Listen to me, kid. Don't forget that you are in a concentration camp. In this place, it is every man for himself, and you cannot think of others...You can not help him anymore...You should be getting his rations.
It has been a week since my father has been this ill. I was in the block with my father when the Blockälteste came to speak with me.
Is this your father?
He is very sick...The doctor won't do anything for him.
It was only a fraction of a second, but it left me feeling guilty.
You could have two rations of bread, two rations of soup
The officers were giving orders. An officer passed between the bunks.
My son water... I'm burning up...My insides.
Silence over there!
My father did not hear and continued. The officer came over.
My father did not hear. The officer wielded his club and dealt him a violent blow to the head. I didn't move. I was afraid of another blow, this time to my head. My father groaned once more.
On January 29. On my father's cot there lay another sick person. I did not weep, deep inside me, if I could have searched the recesses of my feeble conscience, I might have found something like: