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“I’ve got more faith in Hitler than in anyone else.  He’s the only one who’s kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people.”

Tonight I shut out the world and read Night.  It’s short and I finished in a matter of hours.  I feel like it all went by so fast.  It was like I was watching a movie unfold.  The pictures swam before me, I saw everything there was to see, and I was there, alongside Eliezer, every step of the way.  But now it’s a ghost of a memory.  I read every word, felt every line, but it all fades before me.  I see isolated scenes, scenes of brutality, scenes of sadness.  This was not a story but a collection of terrors.  I see the boy struggling to breathe, his body too light to pleasure him the quick death of the noose.  I see the father, beaten alive by his son over a piece of bread.  I see the son’s body next to his, killed by the fiendish hunger of others.

Night is not a book…it is an experience.  There is a story throughout the book, weaving together the events.  But the story does not mean a thing.  It fades into the lines, overshadowed by the unbearable images it creates.  The Holocaust is one of the greatest tragedies of humanity, and we can never understand it.  Stories mean nothing; numbers mean even less.  For a moment I felt the pain of a child, but even this is nothing compared to the terror of what can hardly be called life.

Nothing can truly describe the horrors, this I know.  And what’s worse is nothing can make us learn well enough the atrocities of man to cause us to change our ways.  No, man will forever be subject to weakness.