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A commentary about silence as a tormentors advantage from the story night by elie wiesel

This new translation my grandparents, Abba, Sarah and Nachman, who also vanished into that night M. Just as the past lingers in the present, all my writ-ings after Night, including those that deal with biblical, Talmudic, or Hasidic themes, profoundly bear its stamp, and cannot be understood if one has not read this very first of my works.

Why did I write it? Did I write it so as not to go mad or, on the contrary, to go mad in order to understand the nature of madness, the immense, terri-fying madness that had erupted in history and in the conscience of mankind?

Was it to leave behind a legacy of words, of memories, to help prevent history from repeating itself?

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Or was it simply to preserve a record of the ordeal I endured as an adolescent, at an age when one's knowledge of death and evil should be limited to what one discovers in literature?

There are those who tell me that I survived in order to write this text. I am not convinced. I don't know how I survived; I was weak, rather shy; I did nothing to save myself. If heaven could or would perform a miracle for me, why not for others more deserving than myself?

  1. I confided to my young visitor that nothing I had witnessed during that dark period had marked me as deeply as the image of cattle cars filled with Jewish children at the Austerlitz train station…Yet I did not even see them with my own eyes. My mother was busy in the kitchen.
  2. Throwing down our bun-dles, we dropped to the ground.
  3. It was Saturday— the Sabbath—and it was as though we were there to attend ser-vices. I was in the midst of prayer when suddenly there was shouting in the streets.

It was nothing more than chance. However, having survived, I needed to give some meaning to my survival. Was it to protect that meaning that I set to paper an experience in which nothing made any sense? In retrospect I must confess that I do not know, or no longer know, what I wanted to achieve with my words.

I only know that without this testimony, my life as a writer—or my life, period— would not have become what it is: For today, thanks to recently discovered documents, the evi-dence shows that in the early days of their accession to power, the Nazis in Germany set out to build a society in which there simply would be no room for Jews.

Toward the end of their reign, their goal changed: That is why everywhere in Russia, in the Ukraine, and in Lithuania, the Einsatz-gruppen carried out the Final Solution by turning their machine guns on more than a million Jews, men, women, and children, and throwing them into huge mass graves, dug just moments before by the victims themselves.

Special units would then disinter the corpses and burn them. Thus, for the first time in history, Jews were not only killed twice but denied burial in a cemetery. It is obvious that the war which Hitler and his accomplices waged was a war not only against Jewish men, women, and children, but also against Jewish religion, Jewish culture, Jewish tra-dition, therefore Jewish memory. I also knew that, while I had many things to say, I did not have the words to say them.

Painfully aware of my limitations, I watched helplessly as language became an obstacle. It became clear that it would be necessary to invent a new language. But how was one to rehabilitate and transform words betrayed and perverted by the enemy? Writing in my mother tongue—at that point close to extinction—I would pause at every sentence, and start over and over again.

I would conjure up other verbs, other images, other silent cries. It still was not right. All the dictionary had to offer seemed meager, pale, lifeless. Was there a way to describe the last journey in sealed cattle cars, the last voyage toward the unknown?

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Or the discovery of a demented and glacial universe where to be in-human was human, where disciplined, educated men in uniform came to kill, and innocent children and weary old men came to die? Or the countless separations on a single fiery night, the tearing apart of entire families, entire communities? Or, incredibly, the vanishing of a beautiful, well-behaved little Jewish girl with golden hair and a sad smile, murdered with her mother the very night of their arrival?

How was one to speak of them without trembling and a heart broken for all eternity? Deep down, the witness knew then, as he does now, that his testimony would not be received.

  • We cannot understand them;
  • A quarter of an hour later, it began to slow down even more;
  • A German officer lodged in the Kahns' house across the street from us;
  • The real answers, Eliezer, you will find only within yourself;
  • He stayed out of people's way.

After all, it deals with an event that sprang from the darkest zone of man. Only those who experienced Auschwitz know what it was. Others will never know. But would they at least understand?

