All language subtitles for Primo.2005.PROPER.1080p.WEBRip.x264-RARBG.eng

[♪♪]

It was my good fortune

to be deported to Auschwitz

only in 1944,

that is, after the German

government decided,

- owing to the growing scarcity
- Of labor,

To lengthen

the average life span

of the prisoners destined

for elimination.

I had been captured

by the Fascist militia

on the 13th of December, 1943,

as a member

of a small partisan band

affiliated with the Resistance.

During the interrogation,

I preferred to admit

to the status

of "Italian citizen

of Jewish race."

I believe that any admission

of my political activity

would have meant torture

and certain death.

I was 24, with little wisdom,

no experience,

and a tendency,

encouraged by the life

of segregation

forced on me by the racial laws,

to live in an unrealistic

world of my own.

I was at first sent to

the detention camp at Fossoli.

Then, on the 21st of February,

1944,

we learned that all the Jews

without exception,

would be leaving the next day.

Our destination? No one knew.

We should just prepare

ourselves for travel.

- The following morning,
- We were taken

To the station at Carpi.

[TRAIN STEAM BLOWS]

Here the train

was waiting for us,

with our escort

for the journey.

[TRAIN CLATTERING]

And here we received

the first blows.

It was so new and senseless

that we felt no pain,

only amazement.

How can one man hit another

without anger?

Here, then,

before our very eyes,

and now under our very feet,

- was one of those
- Transport trains

That we'd often heard about

exactly like this,

detail for detail:

goods wagons,

[TRAIN DOORS CLOSING]

doors securely locked,

holding a cargo of men,

women, and children.

Only this time, it is us inside.

We had learned of our

destination with relief.

Auschwitz,

a name without significance

for us, at that time.

Some thought it was Austerlitz,

the town in Bohemia,

but at least it implied

some place on this earth.

[TRAIN CLATTERING]

The train traveled slowly

with long, unnerving halts.

Through the air slit,

we saw the tall, pale cliffs

of the Adige valley

and the names of the last

Italian cities

disappear behind us.

At noon on the second day,

we passed the Brenner Mountains,

the frontier with Austria,

and everyone stood up,

but no one said a word.

[TRAIN WHISTLES]

During the daytime

our nerves, our fear,

somehow made it all tolerable...

The hunger, the thirst,

the violated modesty,

because of the absence

of toilets.

But the hours of darkness were

like never-ending nightmares.

Again and again

sleep was interrupted

by noisy and futile arguments,

curses, cries,

kicks and punches

delivered blindly.

And then someone

would light a candle

and its little flicker

would show a strange human mass

spread over the floor,

sluggish, aching,

rising in sudden convulsions,

collapsing again.

[TRAIN BELL RINGING]

Through the slit, the names

of Austrian cities:

Salzburg, Vienna,

Then Czech.

Finally Polish names.

On the evening

of the fourth day,

the cold became intense.

The train ran through

interminable black pine forests,

climbing perceptibly.

[TRAIN CLATTERING]

There was a long halt

in the open country.

[TRAIN BRAKES SCREECHING]

Then we started up again,

very slowly.

Then stopped again

for the last time,

in the dead of night,

in the middle

of a dark, silent plain.

By the light

of our last candle,

- and with the rhythm
- Of the wheels

And every human sound

now silenced,

we waited for what would happen.

[TRAIN DOORS OPENING]

- It's sudden.
- The door opens with a crash,

And the dark echoes

with that curt, barking noise

of Germans in command.

[INDISTINCT SHOUTING]

A huge platform appears

before us,

lit by reflectors.

Beyond it, a row of lorries.

Then everything

goes silent again.

Someone whispers a translation:

"Climb down. Leave your luggage

alongside the train."

In a moment, the platform

is swarming with shadows.

A dozen SS men stand around,

faces blank.

- At a certain moment
- They suddenly move among us,

And with quiet voices,

begin to ask questions

in bad Italian.

"How old?"

"Healthy or ill?"

"Job?"

And depending on the reply,

they point

in two different directions.

PRIMO:

very silent,

Everything is still

silent as an aquarium,

or certain dreams.

We expected something

more apocalyptic,

but they're behaving so calmly,

so reassuringly.

They're just like people

doing everyday jobs.

One of us dares

to ask for his luggage.

They reply,

"Luggage afterwards."

Someone else doesn't want

to leave his wife.

They say,

"Together again afterwards."

Many mothers don't want to be

separated from their children.

They say,

"Good, good, stay with child."

In less than 10 minutes,

all the men who are fit

or professional specialists

have been grouped together.

What's happening to the others?

We can't work it out.

We see them for a moment,

an indistinct mass

at the other end

of the platform,

and then the night swallows

them up, purely and simply.

- [TRUCK DRIVING]
- We're loaded onto a lorry.

The lorry races off

at full speed.

It's pitch black in here.

Are we unguarded?

Should we jump out?

- Too late.
- There is a guard with us,

A German soldier

bristling with weapons.

He switches on a pocket torch.

We're expecting

shouts and threats,

but instead he starts asking us,

very courteously

in German and in pidgin,

if we have any money

or watches to give him,

since we won't

be needing them anymore.

