“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 me 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 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 moaning. 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 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 daybreak and taken him to the crematorium. Perhaps he was still breathing…-----------
No prayers were said over his tomb. No candle lit in his memory. 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!....
His next book, DAWN was a fictional account of a Jewish terrorist who was to kill an English major. It describes his ordeal and his transformation from man to murderer. The one thing that made sense to me was this - it is easier to be killed than to kill, because the one who kills will have to bear the name of 'murderer'. It was intense but as a novel I liked only one part -
You mustn’t be afraid of the dark. Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn’t know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.
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