Chapter 11 Chapter Nine The Final Test

SS officers waited for us at the camp gate, counted us, and led us to the empty field.An order came from the electric horn: "Line up, five people in each line! One hundred people in each line! Take five steps forward!" I clutched my father's hand tightly, with a deep-seated worry: Don't leave him. The towering chimney of the crematorium was very close, but it no longer frightened us, or even attracted our attention. A veteran inmate at Buschenwald said that we would be given hot showers and assigned to different buildings.I wanted so much to take a hot bath, but my father didn't say a word, panting beside me.

"Daddy," I said, "just hold on! We'll be lying down soon, and you can rest..." He didn't ask and answer.I was so tired, he was silent and I was indifferent.I just want to take a shower as soon as possible and lie in bed. It was not easy to line up to go to the bathing hall. Hundreds of prisoners were shoving and shoving together, and the guards could not maintain order.They thrashed left and right, but to no avail.Some prisoners didn't even have the strength to hustle, and they couldn't even stand upright. They sat in the snow.Father wanted to sit down too, and he moaned, "I can't do it...it's over...I'm going to die here..."

He dragged me to the side of the snowdrift, where several people were lying on the cross weir, wrapped in rotten blankets. "Leave me here," he said, "I can't stand it...have pity on me...I'll stay here until I take a bath...you call me." I cried out in anger.After suffering so much, now I can take a good hot bath, lie down and rest, how can I watch my father die at this time? "Dad!" I yelled, "Dad! Get up! Get up now! You're looking for death..." I grabbed his arm, and he was still moaning, "Don't cry, my son... have pity on your father... just let me stay here for a while... just a little while... I beg you, my wife Tired...have no energy..."

He becomes like a child: weak, scared, vulnerable... "Daddy," I said, "you can't stay here." I pointed to the corpses beside me, they all wanted to rest here... "I see it, son, I see it all. Let them sleep! They haven't closed their eyes for a long time... They are worn out... They are worn out..." His voice is soft. My roar carried on the wind: "They're dead! They'll never wake up again! Never wake up! Do you understand?" We argued for a long time.I know I'm not arguing with him, but with Death, and Death is closing in on me.

Suddenly the alarm sounded.Air raid!All the lights in the camp went out, and the guards herded us into the buildings.In the blink of an eye, there was no one outside.We were glad we would otherwise have had to wait outside, in the freezing cold, for a long time.We collapse on the floor.There was a big pot at the door, but no one went to eat it.There are rows of bunk beds in the room, nothing more important than sleep right now. When I woke up, it was already daylight, and only then did I think of my father.I followed the hustle and bustle and paid no attention to him when the sirens sounded.I know he has no strength and death is near, but I abandon him.

I have to find him. At the same time, a thought flashed through my mind: I hope I don't find him!I wish I could get rid of this responsibility.I'm going to focus all my remaining energy on struggling for my own survival, taking care of myself... I feel guilty instantly, guilty forever. I searched for hours and couldn't find him.Then I came to a building where someone was distributing bitter "coffee" to everyone.People are queuing, arguing and arguing.A dry voice came from behind: "Eliza, son... give me... some coffee..." I run towards him. "Dad, I've been looking for you for a long time... Where are you? Did you sleep? How do you feel now?"

He seems to have a fever.I squeezed my way through the crowd like a beast until I reached the coffee pot and managed to claim a cup of coffee.I took a swig and left the rest for him. I'll never forget the look of gratitude in his eyes as he drank that cup of coffee, the gratitude of a wounded beast. All the satisfaction I gave him throughout my childhood is probably not worth these few mouthfuls of hot water... He was lying on the plank bed, his face was gray, his lips were pale and dry, and he was shaking.But I couldn't accompany him anymore, they ordered us to go out and clean the building, and only sick patients could stay in the house.

We were out for five hours and then went to get our soup.As soon as they let us back into the building, I ran to my father. "Have you eaten yet?" "No." "why?" "They don't give us food... They say I'm sick, I'm going to die soon, I'm just wasting food... I can't live..." I gave him the rest of the soup, realizing with a heavy heart that I was being stingy. Like Rabbi Eliyahu's son, I failed the test. My father was getting weaker day by day, his eyes were full of tears, and his face was like a withered leaf.On the third day we arrived in Buschenwald, everyone had to go to the bath, and the sick ones had to go too, but they were the last to go.

After showering, we had to wait outside for a long time, and the cleaning of the building was not finished. I saw my father from a distance and ran to meet him.He walked past me like a shadow without stopping, his eyes glazed over.I called him, but he didn't look back.I chased after him: "Dad, where are you going?" He glanced at me with blurred eyes, like a stranger from another world. He stopped for a moment and ran away. My father was suffering from dysentery, and he was lying on the bed with five sick patients beside him.I sat next to him and watched over him. I couldn't believe he had escaped death, so I tried to give him hope.

