Night (11 page)

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 lips. 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.”

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 thousands 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…