by Elie Wiesel
“Father,” I said, “you cannot stay here.”
I pointed to the corpses around him; they too had wanted to rest here.
“I see, my son. I do see them. Let them sleep. They haven't closed an eye for so long… They're exhausted… exhausted…”
His voice was tender.
I howled into the wind:
“They're dead! They will never wake up! Never! Do you understand?”
This discussion continued for some time. I knew that I was no longer arguing with him but with Death itself, with Death that he had already chosen.
The sirens began to wail. Alert. The lights went out in the en- tire camp. The guards chased us toward the blocks. In a flash, there was no one left outside. We were only too glad not to have to stay outside any longer, in the freezing wind. We let ourselves sink into the floor. The cauldrons at the entrance found no takers. There were several tiers of bunks. To sleep was all that mattered.
WHEN I WOKE UP, it was daylight. That is when I remembered that I had a father. During the alert, I had followed the mob, not taking care of him. I knew he was running out of strength, close to death, and yet I had abandoned him.
I went to look for him.
Yet at the same time a thought crept into my mind: If only I didn't find him! If only I were relieved of this responsibility, I could use all my strength to fight for my own survival, to take care only of myself…Instantly, I felt ashamed, ashamed of myself forever.
I walked for hours without finding him. Then I came to a block where they were distributing black “coffee.” People stood in line, quarreled.
A plaintive voice came from behind me:
“Eliezer, my son…bring me…a little coffee…”
I ran toward him.
“Father! I've been looking for you for so long…Where were you? Did you sleep? How are you feeling?”
He seemed to be burning with fever. I fought my way to the coffee cauldron like a wild beast. And I succeeded in bringing back a cup. I took one gulp. The rest was for him.
I shall never forget the gratitude that shone in his eyes when he swallowed this beverage. The gratitude of a wounded animal. With these few mouthfuls of hot water, I had probably given him more satisfaction than during my entire childhood…
He was lying on the boards, ashen, his lips pale and dry, shivering. I couldn't stay with him any longer. We had been ordered to go outside to allow for cleaning of the blocks. Only the sick could remain inside.
We stayed outside for five hours. We were given soup. When they allowed us to return to the blocks, I rushed toward my fa- ther:
“Did you eat?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“They didn't give us anything …They said that we were sick, that we would die soon, and that it would be a waste of food …I can't g o on…”
I gave him what was left of my soup. But my heart was heavy. I was aware that I was doing it grudgingly.
Just like Rabbi Eliahu's son, I had not passed the test.
EVERY DAY, my father was getting weaker. His eyes were watery, his face the color of dead leaves. On the third day after we arrived in Buchenwald, everybody had to go to the showers. Even the sick, who were instructed to go last.
When we returned from the showers, we had to wait outside a long time. The cleaning of the blocks had not been completed.
From afar, I saw my father and ran to meet him. He went by me like a shadow, passing me without stopping, without a glance. I called to him, he did not turn around. I ran after him:
“Father, where are you running?”
He looked at me for a moment and his gaze was distant, other-worldly, the face of a stranger. It lasted only a moment and then he ran away.
SUFFERING FROM DYSENTERY, my father was prostrate on his cot, with another five sick inmates nearby. I sat next to him, watching him; I no longer dared to believe that he could still elude Death. I did all I could to give him hope.
All of a sudden, he sat up and placed his feverish lips against my ear:
“Eliezer…I must tell you where I buried the gold and sil- ver…In the cellar…You know…”
And he began talking, faster and faster, afraid of running out of time before he could tell me everything. I tried to tell him that it was not over yet, that we would be going home together, but he no longer wanted to listen to me. He could no longer listen to me. He was worn out. Saliva mixed with blood was trickling from his lips. He had closed his eyes. He was gasping more than breathing.
FOR A RATION OF BREAD I was able to exchange cots to be next to my father. When the doctor arrived in the afternoon, I went to tell him that my father was very ill.
“Bring him here!”
I explained that he could not stand up, but the doctor would not listen. And so, with great difficulty, I brought my father to him. He stared at him, then asked curtly:
“What do you want?”
“My father is sick,” I answered in his place…“Dysentery…”
“That's not my business. I'm a surgeon. Go on. Make room for the others!”
My protests were in vain.
“I can't go on, my son…Take me back to my bunk.”
I took him back and helped him lie down. He was shivering.
“Try to get some sleep, Father. Try to fall asleep…”
His breathing was labored. His eyes were closed. But I was convinced that he was seeing everything. That he was seeing the truth in all things.
Another doctor came to the block. My father refused to get up. He knew that it would be of no use.
In fact, that doctor had come only to finish off the patients. I listened to him shouting at them that they were lazy good-for- nothings who only wanted to stay in bed… I considered jumping him, strangling him. But I had neither the courage nor the strength. I was riveted to my father's agony. My hands were aching, I was clenching them so hard. To strangle the doctor and the others! To set the whole world on fire! My father's murderers! But even the cry stuck in my throat.