This isn't an order or a rule,

- just the small
- Private initiative

Of our Charon.

It makes us angry.

It makes us laugh.

It brings some relief.

[TRUCK BRAKES SCREECHING]

The lorry stops.

A gate.

Above it, a sign, brightly lit:

"Arbeit Macht Frei."

Work makes you free.

The image still comes

in my dreams.

We're herded

into an enormous, empty room.

Poorly heated.

We have a terrible thirst.

We've had nothing to drink

for four days.

[WATER DRIPS]

We see a tap,

a dripping tap.

Above it a card,

"Wassertrinken verboten."

It is forbidden to drink.

Nonsense. This card's a joke.

They know we're dying of thirst,

- so they put us in this room,
- With this tap,

And "Wassertrinken verboten."

I ignore it and drink.

I spit it out.

It's tepid, sweetish,

stinking like a swamp.

[♪♪]

Hell must be like this:

A big empty room,

a tap which drips,

but you can't drink from it,

us tired, standing,

waiting for something to happen,

which will certainly

be terrible.

But nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen.

Just

time passing.

[DOOR OPENS]

The door opens,

and an SS man enters,

smoking.

[FOOTSTEPS]

Looks at us slowly.

Asks, "Wer kann Deutsch?"

One of us, a man named Flesch,

steps forward.

He'll be our interpreter.

The SS man makes a long,

calm speech.

Flesch translates.

We must form rows of five,

with intervals of two yards

between man and man.

We must undress

and make a bundle

of our clothes.

We must take great care

that our shoes

are not stolen.

Stolen by whom?

Why should our shoes be stolen?

And what about our documents,

our watches,

the things in our pockets?

Flesch translates our questions

to the German.

The German smokes

and looks through him

as if he's transparent,

as if no one had spoken.

I've never seen old men naked.

Mr. Bergmann wears a truss

and asks Flesch

if he should take it off.

The German answers

in a serious tone,

pointing at someone else.

Flesch translates.

You can tell the words

are bitter in his mouth.

"The officer says, yes,

take off your truss and you'll

be given that of Mr. Coen."

Ah. The German sense of humor.

- [DOOR OPENS]
- Now four men burst in

- With razors,
- Soap brushes and clippers.

- They wear striped trousers
- And jackets,

With numbers sewn on the front.

We ask many questions,

- but they just
- Catch hold of us like sheep

And in a moment

we're sheared and shaved.

Without hair

our faces are weird,

quite comical.

They've cut off

all our body hair too.

We are more

than stripped bare now.

We are as naked as worms.

[DOOR OPENS]

Another door is opened,

and we're herded

into a shower room.

- [DOOR CLOSES]
- We're locked in.

[WATER DRIPPING]

Here we are now,

naked, sheared,

and alone.

We slowly start to speak.

Everyone has questions,

no one has answers.

If we're going to have a shower,

- does that mean that they're
- Not going to kill us?

But why do they keep us

standing here?

Why give us nothing to drink?

Hunger exhausts

but thirst enrages.

As we're walking up and down,

talking, talking,

[DOOR OPENS]

the SS man suddenly returns.

Flesch translates,

biting back his words again.

"The officer says

you must be quiet,

this is not

a rabbinical school."

[DOOR CLOSES]

The SS man goes.

We are silent.

[SIREN WAILING]

Does this mean it's morning?

We can hear the dark,

still camp waking up.

Suddenly water gushes out

from the showers.

Boiling water.

Oh, five minutes of bliss.

- Then suddenly
- We're being chased again,

And shouting people

throw striped rags at us,

and shoes with wooden soles.

And now we're out in the open,

in the icy blue snow of dawn,

barefoot, naked,

our clothing in our hands.

And now we're in another hut,

and finally we're allowed

to get dressed.

When we're finished,

everyone stays in his corner.

We dare not lift our eyes.

There are no mirrors,

yet our reflection

is here in front of us.

A hundred bald white faces,

a hundred sordid puppets.

Nothing belongs to us anymore.

They've taken away

our clothes, our shoes,

even our hair.

If we speak

they will not listen,

if they listen,

they will not understand.

[♪♪]

Think of the value

of your smallest possessions,

the possessions which

even a beggar owns.

A letter, a photo,

just a handkerchief.

These things are part of us.

It's inconceivable

to be robbed of them.

Think of this.

And then you can fully

understand the term,

"extermination camp."

Hour after hour,

this first long day

of limbo passes.

It's sunset before

they finally drive us

out of the hut again.

Will they give us

something to drink now?

No.

They lead us onto a big square

in the center of the camp,

and arrange us,

meticulously, in squads.

We wait for another hour.

[MARCHING BAND PLAYING]

Then, near the gate,

a little band starts playing.

That song.

So well-known,

so sentimental,

so strange here.

We look at one another,

and start sniggering.

Maybe all this is just

some colossal farce

in the Teutonic style.

Then we see

other squads appearing,

returning from somewhere.

Squads of puppets,

like us, but stiff,

made of bones without joints,

walking with a hard,

unnatural gait,

strictly in time to the band.

