“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.