running out. Do as your father asks you…”
Our Kapo shouted the order to march.
The Kommando headed toward the camp gate. Left, right! I was biting my lips. My father had remained near the block, lean- ing against the wall. Then he began to run, to try to catch up with us. Perhaps he had forgotten to tell me something…But we were marching too fast…Left, right!
We were at the gate. We were being counted. Around us, the din of military music. Then we were outside.
ALL DAY, I PLODDED AROUND like a sleepwalker. Tibi and Yossi would call out to me, from time to time, trying to reassure me. As did the Kapo who had given me easier tasks that day. I felt sick at heart. How kindly they treated me. Like an orphan. I thought: Even now, my father is helping me.
I myself didn't know whether I wanted the day to go by quickly or not. I was afraid of finding myself alone that evening. How good it would be to die right here!
At last, we began the return journey. How I longed for an order to run! The military march. The gate. The camp. I ran toward Block 36.
Were there still miracles on this earth? He was alive. He had passed the second selection. He had still proved his usefulness… I gave him back his knife and spoon.
AKIBA DRUMER HAS LEFT us, a victim of the selection. Lately, he had been wandering among us, his eyes glazed, telling everyone how weak he was: “I can't go on…It's over…” We tried to raise his spirits, but he wouldn't listen to anything we said. He just kept repeating that it was all over for him, that he could no longer fight, he had no more strength, no more faith. His eyes would suddenly go blank, leaving two gaping wounds, two wells of terror.
He was not alone in having lost his faith during those days of selection. I knew a rabbi, from a small town in Poland. He was old and bent, his lips constantly trembling. He was always praying, in the block, at work, in the ranks. He recited entire pages from the Talmud, arguing with himself, asking and answering himself end- less questions. One day, he said to me:
“It's over. God is no longer with us.”
And as though he regretted having uttered such words so coldly, so dryly, he added in his broken voice, "I know. No one has the right to say things like that. I know that very well. Man is too insignificant, too limited, to even try to comprehend God's mysterious ways. But what can someone like myself do? I'm nei- ther a sage nor a just man. I am not a saint. I'm a simple creature of flesh and bone. I suffer hell in my soul and my flesh. I also have eyes and I see what is being done here. Where is God's mercy? Where's God? How can I believe, how can anyone believe in this God of Mercy?“
Poor Akiba Drumer, if only he could have kept his faith in God, if only he could have considered this suffering a divine test, he would not have been swept away by the selection. But as soon as he felt the first chinks in his faith, he lost all incentive to fight and opened the door to death.
When the selection came, he was doomed from the start, of- fering his neck to the executioner, as it were. All he asked of us was:
”In three days, I'll be gone…Say Kaddish for me.“
We promised: in three days, when we would see the smoke rising from the chimney, we would think of him. We would gather ten men and hold a special service. All his friends would say Kaddish.
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
Our Kapo shouted the order to march.
The Kommando headed toward the camp gate. Left, right! I was biting my lips. My father had remained near the block, lean- ing against the wall. Then he began to run, to try to catch up with us. Perhaps he had forgotten to tell me something…But we were marching too fast…Left, right!
We were at the gate. We were being counted. Around us, the din of military music. Then we were outside.
ALL DAY, I PLODDED AROUND like a sleepwalker. Tibi and Yossi would call out to me, from time to time, trying to reassure me. As did the Kapo who had given me easier tasks that day. I felt sick at heart. How kindly they treated me. Like an orphan. I thought: Even now, my father is helping me.
I myself didn't know whether I wanted the day to go by quickly or not. I was afraid of finding myself alone that evening. How good it would be to die right here!
At last, we began the return journey. How I longed for an order to run! The military march. The gate. The camp. I ran toward Block 36.
Were there still miracles on this earth? He was alive. He had passed the second selection. He had still proved his usefulness… I gave him back his knife and spoon.
AKIBA DRUMER HAS LEFT us, a victim of the selection. Lately, he had been wandering among us, his eyes glazed, telling everyone how weak he was: “I can't go on…It's over…” We tried to raise his spirits, but he wouldn't listen to anything we said. He just kept repeating that it was all over for him, that he could no longer fight, he had no more strength, no more faith. His eyes would suddenly go blank, leaving two gaping wounds, two wells of terror.
He was not alone in having lost his faith during those days of selection. I knew a rabbi, from a small town in Poland. He was old and bent, his lips constantly trembling. He was always praying, in the block, at work, in the ranks. He recited entire pages from the Talmud, arguing with himself, asking and answering himself end- less questions. One day, he said to me:
“It's over. God is no longer with us.”
And as though he regretted having uttered such words so coldly, so dryly, he added in his broken voice, "I know. No one has the right to say things like that. I know that very well. Man is too insignificant, too limited, to even try to comprehend God's mysterious ways. But what can someone like myself do? I'm nei- ther a sage nor a just man. I am not a saint. I'm a simple creature of flesh and bone. I suffer hell in my soul and my flesh. I also have eyes and I see what is being done here. Where is God's mercy? Where's God? How can I believe, how can anyone believe in this God of Mercy?“
Poor Akiba Drumer, if only he could have kept his faith in God, if only he could have considered this suffering a divine test, he would not have been swept away by the selection. But as soon as he felt the first chinks in his faith, he lost all incentive to fight and opened the door to death.
When the selection came, he was doomed from the start, of- fering his neck to the executioner, as it were. All he asked of us was:
”In three days, I'll be gone…Say Kaddish for me.“
We promised: in three days, when we would see the smoke rising from the chimney, we would think of him. We would gather ten men and hold a special service. All his friends would say Kaddish.
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
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