ON MY RETURN from the bread distribution, I found my father crying like a child:
“My son, they are beating me!”
“Who?” I thought he was delirious.
“Him, the Frenchman…and the Pole…They beat me…”
One more stab to the heart, one more reason to hate. One less reason to live.
“Eliezer…Eliezer…tell them not t o beat m e … I haven't done anything…Why are they beating me?”
I began to insult his neighbors. They mocked me. I promised them bread, soup. They laughed. Then they got angry; they could not stand my father any longer, they said, because he no longer was able to drag himself outside to relieve himself.
* * * * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY, he complained that they had taken his ration of bread.
“While you were asleep?”
“No. I wasn't asleep. They threw themselves on me. They snatched it from me, my bread…And they beat me…Again… I can't go on, my son…Give me some water…”
I knew that he must not drink. But he pleaded with me so long that I gave in. Water was the worst poison for him, but what else could I do for him? With or without water, it would be over soon anyway…
“You, at least, have pity on me…”
Have pity on him! I, his only son …
A WEEK WENT BY like that.
“Is this your father?” asked the Blockälteste.
“Yes.”
“He is very sick.”
“The doctor won't do anything for him.”
He looked me straight in the eye:
“The doctor cannot do anything more for him. And neither can you.”
He placed his big, hairy hand on my shoulder and added:
"Listen to me, kid. Don't forget that you are in a concentration camp. In this place, it is every man for himself, and you cannot think of others. Not even your father. In this place, there is no such thing as father, brother, friend. Each of us lives and dies alone. Let m
e give you good advice: stop giving your ration of bread and soup to your old father. You cannot help him anymore. And you are hurting yourself. In fact, you should be getting his rations…"
I listened to him without interrupting. He was right, I thought deep down, not daring to admit it to myself. Too late to save your old father…You could have two rations of bread, two rations of soup…
It was only a fraction of a second, but it left me feeling guilty. I ran to get some soup and brought it to my father. But he did not want it. All he wanted was water.
“Don't drink water, eat the soup…”
“I'm burning up…Why are you so mean to me, my son?… Water…”
I brought him water. Then I left the block for roll call. But I quickly turned back. I lay down on the upper bunk. The sick were allowed to stay in the block. So I would be sick. I didn't want to leave my father.
All around me, there was silence now, broken only by moan- ing. In front of the block, the SS were giving orders. An officer passed between the bunks. My father was pleading:
“My son, water…I'm burning up…My insides …”
“Silence over there!” barked the officer.
“Eliezer,” continued my father, “water…”
The officer came closer and shouted to him to be silent. But my father did not hear. He continued to call me. The officer wielded his club and dealt him a violent blow to the head.
I didn't move. I was afraid, my body was afraid of another blow, this time to my head.
My father groaned once more, I heard:
"Eliezer…"
I could see that he was still breathing—in gasps. I didn't move.
When I came down from my bunk after roll call, I could see his lips trembling; he was murmuring something. I remained more than an hour leaning over him, looking at him, etching his bloody, broken face into my mind.
Then I had to go to sleep. I climbed into my bunk, above my father, who was still alive. The date was January 28, 1945.
I WOKE UP AT DAWN on January 29. On my father's cot there lay another sick person. They must have taken him away before day- break and taken him to the crematorium. Perhaps he was still breathing.…
No prayers were said over his tomb. No candle lit in his mem- ory. His last word had been my name. He had called out to me and I had not answered.
I did not weep, and it pained me that I could not weep. But I was out of tears. And deep inside me, if I could have searched the recesses of my feeble conscience, I might have found something like: Free at last!…
I REMAINED IN BUCHENWALD until April 11. I shall not de- scribe my life during that period. It no longer mattered. Since my father's death, nothing mattered to me anymore.
I was transferred to the children's block, where there were six hundred of us.
The Front was coming closer.
I spent my days in total idleness. With only one desire: to eat. I no longer thought of my father, or my mother.
From time to time, I would dream. But only about soup, an extra ration of soup.
ON APRIL 5, the wheel of history turned.
It was late afternoon. We were standing inside the block, waiting for an SS to come and count us. He was late. Such lateness was unprecedented in the history of Buchenwald. Something must have happened.
Two hours later, the loudspeakers transmitted an order from the camp Kommandant: all Jews were to gather in the Appelplatz.
This was the end! Hitler was about to keep his promise.
The children of our block did as ordered. There was no choice: Gustav, the Blockälteste, made it clear with his club…But on our way we met some prisoners who whispered to us:
“Go back to your block. The Germans plan to shoot you. Go back and don't move.” We returned to the block. On our way there, we learned that the underground resistance of the camp had made the decision not to abandon the Jews and to prevent their liquidation.
As it was getting late and the confusion was great—countless Jews had been passing as non-Jews—the Lagerälteste had decided that a general roll call would take place the next day. Everybody would have to be present.
