Collection 5: "Night" by Elie Wiesel

Whenever he found someone extremely frail—a “Muselman” was what we called those inmates—he would write down his number: good for the crematorium.

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 temperature was thirty below.

Then we would know the verdict: death or reprieve.

Three SS officers surrounded the notorious Dr. Mengele, the very same who had received us in Birkenau.

A poor emaciated Jew questioned him anxiously, his voice trembling:
“But...sir. They did write me down!”

“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!”

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.

It gave me orders and I executed them blindly.

All that mattered was to be far from the block, far from the crucible of death, from the center of hell.

“It’s not certain yet. There’s still a chance. Today, they will do another selection...a decisive one...”

Around us, the din of military music.

All day, I plodded around like a sleepwalker.