Our tent leader was a German. An assassin's face, fleshy lips,hands resembling a wolf's paws. The camp's food had agreedwith him; he could hardly move, he was so fat. Like the head ofthe camp, he liked children. Immediately after our arrival, hehad bread brought for them, some soup and margarine. (In fact,this affection was not entirely altruistic; there existed here a veri-table traffic of children among homosexuals, I learned later.) Hetold us

I was afraid.Afraid of the blows.That was why I remained deaf to his cries.Instead of sacrificing my miserable life and rushing to hisside, taking his hand, reassuring him, showing him that hewasnot abandoned, that I was near him, that I felt his sorrow, insteadof all that, I remained flat on my back, asking God to make myfather stop calling my name, to make him stop crying. So afraidwas I to incur the wrath of the SS.