The roll call took place. The Lagerkommandant announced that the Buchenwald camp would be liquidated. Ten blocks of inmates would be evacuated every day. From that moment on, there was no further distribution of bread and soup. And the evac- uation began. Every day, a few thousand inmates passed the camp's gate and did not return.
ON APRIL 10, there were still some twenty thousand prisoners in the camp, among them a few hundred children. It was decided to evacuate all of us at once. By evening. Afterward, they would blow up the camp.
And so we were herded onto the huge Appelplatz, in ranks of five, waiting for the gate to open. Suddenly, the sirens began to scream. Alert. We went back to the blocks. It was too late to evacuate us that evening. The evacuation was postponed to the next day.
Hunger was tormenting us; we had not eaten for nearly six days except for a few stalks of grass and some potato peels found on the grounds of the kitchens.
At ten o'clock in the morning, the SS took positions through- out the camp and began to herd the last of us toward the Appelplatz.
The resistance movement decided at that point to act. Armed men appeared from everywhere. Bursts of gunshots. Grenades ex- ploding. We, the children, remained flat on the floor of the block.
The battle did not last long. Around noon, everything was calm again. The SS had fled and the resistance had taken charge of the camp.
At six o'clock that afternoon, the first American tank stood at the gates of Buchenwald.
OUR FIRST ACT AS FREE MEN was to throw ourselves onto the provisions. That's all we thought about. No thought of revenge, or of parents. Only of bread.
And even when we were no longer hungry, not one of us thought of revenge. The next day, a few of the young men ran into Weimar to bring back some potatoes and clothes—and to sleep with girls. But still no trace of revenge.
Three days after the liberation of Buchenwald, I became very ill: some form of poisoning. I was transferred to a hospital and spent two weeks between life and death.
One day when I was able to get up, I decided to look at myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. I had not seen myself since the ghetto.
From the depths of the mirror, a corpse was contemplating me.
The look in his eyes as he gazed at me has never left me.
The Nobel Peace Prize Acceptance Speech Delivered by Elie Wiesel in Oslo on December 10, 1986
YOUR MAJESTY, Your Royal Highnesses, Your Excellencies, Chair- man Aarvik, members of the Nobel Committee, ladies and gen- tlemen: Words of gratitude. First to our common Creator. This is what the Jewish tradition commands us to do. At special occasions, one is duty-bound to recite the following prayer: “Barukh atah Adonai …shehekhyanu vekiymanu vehigianu lazman hazeh”—“Blessed be Thou…for giving us life, for sustaining us, and for enabling us to reach this day.” Then—thank you, Chairman Aarvik, for the depth of your elo- quence. And for the generosity of your gesture.
Thank you for building bridges between people and generations. Thank you, above all, for helping humankind make peace its most urgent and noble aspiration. I am moved, deeply moved by your words, Chairman Aarvik. And it is with a profound sense of humility that I accept the honor—the highest there is—that you have chosen to bestow upon me. I know your choice transcends my person. Do I have the right to represent the multitudes who have perished? Do I have the right to accept this great honor on their behalf? I do not. No one may speak for the dead, no one may in- terpret their mutilated dreams and visions. And yet, I sense their presence. I always do—and at this moment more than ever. The presence of my parents, that of my little sister. The presence of my teachers, my friends, my companions…
This honor belongs to all the survivors and their children and, through us, to the Jewish people with whose destiny I have al- ways identified. I remember: it happened yesterday, or eternities ago. A young Jewi
sh boy discovered the Kingdom of Night. I remember his be- wilderment, I remember his anguish. It all happened so fast. The ghetto. The deportation. The sealed cattle car. The fiery altar upon which the history of our people and the future of mankind were meant to be sacrificed. I remember he asked his father, “Can this be true? This is the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages. Who would allow such crimes to be committed?
How could the world remain silent?” And now the boy is turning to me. “Tell me,” he asks, “what have you done with my future, what have you done with your life?” And I tell him that I have tried. That I have tried to keep memory alive, that I have tried to fight those who would forget. Because if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices. And then I explain to him how naive we were, that the world did know and remained silent. And that is why I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tor- mented. Sometimes we must interfere.
When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the center of the universe. Of course, since I am a Jew profoundly rooted in my people's memory and tradition, my first response is to Jewish fears, Jewish needs, Jewish crises. For I belong to a traumatized generation, one that experienced the abandonment and solitude of our people. It would be unnatural for me not to make Jewish priorities my own: Israel, Soviet Jewry, Jews in Arab lands…But others are important to me.
Apartheid is, in my view, as abhorrent as anti- Semitism. To me, Andrei Sakharov's isolation is as much a disgrace as Joseph Begun's imprisonment and Ida Nudel's exile. As is the denial of Solidarity and its leader Lech Walesa's right to dis- sent. And Nelson Mandela's interminable imprisonment. There is so much injustice and suffering crying out for our attention: victims of hunger, of racism and political persecution—in Chile, for instance, or in Ethiopia—writers and poets, prisoners in so many lands governed by the left and by the right.