When the last squad has arrived,

they count us,

and they recount us,

for over an hour.

[♪♪]

Finally, it's dark by now,

but the camp is brightly lit

by lamps and reflectors.

Finally,

a German voice bellows,

"Absperre."

And the squads break up.

We wander among the crowd,

searching for a friendly face,

a guide.

Two boys are seated

against the wall of a hut.

They seem very young.

Sixteen, maybe.

One of them asks me,

in German,

where we come from.

"Wir sind Italiener," I reply.

I want to ask him many things,

but my German

is very limited.

I try.

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"How long here?"

He answers, "Three years."

I'm shocked. He must have

arrived as a child.

Still, it means

that some survive here.

He asks what my work is.

"Ich Chemiker."

He grins.

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"A chemist is good."

So. There's hope.

He asks where

my mother is now.

I explain as best I can.

She's fled from home,

she's in hiding.

He understands.

He gets up,

approaches,

and embraces me timidly.

The encounter is over.

I'm filled with an odd,

calm sadness.

It's almost like joy.

- I've never seen him again,
- That boy,

But I can't forget his face.

The serious

and gentle face of a child

who welcomed me

into the house of the dead.

[♪♪]

We've been baptized.

The operation

was slightly painful,

extremely quick.

But now we'll

carry this here till we die.

I am

174517.

Only by showing this

can I get bread and soup.

Several days passed,

and quite a few blows,

before we got used to

showing it promptly enough.

Weeks were needed

to learn its sound

in the German language.

Hundert Vierund-siebzig

Funf Hundert Siebzehn.

And at first,

while the habits of freedom

still made me look

for the time

on my wristwatch,

my new name appeared instead.

One-hundred

and seventy-four thousand

five-hundred

and seventeen.

We are the high numbers,

the novices.

We learn the rules

of the Lager,

the camp,

as quickly as possible.

Never ask questions,

always answer "Jawohl,"

always pretend to understand.

We learn to scavenge,

anything useful.

Wire to tie up shoes,

rags to wrap round feet,

waste paper to pad jackets

against the cold.

We also learn,

that everything can be stolen.

In fact, is automatically stolen

if you look away for a second.

- So when you go to the latrine
- Or washrooms,

Take everything along

and while you wash your face,

hold your belongings

tightly between your knees.

And we learn the art

of sleeping

with our head on a hard bundle,

our jacket wrapped round

everything we own,

from food bowl to shoes.

Ah.

Shoes.

Death begins with your shoes.

Your wooden-soled shoes.

At first they're like

instruments of torture.

After a few hours marching

you already have painful sores.

These quickly become infected.

And then you're forced to walk

with a kind of shuffle,

as if dragging

a convict's chain.

This is the strange gait

of the army which returns

each evening on parade.

If the sores get worse,

your feet swell,

- and the more they swell
- The more the friction

With the wood

becomes unbearable.

Then only the infirmary is left,

but to enter the infirmary

with a case

of "dicke Fusse"...

Swollen feet.

Is extremely dangerous,

since it's well-known to all,

especially the SS,

that there's no cure

for that complaint.

Not here.

In the Lager,

the average life expectancy

of a high number

is about eight weeks.

If you last longer,

it's because

you've mastered two things.

One, you've learned

to obey orders

in a language

that you don't understand.

Two,

you have a pair

of shoes that fit.

[♪♪]

And then there's

the Auschwitz hunger.

It's unknown to free men.

It makes you dream

cruel dreams at night,

and settles in

all your limbs by day.

You and hunger

become the same thing.

Already my body

is no longer mine.

My belly is swollen,

my limbs emaciated,

my face hollow.

Some of us have yellow skin,

some grey.

When we don't meet

for a few days,

we hardly recognize one another.

Someone I seek out constantly

is Alberto.

We're about the same age,

we're both chemists,

we have the same build,

we even look alike.

- In fact,
- People get us confused,

And we're just known

as "the two Italians".

But I'm not adapting

as well as Alberto.

No one is.

He understood

before any of us

that existence

in this place is war.

He fights for his life,

yet he makes no enemies.

He knows who to avoid,

who to cultivate,

who to corrupt.

But...

And this is what

makes his memory

still so dear to me.

He himself

never became corrupt.

I always saw,

and still see in him,

the rare figure of the strong

yet peace-loving man,

against whom the weapons

of night are blunted.

No, honestly,

- I don't feel
- That today's companion,

My work partner,

will turn out to be an enemy.

He is Null Achtzen.

He's not called anything

but that, Null Achtzen.

Zero Eighteen,

the last three figures

of his number.

I think even he's

forgotten his real name.

When he speaks,

when he looks round,

it's like he's empty inside.

Like the slough of certain

insects you find on river banks,

just held by a thread

to the stones.

As we come back,

again from the store,

hands empty of the last load,

feet dragging,

there it is,

the stack of cast-iron supports,

the Kapo,

the chief of our commando,

with his whip.

Two other prisoners

lift a support

and put it roughly

on our shoulders.

This time it's my turn

to walk in front.

