NIght: Chapter Six

But we marched without faltering.

"Faster, you tramps, you flea-ridden dogs!"

Like automatons.

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.

I was dragging this emaciated body that was still such a weight.

Near me, men were collapsing into the dirty snow.

People mocked him because he was forever praying or meditating on some

People mocked him because he was forever praying or meditating on some

He must have died, trampled under the feet of the thousands of men who followed us.

To no longer feel the excruciating pain of my foot.

Chilled to the bone, our throats parched, famished, out of breath, we pressed on.

Chilled to the bone, our throats parched, famished, out of breath, we pressed on.

We had transcended everything—death, fatigue, our natural needs.

Our legs moved mechanically, in spite of us, without us.

Hundreds of prisoners jostled one another at the door.

When I woke up, a frigid hand was tapping my cheeks.

His body was completely twisted, shriveled up into himself.

Not a sound of distress, not a plaintive cry, nothing but mass agony and silence.

Not a sound of distress, not a plaintive cry, nothing but mass agony and silence.

It would seize upon a sleeping person, steal into him and devour him bit by bit.

He sat up, bewildered, stunned, like an orphan.

Despite the ordeals and deprivations, his face continued to radiate his innocence.

Despite the ordeals and deprivations, his face continued to radiate his innocence.

And, strangely, his words never provoked anyone.

He had searched for him among the dying, to no avail.

He had felt his father growing weaker and, believing that the end was near, had thought by this separation to free himself of a burden that could diminish his own chance for survival.

He had felt his father growing weaker and, believing that the end was near, had thought by this separation to free himself of a burden that could diminish his own chance for survival.

It had become detached from me like a wheel fallen off a car.

The important thing was not to dwell on it.

Our column had lost all appearance of discipline.

From time to time, SS officers on motorcycles drove the length of the column to shake off the growing apathy:

There was shoving and jostling as if this were the ultimate haven, the gateway to life.

People trod over numbed bodies, trampled wounded faces.

My father and I were thrown to the ground by this rolling tide.

Knowing that I was crushing him, preventing him from breathing, I wanted to get up and disengage myself to allow him to breathe.

Or was it a hallucination?

Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men.

Even today, when I hear that particular piece by Beethoven, my eyes close and out of the darkness emerges the pale and melancholy face of my Polish comrade bidding farewell to an audience of dying men.

When I awoke at daybreak, I saw Juliek facing me, hunched over, dead.

Next to him lay his violin, trampled, an eerily poignant little corpse.

I must have been very dirty and disheveled, to judge by what the others looked like.

A thick layer of snow was accumulating on our blankets.

Someone had the idea of quenching his thirst by eating snow.