Night by Elie Wiesel Read Free Book Online Page A

age?“ he asked, perhaps trying to sound paternal.
    ”I'm eighteen.“ My voice was trembling.
    ”In good health?“
    ”Yes.“
    ”Your profession?"
    Tell him that I was a student?
    “Farmer,” I heard myself saying.
    This conversation lasted no more than a few seconds. It seemed like an eternity.
    The baton pointed to the left. I took half a step forward. I first wanted to see where they would send my father. Were he to have gone to the right, I would have run after him.
    The baton, once more, moved to the left. A weight lifted from my heart.
    We did not know, as yet, which was the better side, right or left, which road led to prison and which to the crematoria. Still, I was happy, I was near my father. Our procession continued slowly to move forward.
    Another inmate came over to us:
    “Satisfied?”
    “Yes,” someone answered.
    “Poor devils, you are heading for the crematorium.”
    He seemed to be telling the truth. Not far from us, flames, huge flames, were rising from a ditch. Something was being burned there. A truck drew close and unloaded its hold: small children. Babies! Yes, I did see this, with my own eyes…children thrown into the flames. (Is it any wonder that ever since then, sleep tends to elude me?)
    So that was where we were going. A little farther on, there was another, larger pit for adults.
    I pinched myself: Was I still alive? Was I awake? How was it possible that men, women, and children were being burned and that the world kept silent? No. All this could not be real. A night- mare perhaps…Soon I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and find that I was back in the room of my childhood, with my books…
    My father's voice tore me from my daydreams:
    “What a shame, a shame that you did not go with your mother…I saw many children your age go with their mothers…”
    His voice was terribly sad. I understood that he did not wish to see what they would do to me. He did not wish to see his only son go up in flames.
    My forehead was covered with cold sweat. Still, I told him that I could not believe that human beings were being burned in our times; the world would never tolerate such crimes…
    “The world? The world is not interested in us. Today, every- thing is possible, even the crematoria…His voice broke.
    ”Father,“ I said. ”If that is true, then I don't want to wait. I'll run into the electrified barbed wire. That would be easier than a slow death in the flames.“
    He didn't answer. He was weeping. His body was shaking. Everybody around us was weeping. Someone began to recite Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. I don't know whether, during the history of the Jewish people, men have ever before recited Kaddish for themselves.
    ” Yisgadal, veyiskadash, shmey raba …May His name be cele- brated and sanctified…" whispered my father.
    For the first time, I felt anger rising within me. Why should I sanctify His name? The Almighty, the eternal and terrible Master of the Universe, chose to be silent. What was there to thank Him for?
    We continued our march. We were coming closer and closer to the pit, from which an infernal heat was rising. Twenty more steps. If I was going to kill myself, this was the time. Our column had only some fifteen steps to go. I bit my lips so that my father would not hear my teeth chattering. Ten more steps. Eight. Seven. We were walking slowly, as one follows a hearse, our own funeral procession. Only four more steps. Three. There it was now, very close to us, the pit and its flames. I gathered all that remained of my strength in order to break rank and throw myself onto the barbed wire. Deep down, I was saying good-bye to my father, to the whole universe, and, against my will, I found myself whispering the words: “ Yisgadal, veyiskadash, shmey raba …May His name be exalted and sanctified…” My heart was about to burst. There. I was face-to-face with the Angel of Death…
    No. Two steps from the pit, we were ordered to turn left and