Could men and women who consider it normal to assist the weak, to heal the sick, to protect small children, and to respect the wisdom of their elders understand what happened there? Would they be able to comprehend how, within that cursed universe, the masters tortured the weak and massacred the children, the sick, and the old?

And yet, having lived through this experience, one could not keep silent no matter how difficult, if not impossible, it was to speak. And so I persevered. And trusted the silence that envelops and transcends words. Knowing all the while that any one of the fields of ashes in Birkenau carries more weight than all the testimonies about Birkenau.

After months and months of personal visits, letters, and telephone calls, he finally succeeded in getting it into print. Though I made numerous cuts, the original Yiddish version still was long. I accepted his decision because I worried that some things might be superfluous.

  • Something must have happened;
  • As long as you can pretend people's criticisms of what you do here are about something completely other than what they're actually about;
  • Strange-looking creatures, dressed in striped jackets and black pants, jumped into the wagon;
  • Its inhabitants evidently had been caught by surprise;
  • The dream conceived by Western man in the eighteenth century, whose dawn he thought he had glimpsed in 1789, and which until August 2, 1914, had become stronger with the advent of the Enlightenment and scien-tific discoveries—that dream finally vanished for me before those trainloads of small children;
  • For the youth of today, for the children who will be born tomorrow.

I was more afraid of having said too much than too little. In the beginning there was faith—which is childish; trust—which is vain; and illusion—which is dangerous. We believed in God, trusted in man, and lived with the illusion that every one of us has been entrusted with a sacred spark from the Shekhinah's flame; that every one of us carries in his eyes and in his soul a reflection of God's image. That was the source if not the cause of all our ordeals.

Other passages from the original Yiddish text had more on the death of my father and on the Liberation. Why a commentary about silence as a tormentors advantage from the story night by elie wiesel include those in this new translation?

Too personal, too private, perhaps; they need to remain between the lines. And yet… I remember that night, the most horrendous of my life: 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. 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. In fact, my father was no longer conscious. Yet his plaintive, harrowing voice went on piercing the silence and calling me, nobody but me. And yet I did not react. I let the SS beat my father, I left him alone in the clutches of death.

I was angry with him for having been noisy, for having cried, for provoking the wrath of the SS. But I had not 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. And I had not responded. In the Yiddish version, the narrative does not end with the image in the mirror, but with a gloomy meditation on the present: And now, scarcely ten years after Buchenwald, I realize that the world forgets quickly.

Today, Germany is a sovereign state. The German Army has been resuscitated. Use Koch, the notorious sadistic monster of Buchenwald, was allowed to have children and live happily ever after…War criminals stroll through the streets of Hamburg and Munich.

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The past seems to have been erased, relegated to oblivion. Books no longer have the power they once did. Those who kept silent yesterday will remain silent tomorrow. Why this new translation, since the earlier one has been around for forty-five years? If it is not faithful or not good enough, why did I wait so long to replace it with one better and closer to the original? In response, I would say only that back then, I was an unknown writer who was just getting started.

My English was far from good. When my British publisher told me that he had found a translator, I was pleased.

'Moral voice of our time' Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel dies aged 87

I later read the translation and it seemed all right. I never reread it. Since then, many of my other works have been translated by Marion, my wife, who knows my voice and how to transmit it better than anyone else. I am convinced that the readers will ap-preciate her work. In fact, as a result of her rigorous editing, I was able to correct and revise a number of important details. And so, as I reread this text written so long ago, I am glad that I did not wait any longer.

And yet, I still wonder: Have I used the right words? I speak of my first night over there. The discovery of the reality inside the barbed wire. The march toward the chimneys looming in the distance under an indifferent sky. The infants thrown into fiery ditches… I did not say that they were alive, but that was what I thought.

But then I convinced myself: And yet fellow inmates also saw them; they were alive when they were thrown into the flames. Historians, among them Telford Taylor, confirmed it.