The support is heavy

but very short,

and I keep feeling

Null Achtzen's feet

tread on mine.

He's unable to walk in step,

and the load is badly placed,

something isn't right.

A cable to step over,

the store in sight,

just a few more paces,

but I can't take this.

I shout, I start to turn,

just in time to see Null Achtzen

throw down his end.

I land on the ground,

blind with pain.

A corner of the iron has cut

across the back of my foot.

For a moment

everything's blank and giddy.

Then the Kapo arrives.

I receive only two blows

to the head,

the kind that do no real harm,

simply stun.

He makes me stand.

[GRUNTS]

So the bone isn't broken

so the incident is closed.

He leaves.

I dare not take off the shoe

to see the damage.

The foot would swell,

and I wouldn't get

the shoe back on again.

During the return march

I can't really keep up.

Luckily, there's no

roll call this evening

so now I'm back in the hut.

Because of the march

the pain is very bad again,

along with

a strange feeling

of humidity.

I take off the shoe.

It's full of blood.

Congealed into the rags

I use as a foot pad.

Tomorrow, instead of work,

I'll have to go to Ka-Be.

Ka-Be is the Krankenbau,

the infirmary.

And so, in the morning,

after reveille,

I join a long queue

in one corner of the square,

all the others

presenting themselves

for examination today.

Someone comes and collects

my things for safekeeping:

bowl, spoon,

beret, gloves.

When he's gone,

the others laugh.

I've just been robbed.

Didn't I know

I should hide my things

while in Ka-Be,

or better still,

trade them?

They look at my number

and shake their heads.

Only a high number

could be so stupid.

They count us.

We wait.

They make us undress.

They take our shoes.

We shower.

We wait.

An SS man walks past,

doing a brief survey.

They count us again.

We shower again.

We wait.

We wait.

To judge by the sun,

it's now about 2 p.m.

We've been on our feet

for 10 hours,

naked for six.

At last, a doctor.

The examination

is very fast.

He says,

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

A hundred yards away

is Block 23.

Inside they give me

a long shirt,

and I'm assigned

bunk number 10.

It's empty.

A miracle!

For the first time

since I entered the Lager,

I have a bunk to myself.

Within moments,

I'm fast asleep.

The life of Ka-Be

is a life of limbo.

Reveille is at 4 a.m.,

as always,

and you have to rise and wash,

but there's no hurry

and little severity.

When the bread

is distributed at 5:30,

they can hear,

far from the windows,

in the dark air,

the band beginning to play.

The healthy comrades

are leaving for work,

marching like automatons.

Their souls are dead,

and the music drives them

like the wind drives

dead leaves.

At the departure

and at the return,

the SS are never absent.

Who would deny them the right

to watch this choreography?

It is their great creation,

the dance of the dead men.

[MARCHING BAND PLAYING]

They are engraved in my mind,

those innocent songs.

- They are the last thing
- About the Lager

I will ever forget.

I have two neighbors

in the next bunk.

One is Walter, a Dutchman,

civilized and well-mannered.

- He sees that I have nothing
- To cut my bread with,

So he loans me his knife.

I ask, "What are you

suffering from, Walter?"

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"Organic decay."

The worst type of disease,

he tells me calmly,

because it can't be cured.

And it's very dangerous

to enter Ka-Be

with a disease

that can't be cured.

I still have confused ideas

about this kind of danger.

Everyone talks of it,

but indirectly,

by allusion.

I ask Walter if it's true

what one hears of selections,

of gas, of crematoria.

- Suddenly Walter's neighbor
- Wakes up.

- "Crematoria?
- Who's talking of such things?

Can't a sleeping man

be left in peace?"

He is a Polish Jew.

His name is Schmulek.

He tries to speak German

but really only has Yiddish.

"So der Italianer

doesn't believe in

the danger."

He points to my number:

174517.

Do I see

174516 other prisoners

in the camp?

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"Where are the others?"

"Perhaps transferred

to other camps?"

Schmulek shakes his head

and looks at Walter.

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

He doesn't want to understand.

But destiny ordered

that I would understand

and soon enough.

That evening,

the door of the hut opens,

and two SS men enter.

The officer has a switch

in his hand.

- He speaks
- To the chief doctor,

- Who shows him
- The register,

Pointing here and there.

The officer makes

notes in a book,

and then begins to walk,

nonchalantly,

between the bunks.

You can hear his steps

as if the hut is empty.

Now he is looking

at my neighbors,

Walter and Schmulek.

He brings out his book.

I can see it all clearly

from above.

He draws a cross

beside Schmulek's number

and moves on.

I look at Schmulek,

but then see Walter's eyes,

so I ask nothing.

The next day,

two groups of patients

are led out.

- The first are those
- That have recovered,

And they've been

shaved and showered.

The second leave

just as they are,

with long hair,

without a shower.

And no one gives them

messages for comrades

in the rest of the camp.

Schmulek is among this group.

So in this discreet

and composed manner,

without display or anger,

a massacre moves

through the huts of Ka-Be

every day.

After 20 days in Ka-Be,

when my wound

was practically healed,

I was discharged.

