.
The camp had become a hive of activity. People were running, calling to one another. In every block, the inmates prepared for the journey ahead. I had forgotten about my lame foot. A doctor came into the room and announced:
“Tomorrow, right after nightfall, the camp will start on its march. Block by block. The sick can remain in the infirmary. They will not be evacuated.”
That news made us wonder. Were the SS really going to leave hundreds of prisoners behind in the infirmaries, pending the arrival of their liberators? Were they really going to allow Jews to hear the clock strike twelve? Of course not.
“All the patients will be finished off on the spot,” said the faceless one. “And in one last swoop, thrown into the furnaces.”
“Surely, the camp will be mined,” said another. “Right after the evacuation, it will all blow up.”
As for me, I was thinking not about death but about not wanting to be separated from my father. We had already suffered so much, endured so much together. This was not the moment to separate.
I ran outside to look for him. The snow was piled high, the blocks' windows veiled in frost. Holding a shoe in my hand, for I could not put it on my right foot, I ran, feeling neither pain nor cold.
“What are we going to do?”
My father didn't answer.
“What are we going to do?”
He was lost in thought. The choice was in our hands. For once. We could decide our fate for ourselves. To stay, both of us, in the infirmary, where, thanks to my doctor, he could enter as either a patient or a medic.
I had made up my mind to accompany my father wherever he went.
“Well, Father, what do we do?”
He was silent. “
Let's be evacuated with the others,” I said.
He didn't answer. He was looking at my foot.
“You think you'll be able to walk?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Let's hope we won't regret it, Eliezer.”
AFTER THE WAR, I learned the fate of those who had remained at the infirmary. They were, quite simply, liberated by the Russians, two days after the evacuation.
I DID NOT RETURN to the infirmary. I went straight to my block. My wound had reopened and was bleeding: the snow under my feet turned red.
The Blockälteste distributed double rations of bread and mar- garine for the road. We could take as much clothing from the store as we wanted.
It was cold. We got into our bunks. The last night in Buna. Once more, the last night. The last night at home, the last night in the ghetto, the last night in the cattle car, and, now, the last night in Buna. How much longer would our lives be lived from one “last night” to the next?
I didn't sleep. Through the frosty windowpanes we could see flashes of red. Cannon shots broke the silence of night. How close the Russians were! Between them and us—one night—our last. There was whispering from one bunk to the other; with a little luck, the Russians would be here before the evacuation. Hope was still alive.
Someone called out:
“Try to sleep. Gather your strength for the journey.”
It reminded me of my mother's last recommendations in the ghetto. But I couldn't fall asleep. My foot was on fire.
IN THE MORNING, the camp did not look the same. The pris- oners showed up in all kinds of strange garb; it looked like a masquerade. We each had put on several garments, one over the other, to better protect ourselves from the cold. Poor clowns, wider than tall, more dead than alive, poor creatures whose ghostly faces peeked out from layers of prisoner's clothes! Poor clowns!
I tried to find a very large shoe. In vain. I tore my blanket and wrapped it around my foot. Then I went off to wander through the camp in search of a little more bread and a few potatoes. Some people said we would be going to Czechoslovakia. No: to Gros-Rosen. No: to Gleiwitz. No: t o …
* * * * *
TWO O'CLOCK in the afternoon. The snow continued to fall heavily.
Now the hours were passing quickly. Dusk had fallen. Daylight disappeared into a gray mist.
Suddenly the Blockälteste remembered that we had forgot- ten to clean the block. He commanded four prisoners to mop the floor…One hour before leaving camp! Why? For whom?
“For the liberating army,” he told us. “Let them know that here lived men and not pigs.”
So we were men after all? The block was cleaned from top to bottom.
AT SIX O'CLOCK the bell rang. The death knell. The funeral. The procession was beginning its march.
“Fall in! Quickly!”
In a few moments, we stood in ranks. Block by block. Night had fallen. Everything was happening according to plan.
The searchlights came on. Hundreds of SS appeared out of the darkness, accompanied by police dogs. The snow continued to fall.
The gates of the camp opened. It seemed as though an even darker night was waiting for us on the other side.
The first blocks began to march. We waited. We had to await the exodus of the fifty-six blocks that preceded us. It was very cold. In my pocket, I had two pieces of bread. How I would have liked to eat them! But I knew I must not. Not yet.
Our turn was coming: Block 53…Block 5 5 …
“Block 57, forward! March!”
It snowed on and on.
AN ICY WIND was blowing violently. But we marched without faltering.
The SS made us increase our pace. “Faster, you tramps, you flea-ridden dogs!” Why not? Moving fast made us a little warmer. The blood flowed more readily in our veins. We had the feeling of being alive…
“Faster, you filthy dogs!” We were no longer marching, we were running. Like automatons. The SS were running as well, weapons in hand. We looked as though we were running from them.
The night was pitch-black. From time to time, a shot exploded in the darkness. They had orders to shoot anyone who could not sustain the pace. Their fingers on the triggers, they did not deprive themselves of the pleasure. If one of us stopped for a second, a quick shot eliminated the filthy dog.
