Night
Monday, August 21, 2006
Night
"...I remember that night, the most horrendous of my life:
'Eliezer, my son, come here... I want to tell you something... Only to you... Come, don't leave me alone... Eliezer...'
I heard his voice, grasped the meaning of his words and the tragic dimension of the moment, yet i did not move.
It had been his last wish to have me next to him in his agony, at the moment when his soul was tearing itself from his lacerated body - yet I did not let him have his wish.
I was afraid.
Afraid of blows.
That was why I remained deaf to his cries.
Instead of sacrificing my miserable life and rushing to his side, taking his hand, reassuring him, showing him that he was not abandoned, that I was near him, that i felt his sorrow, instead of all that, I remained flat on my back, asking God to make my father stop calling my name, to make him stop crying. So afraid was I to incur the wrath of the SS.
In fact, my father was no longer concious.
Yet his plaintive, harrowing voice went on piercing the silence and calling me, nobody but me.
'Well?' The SS had flown into a rage and was striking my father on the head: 'Be quiet, old man! Be quiet!'
My father no longer felt the club's blows; I did. And yet i did not react. I let the SS beat my father, i left him alone in the cluthes of death. Worse: I was angry at him for having been nousy, for having cried, for provoking the wrath of the SS.
'Eliezer! Eliezer! Come, don't leave me alone...'
BHis voice reached me from so far away, from so close. But i had no moved.
I shall never forgive myself.
Nor shall i ever forgive the world for having pushed me against the wall, for having turned me into a stranger, for having awakened in me the basest, most primitive instincts.
His last word had been my name. A summons. And i had not responded..."
--- Night by Elie Wiesel
"...I remember that night, the most horrendous of my life:
'Eliezer, my son, come here... I want to tell you something... Only to you... Come, don't leave me alone... Eliezer...'
I heard his voice, grasped the meaning of his words and the tragic dimension of the moment, yet i did not move.
It had been his last wish to have me next to him in his agony, at the moment when his soul was tearing itself from his lacerated body - yet I did not let him have his wish.
I was afraid.
Afraid of blows.
That was why I remained deaf to his cries.
Instead of sacrificing my miserable life and rushing to his side, taking his hand, reassuring him, showing him that he was not abandoned, that I was near him, that i felt his sorrow, instead of all that, I remained flat on my back, asking God to make my father stop calling my name, to make him stop crying. So afraid was I to incur the wrath of the SS.
In fact, my father was no longer concious.
Yet his plaintive, harrowing voice went on piercing the silence and calling me, nobody but me.
'Well?' The SS had flown into a rage and was striking my father on the head: 'Be quiet, old man! Be quiet!'
My father no longer felt the club's blows; I did. And yet i did not react. I let the SS beat my father, i left him alone in the cluthes of death. Worse: I was angry at him for having been nousy, for having cried, for provoking the wrath of the SS.
'Eliezer! Eliezer! Come, don't leave me alone...'
BHis voice reached me from so far away, from so close. But i had no moved.
I shall never forgive myself.
Nor shall i ever forgive the world for having pushed me against the wall, for having turned me into a stranger, for having awakened in me the basest, most primitive instincts.
His last word had been my name. A summons. And i had not responded..."
--- Night by Elie Wiesel
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