I received an e-mail recently from somebody who saw that I was reading Night by Elie Wiesel. The book is a moving memoir written by a man who survived the Holocaust during his teen years. The e-mailer wanted to know what I thought about the book. Here are my thoughts:I almost don't feel like the book should be commented about other than to just show Elie the utmost respect for being willing to write it. To praise the book, or to criticize it, doesn't really feel right. Praising it seems to trivialize his horrific experience. Somehow it puts it on par with telling a baseball player that he did a "good job" by hitting the game winning home run. The two just don't equate. Criticizing it certainly doesn't seem right, for who are we to criticize one man's account of one of the most savage displays of mankind to ever take place?
I had many questions by the time I finished the book—mostly about things that Elie didn’t choose to address. But I totally respect his decision. The preface says that the original Yiddish manuscript included more details, but that he left them out in the latest translation because they were “too personal” and “too private.” But he did include one section of details in the preface that he left out in the newest version of the book. The section dealt with his sickly father’s death in the Buchenwald concentration camp. While his father was being beaten to death with a club in the bunk below him by an SS guard, here’s what was running through young Elie’s mind:
I was afraid.
Afraid of the 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…
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.
I don’t know if Elie ever got past the idea that he abandoned his father. He’s 78 years old now and he’s gone on to write 40 books—perhaps I should read some of them to find out. But I’m certain of one thing—his testimony is anything but an abandonment of those who died in those concentration camps. I’ll end this post with these profound words, taken from the preface of the book:
“For the survivor who chooses to testify, it is clear; his duty is to bear witness for the dead and for the living. He has no right to deprive future generations of a past that belongs to our collective memory. To forget would be not only dangerous but offensive; to forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”
