On the eve of Rosh
Hashanah, the last day of that accused year, the whole camp [Buna] was
electric with the tension which was in all our hearts. In spite of everything,
this day was different from any other. The last day of the year. The
word "last" rang very strangely. What if it were indeed the
last day?
They gave us our evening meal, a very thick soup, but no one touched
it. We wanted to wait until after prayers. At the place of assembly,
surrounded by the electrified barbed wire, thousands of silent Jews
gathered, their faces stricken.
Night was falling. Other prisoners continued to crowd in, from every
block, able suddenly to conquer time and space and submit both to their
will.
"What are You, my God," I thought angrily, "compared
to this afflicted crowd, proclaiming to You their faith, their anger,
their revolt? What does Your greatness mean, Lord of the Universe, in
the face of all this weakness, this decomposition, and this decay? Why
do You still trouble their sick minds, their crippled bodies?"
Ten thousand men had come to attend the solemn service, heads of the
blocks, Kapos, functionaries of death.
"Bless the Eternal..."
The voice of the officiant had just made itself heard. I thought at
first it was the wind.
"Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!"
Thousands of voices repeated the benediction: thousands of men prostrated
themselves like trees before a tempest.
"Blessed be the Name of the Eternal!"
Why, but why should I bless Him? In every fiber I rebelled. Because
He had had thousands of children burned in His pits? Because He kept
six crematoria working night and day, on Sundays and feast days? Because
in His great might He had created Auschwitz, Birkenau, Buna, and so
many factories of death? How could I say to Him: "Blessed are You,
Eternal Master of the Universe, who chose us from amongst the races
to be tortured day and night, to see our fathers, our mothers, our brothers,
end in the crematorium? Praised by Your Holy Name, You who has chosen
us to be butchered on Your altar?"
I heard the voice of the officiant rising up, powerful yet at the same
time broken, amid the tears, the sobs, the signs of the whole congregation,
"All the earth and the universe are God's!"
He kept stopping every moment, as though he did not have the strength
the find the meaning beneath the words. The melody choked in his throat.
And I, mystic that I had been, I thought:
"Yes, man is very strong, greater than God. When You were deceived
by Adam and Eve, You drove them out of paradise. When Noah's generation
displeased You, You brought down the Flood. When Sodom no longer found
favor in Your eyes, You made the sky rain down fire and sulphur. But
these men here, whom You have betrayed, whom You have allowed to be
tortured, butchered, gassed, burned, what do they do? They pray before
You! They praise Your Name!"
"All creation bears witness to the greatness of God!"
Once, New Year's Day had dominated my life. I knew that my sins grieved
the Eternal; I implored His forgiveness. Once, I had believed profoundly
that upon one solitary deed of mine, one solitary prayer, depended the
salvation of the world.
This day, I had ceased to plead. I was no longer capable of lamentation.
On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused.
My eyes were open and I was alone — terribly
alone in a world without God and without man. Without love or mercy.
I had ceased to be anything but ashes, yet I felt myself to be stronger
than the Almighty, to whom my life had been tied for so long. I stood
amidst that praying congregation, observing it like a stranger.
The service ended with the Kaddish. Everyone recited the Kaddish —
over his parents, over his children, over his brothers, and over himself.
We stayed for a long time at the assembly place. No one dared to drag
himself away from this rage. Then it was time to go to bed, and slowly
the prisoners made their way over to their blocks. I heard people wishing
on another a Happy New Year.
 |
 Translated
by Stella Rodway. From: Night by Eli Wiesel (Hill and Wang,
New York 1960)
|