I was putting one foot in front of the other, like a machine. I was dragging this emaciated body that was still such a weight. If only I could have shed it! Though I tried to put it out of my mind, I couldn't help thinking that there were two of us: my body and I. And I hated that body. I kept repeating to myself:
“Don't think, don't stop, run!”
Near me, men were collapsing into the dirty snow. Gunshots. A young boy from Poland was marching beside me. His name was Zalman. He had worked in the electrical material depot in Buna. People mocked him because he was forever praying or meditating on some Talmudic question. For him, it was an escape from reality, from feeling the blows…
All of a sudden, he had terrible stomach cramps.
“My stomach aches,” he whispered to me. He couldn't go on. He had to stop a moment. I begged him: “Wait a little, Zalman. Soon, we will all come to a halt. We cannot run like this to the end of the world.”
But, while running, he began to undo his buttons and yelled to me: “I can't go on. My stomach is bursting…”
“Make an effort, Zalman…Try…”
“I can't go on,” he groaned.
He lowered his pants and fell to the ground.
That is the image I have of him.
I don't believe that he was finished off by an SS, for nobody had noticed. He must have died, trampled under the feet of the thousa
nds of men who followed us.
I soon forgot him. I began to think of myself again. My foot was aching, I shivered with every step. Just a few more meters and it will be over. I'll fall. A small red flame…A shot…Death enveloped me, it suffocated me. It stuck to me like glue. I felt I could touch it. The idea of dying, of ceasing to be, began to fasci- nate me. To no longer exist. To no longer feel the excruciating pain of my foot. To no longer feel anything, neither fatigue nor cold, nothing. To break rank, to let myself slide to the side of the road…
My father's presence was the only thing that stopped me. He was running next to me, out of breath, out of strength, desperate. I had no right to let myself die. What would he do without me? I was his sole support.
These thoughts were going through my mind as I continued to run, not feeling my numb foot, not even realizing that I was still running, that I still owned a body that galloped down the road among thousands of others.
When I became conscious of myself again, I tried to slow my pace somewhat. But there was no way. These human waves were rolling forward and would have crushed me like an ant.
By now, I moved like a sleepwalker. I sometimes closed my eyes and it was like running while asleep. Now and then, someone kicked me violently from behind and I would wake up. The man in back of me was screaming, “Run faster. If you don't want to move, let us pass you.” But all I had to do was close my eyes to see a whole world pass before me, to dream of another life.
The road was endless. To allow oneself to be carried by the mob, to be swept away by blind fate. When the SS were tired, they were replaced. But no one replaced us. Chilled to the bone, our throats parched, famished, out of breath, we pressed on.
We were the masters of nature, the masters of the world. We had transcended everything—death, fatigue, our natural needs. We were stronger than cold and hunger, stronger than the guns and the desire to die, doomed and rootless, nothing but numbers, we were the only men on earth.
At last, the morning star appeared in the gray sky. A hesitant light began to hover on the horizon. We were exhausted, we had lost all strength, all illusion.
The Kommandant announced that we had already covered twenty kilometers since we left. Long since, we had exceeded the limits of fatigue. Our legs moved mechanically, in spite of us, without us.
We came to an abandoned village. Not a living soul. Not a single bark. Houses with gaping windows. A few people slipped out of the ranks, hoping to hide in some abandoned building.
One more hour of marching and, at last, the order to halt.
As one man, we let ourselves sink into the snow.
My father shook me. “Not here…Get up … A little farther down. There is a shed over there…Come…”
I had neither the desire nor the resolve to get up. Yet I obeyed. It was not really a shed, but a brick factory whose roof had fallen in. Its windowpanes were shattered, its walls covered in soot. It was not easy to get inside. Hundreds of prisoners jos- tled one another at the door.
We finally succeeded in entering. Inside, too, the snow was thick. I let myself slide to the ground. Only now did I feel the full extent of my weakness. The snow seemed to me like a very soft, very warm carpet. I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept. A few minutes or one hour. When I woke up, a frigid hand was tap- ping my cheeks. I tried to open my eyes: it was my father.
How he had aged since last night! His body was completely twisted, shriveled up into himself. His eyes were glazed over, his lips parched, decayed. Everything about him expressed total ex- haustion. His voice was damp from tears and snow.
“Don't let yourself be overcome by sleep, Eliezer. It's danger- ous to fall asleep in snow. One falls asleep forever. Come, my son, come…Get up.”
Get up? How could I? How was I to leave this warm blanket? I was hearing my father's words, but their meaning escaped me, as if he had asked me to carry the entire shed on my arms…
“Come, my son, come…”
I got up, with clenched teeth. Holding on to me with one arm, he led me outside. It was not easy. It was as difficult to go out as to come in. Beneath our feet there lay men, crushed, trampled underfoot, dying. Nobody paid attention to them.