To my great displeasure.

You leave naked again.

You're given new clothes,

new shoes.

You have to try to adapt

to these very quickly,

just like at the beginning.

Your trousers are falling down,

your shirt has no buttons

and your shoes hurt.

This is how I am

when the nurse,

after endless

administrative rites,

finally assigns me

to my new hut:

Block 45.

But I am in luck.

This is Alberto's block.

My friend Alberto.

Alberto and Primo.

"The two Italians."

We now enter into

a tight bond of alliance.

Every scrap of food

that we find,

outside the ration,

we will divide this

into two

strictly equal parts.

Here in the Lager,

each of the Haftlinge,

the prisoners,

is alone.

Ferociously alone.

But we will conduct

an experiment,

a chemical experiment in a way.

Is there not

more strength in two?

At the moment,

in this place,

our only purpose

is to reach the spring.

We care about

nothing else.

In the mornings,

while we wait endlessly

on the roll-call square,

the rising of the sun

is always a big topic.

Today a little earlier

than yesterday,

today a little warmer.

In a month,

the cold will call a truce,

and we'll have one enemy less.

This morning the sun rose

bright and clear

from the horizon of mud.

It's a Polish sun,

cold, distant, white,

barely warming the skin,

but when it dissolved

the morning mist,

a murmur ran through

our numbers.

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

said old Ziegler.

"The worst is over."

When we marched off to work,

the sun was quite high

and the sky serene.

Later, we could see

the mountains,

the Carpathians,

and to the west

the town of Auschwitz,

with its steeple...

A steeple here?

And all around

the barrage balloons.

For the first time

we noticed

that on either side

of the road,

the meadows were green.

Green.

- We look around
- Like blind people

Who've recovered

their sight.

We look at each other.

We've never seen each other

in sunlight.

Someone smiles.

If it was not for the hunger...

But at midday,

another surprise.

In our work hut,

we find a wonderful pot of soup,

11 gallons of it.

It's from the factory kitchen

where the civilians work,

perhaps abandoned

because it tastes slightly off.

Templer looks at us

triumphantly.

This is his work.

Templer is our Kommando's

chief "organizer."

That's the Lager word for fixer.

And he has a wonderful nose

for leftovers

from the civilians.

During the course of today,

thanks to him,

we will have

six pints of soup each.

What more could one want?

Today is a good day.

When Templer's turn comes,

- it is agreed
- That he should have 10 pints,

And taken from

the bottom of the pot.

- For Templer is not only
- A good fixer,

But an exceptional soup eater,

and for a special reason.

He can empty his bowels at will,

and this allows

amazing gastric capacity.

Of this gift,

he is justly proud.

To the accompaniment

of handshakes and applause,

he enters the latrine,

- and comes out
- A few moments later,

Beaming and ready.

Everyone cheers.

A voice calls out,

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"You sure you made

enough space for the soup?"

[SIREN WAILING]

At sunset, the siren

of the Feierabend sounds,

the end of work,

and we are all satiated,

at least for a few hours.

No quarrels arise,

the Kapo feels no urge

to whip us,

and we are able to think

of our mothers and wives,

which we don't usually do.

For a few hours,

we are able to be unhappy

in the manner of free men.

- The day they announced
- The formation

Of Kommando acht und neunzig,

A chemical Kommando.

About 15 Haftlinge gathered

in the gray of dawn

on the roll-call square,

Alberto and I among them.

The new Kapo

was a very short man

wearing a green triangle:

a criminal prisoner.

He made a speech

in the crude German

of the barracks.

"So you are the chemists.

"Well, I am Alex.

- "And if you think,
- Being intellectuals,

"you can make a fool of me,

a Reichsdeutscher,

"a German of the Third Reich,

"well, I'll show you.

"Yes, and if any of you

- "are applying
- For these positions

"without proper qualifications,

"don't think

you'll fool anyone.

"An exam, ja Ihr Intelligenten,

"a chemistry exam before

the honored triumvirate

"of Doctors Hagen,

Probst und Pannwitz.

"And now, meine herren,

forward march."

Although I never think of this

for more than

a few moments a day,

I know that I'll end

in the selections.

I know that I'm not made

of the stuff of those

who survive them.

I'm too

civilized.

I still think too much.

I use myself up at work,

all of myself.

But if I can become

a specialist,

I might still save myself.

And I can become a specialist,

if I can just pass

this chemistry exam.

It'll be in German, obviously.

That will be hard.

A verbal exam, I presume,

in front of

these three Aryan doctors.

Who will certainly see

our filthiness,

smell our odor.

An office.

A real office.

Shining.

Clean.

Ordered.

I would leave a stain

on anything I touched.

There's only

one examiner present:

Dr. Pannwitz.

Tall, thin, blonde.

Hair and nose like

all Germans

ought to have them.

He finishes writing

and looks up.

Looks straight at me.

- From that day
- I've often thought about him,

Dr. Pannwitz.

What was he really like

as a man?

- How did he
- Fill his time?

I mean, outside of

the Germanic ideology.

When I was free again,

I wanted to meet him.

