“They’re dead! They will never wake up! Never! Do you understand?” This discussion continued for some time. I knew that I was no longer arguing with him but with Death itself, with Death that he had already chosen.
His breathing was labored. His eyes were closed. But I was convinced that he was seeing everything. That he was seeing the truth in all things.
I woke up at dawn on January 29. On my father’s cot there lay another sick person. They must have taken him away before daybreak and taken him to the crematorium.
About six o’clock that afternoon, the first American tank stood at the gates of Buchenwald.
One day when I was able to get up, I decided to look at myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. I had not seen myself since the ghetto.