He sat up suddenly, and brought his hot lips close to my ear: "Eliza...I have to tell you where I buried the gold and silver...in the cellar...you know..." He began to speak, faster and faster, afraid that he would not have enough time to tell me everything.I tried to tell him there was hope and we would go home together, but he stopped listening to me.He can't listen to me anymore, he's exhausted, saliva mixed with blood, running down his lips.He closed his eyes, gasping rather than panting. In exchange for a loaf of bread, I moved to the bed next to my father.The doctor came in the afternoon, and I went to him and said that my father was very ill.

"Lead him here!" I explained that he couldn't stand up, but the doctor wouldn't listen.So, with great difficulty, I brought my father to him.He stared at his father and asked hastily, "What do you want to do?" "My father is ill," I answered for him, "dysentery..." "That's none of my business! I'm a surgeon, let's go and make room for someone else!" My protest is useless. "I can't do it, son... carry me back to the bed." I carried him back and helped him to lie down, he was shaking all over. His breathing was very laborious and his eyes were closed, but I believe he could see everything and see things for what they are. Another doctor came into the building, and the father refused to get up, knowing that it was useless. In fact, the doctor let the patients die.I heard him yelling at the sick patients, saying they were lazy, useless people who just wanted to stay in bed... I really wanted to jump on him and strangle him, but I had neither the courage nor the strength.I looked at my father who was in great pain, clenched his fists so that it hurt.I'm going to strangle the doctor and everyone!I'm going to light a big fire and burn the whole world up!Burn the man who murdered his father!However, my shout was choked in my throat. When I took the bread back, I found my father crying like a child: "Son, they beat me!" "Who?" I thought he was delirious. "He, the Frenchman...and the Pole...they beat me..." Another heartbreak, another reason to hate, another reason not to live. "Eliza...Eliza...told them not to hit me...I didn't do anything...why did they hit me?" When I speak ill of those around me, they retort.Finally, I promised to give them bread and soup, and they laughed and lost their temper.They said they couldn't stand it because their father couldn't even defecate outside. The next day he complained that they had taken his bread. "While you were sleeping?" "No, I didn't sleep, they jumped on me and took my bread... They beat me... again... I couldn't hold on, son... give me some water..." I know he is not suitable for drinking water, why he begged for a long time, I gave in.Water is poison to him, but what can I do for him?With or without water, he can't do it... "You, at least, have mercy on me..." Have mercy on him!I, his only son... In this way, a week passed. "Is this your father?" the building chief asked. "yes." "He was very ill." "The doctor refused to see him." He stared straight at me: "The doctor can't see his disease! You can't either!" He put his big fluffy hands on my shoulders and said, "Listen, boy, don't forget you're in a concentration camp. In this place, everyone can only think of themselves, and don't care about others, not even Biological father. There is no such thing as a father, brother, friend here. Everyone lives alone and dies alone. I advise you, stop giving your old father your share of bread and soup. You can't help He will only hurt himself if he is busy. In fact, you should eat his share today..." I listened attentively and did not interrupt him.Deep in my heart, I think that what he said is right, but I dare not admit it.It's too late, you can't save your old father... You can eat two servings of bread and drink two servings of soup... The thought flashed by, but it made me feel guilty.I ran to get a bowl of soup and gave it to my father, but he didn't want soup, he just wanted water. "Don't drink water, drink soup..." "I'm running a fever... why are you doing this to me, son? Water..." I brought him water, then left the building to go to the roll call, but came quickly.I was lying on the upper bunk, and sick people could stay in the building, so I would also be sick, and I didn't want to leave my father. Now, there is silence around me, except for an occasional groan.In front of the building, SS officers are shouting passwords.An officer came to check the shop.The father is begging: "Son, water... I feel hot all over... my internal organs..." "That man over there, shut up!" the officer yelled. "Eliza," continued the father, "the water..." The officer approached and yelled at him to be quiet, but my father didn't hear me and continued calling me.The officer swung his stick and hit him hard on the head. I dare not move.I was afraid, afraid of being beaten, afraid that he would hit me on the head with a stick. I heard my father groan again: "Eliza..." I could see him breathing—struggling for breath, but I didn't move. After the roll call, I climbed down from the upper bunk and saw his lips trembling and whispering in his mouth.I sat sideways with him for over an hour, keeping his bloody, shattered face in my mind. I have to go to bed.I climbed to the top bunk and lay on top of my father, who was still alive.That day was January 28, 1945. On January 29, I woke up at dawn, and another patient was lying on my father's bunk.They must have carried him away before daylight, into the crematorium.At that time, he may still be panting... No one read a eulogy at his grave, no one lit candles of remembrance for him.The last thing he called was my name, he called me and I didn't answer. I have no tears, I am too sad to cry, my tears are dry.If I could search deep inside, in my weak subconscious mind, I would search for this thought: Liberation at last!