Not out of revenge.

Just curiosity.

For that look

was not

between two men.

If I could explain completely

the nature of that look,

which seemed to come through

the glass of an aquarium,

between creatures who

live in different elements,

different worlds,

I would also be able

to explain succinctly

the great insanity

of the third Germany.

Over in the corner,

- that other
- Zoological specimen, Alex,

- Yawns and
- Chews on something

While the exam begins.

"Wo sind Sie geboren?"

Pannwitz addresses me

as "Sie," the polite form.

Yet, damn him,

- he doesn't make
- The slightest effort

To speak a simpler

kind of German.

I tell him that I was

born and raised in Turin,

and I took my degree there

in 1941.

As I speak, I have

the clear impression

- of not being
- Believed.

Of not even

believing myself.

It's enough to look at my

dirty hands covered with sores,

my convict's trousers

caked with mud.

Yet I am he.

The B.Sc.

From Turin.

But now,

as I continue to speak,

it becomes easier to believe.

- My knowledge of
- Organic chemistry

- Even after
- So long a break

Responds with unexpected

ease and lucidity.

And even more,

this sense of

elation.

This excitement

warm in my veins.

I recognize it.

I remember it.

It's the fever

of exams.

My fever, my exams.

It's that spontaneous

mobilization

of all my faculties

and knowledge.

My friends at university

used to envy this.

It's over.

The excitement fades.

I stare at the fair skin

of his hand

writing down my fate

on a white page.

The symbols are

incomprehensible.

Alex steps

back into the picture.

"Los, ab."

For a moment I grope around

for a suitable formula

of leave-taking.

But in vain.

I know how to say

"to eat," "to work,"

"to steal," "to die,"

in German.

I even know how to say

"sulfuric acid,"

"atmospheric pressure,"

"short-wave generator."

[SIGHS]

But I do not know

how to address

a person of this importance.

[♪♪]

To get back into the main camp,

you have to walk over an area

littered with crossbeams

and metal frames.

Alex catches hold of

a steel cable

to climb over one obstacle

and then curses:

"Donnerwetter!"

His hand is black

with thick grease.

Without hatred,

without sneering,

without even thinking,

he wipes his hand...

Both the palm

and the back.

On my shoulder.

He would be amazed,

poor brute, Alex,

- if someone told him
- That today,

On the basis

of that one action,

I judge him.

[♪♪]

I judge you, Alex.

And you, Dr. Pannwitz.

I judge you.

And all the others like you,

big and small,

in Auschwitz and everywhere.

I judge you.

We've done an exam

but it brings no results.

We're not surprised.

Not particularly disappointed.

"When things change,

they change for the worse."

This is one of the proverbs

of the Lager.

But then one day

in June 1944,

I was detailed

- with two of
- The civilian workers

Stationed here.

Bricklayers.

One of them,

tall, a bit stooped,

with grey hair,

spoke to me and I thought

I was dreaming.

He'd spoken in Italian

and with a

Piedmontese accent.

In speaking to one another,

we were committing a crime.

But we spoke anyway

and found out that he,

Lorenzo,

was from Fossano.

And I have relatives in Fossano

and Lorenzo

knew them by name.

I don't think we

said much more to one another,

then or later.

Not because of the prohibition,

but because Lorenzo

hardly ever spoke at all.

The story of my relationship

with Lorenzo

is both

long and short,

plain and enigmatic.

It's almost like a fable.

In concrete terms,

he brought me some soup

on the sly

every day for six months.

The soup had

extra nourishment:

plum pits,

salami peel,

once the wing of

a sparrow.

I shared the soup

with Alberto, of course.

And without it,

we would not

have survived.

The Lager daily ration

supplied us with

about 1600 calories a day,

which is not enough

to live on while working.

Lorenzo's soup

added another four,

five hundred.

Alberto and I

were amazed by Lorenzo.

In the vicious and degraded

world of Auschwitz,

a man helping other men

out of simple altruism?

This was unimaginable.

It was alien.

He was a savior

sent from heaven.

But an odd savior.

Catholic, yet not a believer.

Silent, morose,

often smelling of wine.

Yet I believe that it is

really due to Lorenzo

that I am alive today.

Not just for his material aid,

but for constantly

reminding me,

just by his presence,

his natural and plain manner

of being good,

that there still existed

a just world outside our own.

Something still clean and whole.

Something

difficult to define.

But something

worth surviving for.

Yesterday the sun went down

behind a confusion

of dirty clouds,

chimney stacks and wires.

And today it is winter.

We know what this means

- because we were here
- Last winter.

And the others will soon learn.

In the next few months,

October to April,

seven out of 10 will die.

And those that don't

will suffer minute by minute

all day, every day.

Just as our

Auschwitz hunger

is not that ordinary feeling

of missing a meal,

so our way of being cold

has need of a new word.

Only a new, harsh language

could convey what it's like

to work all day in the wind

with the temperature

below freezing,

wearing only shirt,

underpants,

cloth jacket and trousers.

And winter

means something else too.

Selekcja.

That hybrid

Polish and Latin word.

At first

it's heard once, twice.

