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When I came down from my bunk after roll call, I could see his lips trembling; he was murmuring something. I remained more than an hour leaning over him, looking at him, etching his bloody, broken face into my mind. Then I had to go to sleep. I climbed into my bunk, above my father, who was still alive. The date was January 28, 1945.
I woke up at dawn on January 29. On my father's cot lay another sick person. They must have taken him away before day break and taken him to the crematorium. Perhaps he was still breathing...
No prayers were said over his tomb. No candle lit in his memory. His last word had been my name. He had called out to me and I had not answered. I did not weep, and it pained me that I could not weep. But I was out of tears. And deep inside of me, if I could have searched the recesses of my feeble conscience, I might have found something life: Free at last! . . .
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