Night by Elie Wiesel Page B

battlefront had suddenly drawn nearer. The Red Army was racing toward Buna: it was only a matter of hours.
    We were quite used to this kind of rumor. It wasn't the first time that false prophets announced to us: peace-in-the-world, the-Red-Cross-negotiating-our-liberation, or other fables…And often we would believe them… It was like an injection of morphine.
    Only this time, these prophecies seemed more founded. Dur- ing the last nights we had heard the cannons in the distance.
    My faceless neighbor spoke up:
    “Don't be deluded. Hitler has made it clear that he will annihilate all Jews before the clock strikes twelve.”
    I exploded:
    “What do you care what he said? Would you want us to con- sider him a prophet?”
    His cold eyes stared at me. At last, he said wearily:
    “I have more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He alone has kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people.”
     
     
    THAT AFTERNOON AT FOUR O'CLOCK, as usual, the bell called all the Blockälteste for their daily report.
    They came back shattered. They had difficulty opening their mouths. All they could utter was one word: “Evacuation.” The camp was going to be emptied and we would be sent to the rear. Where to? Somewhere in deepest Germany. To other camps; there was no shortage of them.
    “When?”
    “Tomorrow night.”
    “Perhaps the Russians will arrive before…”
    “Perhaps.”
    We knew perfectly well they would not.
    The camp had become a hive of activity. People were running, calling to one another. In every block, the inmates prepared for the journey ahead. I had forgotten about my lame foot. A doctor came into the room and announced:
    “Tomorrow, right after nightfall, the camp will start on its march. Block by block. The sick can remain in the infirmary. They will not be evacuated.”
    That news made us wonder. Were the SS really going to leave hundreds of prisoners behind in the infirmaries, pending the arrival of their liberators? Were they really going to allow Jews to hear the clock strike twelve? Of course not.
    “All the patients will be finished off on the spot,” said the faceless one. “And in one last swoop, thrown into the furnaces.”
    “Surely, the camp will be mined,” said another. “Right after the evacuation, it will all blow up.”
    As for me, I was thinking not about death but about not wanting to be separated from my father. We had already suffered so much, endured so much together. This was not the moment to separate.
    I ran outside to look for him. The snow was piled high, the blocks' windows veiled in frost. Holding a shoe in my hand, for I could not put it on my right foot, I ran, feeling neither pain nor cold.
    “What are we going to do?”
    My father didn't answer.
    “What are we going to do?”
    He was lost in thought. The choice was in our hands. For once. We could decide our fate for ourselves. To stay, both of us, in the infirmary, where, thanks to my doctor, he could enter as either a patient or a medic.
    I had made up my mind to accompany my father wherever he went.
    “Well, Father, what do we do?”
    He was silent. “
    Let's be evacuated with the others,” I said.
    He didn't answer. He was looking at my foot.
    “You think you'll be able to walk?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Let's hope we won't regret it, Eliezer.”
     
     
    AFTER THE WAR, I learned the fate of those who had remained at the infirmary. They were, quite simply, liberated by the Russians, two days after the evacuation.
     
     
    I DID NOT RETURN to the infirmary. I went straight to my block. My wound had reopened and was bleeding: the snow under my feet turned red.
    The Blockälteste distributed double rations of bread and mar- garine for the road. We could take as much clothing from the store as we wanted.
    It was cold. We got into our bunks. The last night in Buna. Once more, the last night. The last night at home, the last night in the ghetto, the last night in the cattle car, and, now, the last night