Now many times.

Now in every single

conversation.

"Selekcja."

Today is

a working Sunday.

Arbeit Sonntag.

We work till midday,

then return to the camp

to shower,

to have our weekly

haircut and shave,

to get the dustings

for skin diseases and lice.

Yet somehow everyone

in the washrooms,

in the huts, in the yards...

Everyone knows that Selekcja

will be today.

The news comes, as always,

surrounded by rumor.

"It's already happened

in Ka-Be this morning

"and it was 50%

of the patients.

"At Birkenau,

the crematorium chimney

has been smoking

for 10 days now."

- The young
- Tell the young

- That only the old
- Will be chosen.

The healthy tell the healthy

it will only be the ill.

"Specialists

will be excluded.

"German Jews will be excluded.

Low numbers will be excluded."

You will be chosen

and I will be excluded.

It's early afternoon.

The kitchens are working.

The distribution of bread

is starting up.

Maybe we were wrong.

Maybe this is just

a day like any other day.

But then...
[SIREN WAILING]

At dawn this means reveille,

but if it rings during day,

it means blocksperre.

Enclosure in huts.

- Our Blockaltester,
- The block chief,

- He knows his business,
- All right.

- When we're all in,
- He locks the door,

Hands everyone their card

with number, name,

profession, nationality,

orders everyone to strip

except for shoes,

- and then
- To wait like this,

Naked, card in hand,

for the commission

to reach our hut.

They're coming.

- The Blockaltester
- And his helpers

Drive us into the Tagesraum,

the quartermaster's office,

The room's not large.

When the drive is over,

a human mass

is jammed inside.

Filling every corner.

Putting such pressure

on the wooden walls

they creak.

You have to hold up

your nose to breathe.

You must be careful not to

crumple the card in your hand.

Or, worse, lose it.

There's no time,

no room to be afraid.

The feeling of warm flesh

surrounding you

is unusual and reassuring.

[DOOR OPENS]

The door opens.

Ahead is a stretch of ground.

Then another door

back to the dormitory.

Between these two doorways

stands the arbiter of our fate:

an SS subaltern.

To his right, the Blockaltester.

To his left, the quartermaster.

Each of us,

as he comes out naked,

must run the few steps

between the two doorways,

hand his card to the SS man

and return to the dormitory.

In a fraction of a second,

with a glance at

your front and your back,

the SS man

will judge your fate

and pass your card

to one side or the other.

And this will mean

life or death.

- [WHISPERS]
- It's my turn.

- Like everyone,
- I try to run

With a brisk and elastic step.

Try to hold my head high.

My chest forward,

my muscles contracted

and conspicuous.

I hand over my card.

I run past.

Out of the corner of my eye

I try to look over my shoulder.

I think my card

went to the right.

We're allowed

to get dressed again.

- No one knows
- His own fate yet,

- Because no one
- Knows yet

- If the
- Condemned cards

- Were on the left
- Or the right.

- By now, there's
- No longer any point

- In sparing
- People's feelings.

So we all

crowd 'round the oldest,

the most wasted-away.

- If their cards
- Went to the left,

Then the left is certainly

the side of the condemned.

- It takes
- 3 or 4 minutes

To do

a hut of 200 men.

An afternoon

for the whole camp.

- But even
- Before it's over,

We know that it was

the left.

This was the schlechte seite.

The bad side.

There are, of course,

some irregularities.

Rene, for example,

so young and robust.

He's ended on the left.

Perhaps because of

his slight stoop.

Perhaps

just a mistake.

One shouldn't be surprised

by any mistakes.

The examination is

so quick and summary.

- The crucial thing
- For the Lager is not that

The most useless

prisoners be eliminated,

but that free space

be created quickly

according to

a certain percentage

that's already been fixed.

Everyone is scraping

the bottom of their bowls

with their spoons.

A confused,

metallic clatter.

The end of the day.

It lapses into silence.

[♪♪]

And then I hear old Kuhn

praying aloud

with his beret on his head,

rocking backwards and forwards,

backwards and forwards.

Kuhn is thanking God

because he's not been chosen.

Is he out of his senses?

Does he not see Beppo the Greek

next to him?

Beppo, who's 20 years old

and is going

to the gas chamber tomorrow

and knows it

- and lies there
- Staring up at the light

Without saying anything,

without even thinking anymore.

Does Kuhn not realize

that next time

it'll be his turn?

Does he not understand

that what happened here today

is an abomination,

which no prayer, no pardon,

no apology,

nothing in the power of man

can ever wipe clean again?

If I was God,

I would spit at Kuhn's prayer.

This morning as our Kapo, Alex,

is dividing up the squads

as usual,

he says,

"Dr. Pannwitz has communicated

"to the Arbeitsdienst

"that three Haftlinge

"have been chosen

for the laboratory.

"169509, Brackier,

"175633 Kandel,

"174517,

Levi."

For a moment my ears ring,

and the Lager whirls round me.

There are a couple of Levis

in our Kommando.

But Hundert Vierund-siebzig

Funf Hundert Siebzehn

is definitely me.

