Night by Elie Wiesel Page B

to the kitchen. The SS were back at their posts in the watchtowers, behind their machine guns. Intermission was over. An hour later, we saw the Kommandos returning, in step as al- ways. Happily, I caught sight of my father. “Several buildings were flattened,” he said, “but the depot was not touched…” In the afternoon, we cheerfully went to clear the ruins. ONE WEEK LATER, as we returned from work, there, in the middle of the camp, in the Appelplatz, stood a black gallows. We learned that soup would be distributed only after roll call, which lasted longer than usual. The orders were given more harshly than on other days, and there were strange vibrations in the air. “Caps off!” the Lagerälteste suddenly shouted. Ten thousand caps came off at once. “Cover your heads!” Ten thousand caps were back on our heads, at lightning speed. The camp gate opened. An SS unit appeared and encircled us: one SS every three paces. The machine guns on the watchtowers were pointed toward the Appelplatz. “They're expecting trouble,” whispered Juliek. Two SS were headed toward the solitary confinement cell. They came back, the condemned man between them. He was a young boy from Warsaw. An inmate with three years in concentra- tion camps behind him. He was tall and strong, a giant compared to me. His back was to the gallows, his face turned toward his judge, the head of the camp. He was pale but seemed more solemn than 61
frightened. His manacled hands did not tremble. His eyes were coolly assessing the hundreds of SS guards, the thousands of pris- oners surrounding him. The Lagerälteste began to read the verdict, emphasizing every word: “In the name of Reichsführer Himmler…prisoner number … stole during the air raid…according to the law…prisoner number…is condemned to death. Let this be a warning and an example to all prisoners.” Nobody moved. I heard the pounding of my heart. The thousands of people who died daily in Auschwitz and Birkenau, in the crematoria, no longer troubled me. But this boy, leaning against his gallows, up- set me deeply. “This ceremony, will it be over soon? I'm hungry…” whis- pered Juliek. At a sign of the Lagerälteste, the Lagerkapo stepped up to the condemned youth. He was assisted by two prisoners. In exchange for two bowls of soup. The Kapo wanted to blindfold the youth, but he refused. After what seemed like a long moment, the hangman put the rope around his neck. He was about to signal his aides to pull the chair from under the young man's feet when the latter shouted, in a strong and calm voice: “Long live liberty! My curse on Germany! My curse! My—” The executioner had completed his work. Like a sword, the order cut through the air: “Caps off!” Ten thousand prisoners paid their respects. “Cover your heads!” Then the entire camp, block after block, filed past the hanged 62
boy and stared at his extinguished eyes, the tongue hanging from his gaping mouth. The Kapos forced everyone to look him squarely in the face. Afterward, we were given permission to go back to our block and have our meal. I remember that on that evening, the soup tasted better than ever… I WATCHED other hangings. I never saw a single victim weep. These withered bodies had long forgotten the bitter taste of tears. Except once. The Oberkapo of the Fifty-second Cable Kom- mando was a Dutchman: a giant of a man, well over six feet. He had some seven hundred prisoners under his command, and they all loved him like a brother. Nobody had ever endured a blow or even an insult from him. In his “service” was a young boy, a pipel, as they were called. This one had a delicate and beautiful face—an incredible sight in this camp. (In Buna, the pipe- were hated; they often displayed greater cruelty than their elders. I once saw one of them, a boy of thir- teen, beat his father for not making his bed properly. As the old man quietly wept, the boy was yelling: “If you don't stop crying instantly, I