We were outside. The icy wind whipped my face. I was constantly biting my lips so that they wouldn't freeze. All around me, what appeared to be a dance of death. My head was reeling. I was walking through a cemetery. Among the stiffened corpses, there were logs of wood. Not a sound of distress, not a plaintive cry, nothing but mass agony and silence. Nobody asked anyone for help. One died because one had to. No point in making trouble.
I saw myself in every stiffened corpse. Soon I wouldn't even be seeing them anymore; I would be one of them. A matter of hours.
“Come, Father, let's go back to the shed…”
He didn't answer. He was not even looking at the dead.
“Come, Father. It's better there. You'll be able to lie down. We'll take turns. I'll watch over you and you'll watch over me. We won't let each other fall asleep. We'll look after each other.”
He accepted. After trampling over many bodies and corpses, we succeeded in getting inside. We let ourselves fall to the ground.
“Don't worry, son. Go to sleep. I'll watch over you.”
“You first, Father. Sleep.”
He refused. I stretched out and tried to sleep, to doze a little, but in vain. God knows what I would have given to be able to sleep a few moments. But deep inside, I knew that to sleep meant to die. And something in me rebelled against that death. Death, which was settling in all around me, silently, gently. It would seize upon a sleeping person, steal into him and devour him bit by bit. Next to me, someone was trying to awaken his neighbor, his brother, perhaps, or his comrade. In vain. Defeated, he lay down too, next to the corpse, and also fell asleep. Who would wake him up? Reaching out with my arm, I touched him:
“Wake up. One mustn't fall asleep here…”
He half opened his eyes.
“No advice,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I'm exhausted. Mind your business, leave me alone.”
My father too was gently dozing. I couldn't see his eyes. His cap was covering his face.
“Wake up,” I whispered in his ear.
He awoke with a start. He sat up, bewildered, stunned, like an orphan. He looked all around him, taking it all in as if he had suddenly decided to make an inventory of his universe, to determine where he was and how and why he was there. Then he smiled.
I shall always remember that smile. What world did it come from?
Heavy snow continued to fall over the corpses.
The door of the shed opened. An old man appeared. His mus- tache was covered with ice, his lips were blue. It was Rabbi Eliahu, who had headed a small congregation in Poland. A very kind man, beloved by everyone in the camp, even by the Kapos and the Blockälteste. Despite the ordeals and deprivations, his face continued to radiate his innocence. He was the only rabbi whom nobody ever failed to address as “Rabbi” in Buna. He looked like one of those prophets of old, always in the midst of his people when they needed to be consoled. And, strangely, his words never provoked anyone. They did bring peace.
As he entered the shed, his eyes, brighter than ever, seemed to be searching for someone.
“Perhaps someone here has seen my son?”
He had lost his son in the commotion. He had searched for him among the dying, to no avail. Then he had dug through the snow to find his body. In vain.
For three years, they had stayed close to one another. Side by side, they had endured the suffering, the blows; they had waited for their ration of bread and they had prayed. Three years, from camp to camp, from selection to selection. And now—when the end seemed near—fate had separated them.
When he came near me, Rabbi Eliahu whispered, “It hap- pened on the road. We lost sight of one another during the jour- ney. I fell behind a little, at the rear of the column. I didn't have the strength to run anymore. And my son didn't notice. That's all I know. Whe
re has he disappeared? Where can I find him? Per- haps you've seen him somewhere?”
“No, Rabbi Eliahu, I haven't seen him.”
And so he left, as he had come: a shadow swept away by the wind.
He had already gone through the door when I remembered that I had noticed his son running beside me. I had forgotten and so had not mentioned it to Rabbi Eliahu!
But then I remembered something else: his son had seen him losing ground, sliding back to the rear of the column. He had seen him. And he had continued to run in front, letting the distance between them become greater.
A terrible thought crossed my mind: What if he had wanted to be rid of his father? He had felt his father growing weaker and, believing that the end was near, had thought by this separation to free himself of a burden that could diminish his own chance for survival.
It was good that I had forgotten all that. And I was glad that Rabbi Eliahu continued to search for his beloved son.
And in spite of myself, a prayer formed inside me, a prayer to this God in whom I no longer believed.
“Oh God, Master of the Universe, give me the strength never to do what Rabbi Eliahu's son has done.”
There was shouting outside, in the courtyard. Night had fallen and the SS were ordering us to form ranks.
We started to march once more. The dead remained in the yard, under the snow without even a marker, like fallen guards. No one recited Kaddish over them. Sons abandoned the remains of their fathers without a tear.
On the road, it snowed and snowed, it snowed endlessly. We were marching more slowly. Even the guards seemed tired. My wounded foot no longer hurt, probably frozen. I felt I had lost that foot. It had become detached from me like a wheel fallen off a car. Never mind. I had to accept the fact: I would have to live with only one leg. The important thing was not to dwell on it. Especially now. Leave those thoughts for later.
Our column had lost all appearance of discipline. Everyone walked as he wished, as he could. No more gunshots. Our guards surely were tired.