I have been chosen

to enter the paradise

of the laboratory.

Alberto's the first

to shake me by the hand.

I have a ticket from

the Arbeitsdienst in my pocket,

saying that I am now

a specialized worker,

I have the right

to a new shirt and underpants,

and I must be shaved

every Wednesday.

No one can boast of

understanding the Germans.

The temperature in here.

The thermometer reads

65 degrees Fahrenheit.

We enter the laboratory,

we three chosen ones,

timid, suspicious,

bewildered.

Like three wild animals

slinking into a big city.

It is, incredibly,

a laboratory

like any other laboratory.

A lab.

The smell makes me reel back

as if from the blow of a whip.

That faint aromatic smell.

For a moment,

the large semi-dark room

at university,

my fourth year,

the mild air of May in Italy,

all of this comes back to me

with a kind of violence.

And instantly vanishes.

I'm under shelter,

I'm warm, no one beats me.

I can steal and sell soap

and petrol

without risk.

When I want to go out I only

have to ask our supervisor,

Herr Stawinoga,

who never says no

and never questions

me if I delay.

He calls me "Monsieur,"

which is ridiculous.

And then there are

the girls.

How long since

we saw girls?

Here are three young Germans.

They have smooth, rosy skin,

beautiful clean clothes,

long blond hair.

Faced with these girls,

we feel ourselves

sinking into the ground.

We know what we look like.

We see one another all the time,

and sometimes even see

our own reflection

in a clean window.

And then there's our smell,

of course.

The girls call us

Stink Juden.

They talk among themselves,

these girls,

about the rationing,

their fiancés, their families:

- "Are you going home
- On Sunday?"

Asks Fraulein Meyer.

"I'm not, traveling

is so uncomfortable."

"Oh it is," says another.

"But I will go home

for Christmas."

"Christmas?"

Exclaims Fraulein Meyer.

"Only a few more weeks

and Christmas again."

"Yes," says the other.

"Hasn't this year flown by?"

This time last year

I was a free man.

I had a name, a family,

an eager mind, a healthy body.

Today I am not even alive enough

to know how to kill myself.

If I spoke better German,

I would try to explain

all this to Fraulein Meyer.

- But she would certainly
- Not understand,

And if she did

she would flee from me.

Hasn't this year flown by?

[MARCHING BAND PLAYING]

Tonight, as we return from work,

they march us

onto the big square.

Is there to be a roll call?

No.

In the searchlight, we see

the profile of the gallows.

A raucous German voice

rises out of the sudden quiet

and speaks for a long time,

angrily, into the dark air.

Finally the condemned man

is brought into the searchlight.

Last month one of the crematoria

in Birkenau was blown up.

- None of us know
- Exactly what happened.

But there was talk

of the Sonderkommando,

the special Kommando attached

to the gas chambers and ovens.

Somehow, a group of these men,

although slaves like us,

had found it in

themselves to act.

The man in front of us

this evening

took part in some way.

- At the end of the German's
- Speech,

Which no one followed,

he bellows,

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"Have you understood?"

- [ECHOING]
- "Jawohl!"

Who answered this?

Everyone and no one.

It's as if our resignation

took body and became

one big collective voice

above our heads.

But now each of us,

alone in ourselves

clearly hears

the shout of the doomed man.

It's a shout that pierces right

through all our barriers

of inertia and submission.

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"Comrades,

I am the last one."

I wish I could say

that from the midst of us

just one voice rose,

or just a murmur,

or just some tiny sign

of assent.

But nothing happened.

- We remained standing there,
- Bent and grey,

Like cringing dogs.

[DOOR OPENING]

The trapdoor opened,

the body wriggled horribly,

the band began playing again,

and we filed past the scaffold.

The SS watched us pass

with indifferent eyes.

Their work was finished.

It was said the Russians

were getting nearer.

Well, they could come now.

There were no longer

any strong men left among us.

The only one was hanging

above our heads.

As for the rest of us,

even if we've finally

learned how to adapt here,

to find food,

to resist the fatigue

and the cold.

And even if we return home,

the Germans have succeeded.

To destroy a man is difficult,

almost as difficult

as to create one.

It has not been easy or quick,

but the Germans have succeeded.

When Alberto and I

got back to the hut,

we couldn't look at one another.

That morning

at the end of December,

when Lorenzo handed

me his mess tin,

it was bent out of shape,

and the soup had pebbles

and grit in it.

He told me,

almost as an apology,

that the civilian camp

had been hit in an air raid.

A bomb had fallen close to him.

It buried the mess tin

and burst one of his eardrums.

But he had the soup to deliver,

and anyway had to come to work.

He knew that the Russians

were going to arrive,

and he was afraid of them.

"The barbaric Asiatic hordes,"

according to German propaganda.

And he fled Auschwitz

soon after.

The Russians were certainly

getting closer,

only 50 miles away,

rumor said.

When, on the 11th of January

1945,

I fell ill with scarlet fever,

and was once more

sent to Ka-Be.

I had four peaceful days.

Outside it was snowing

but the room was heated.

I was given strong

doses of sulpha drugs.

I was hardly able to eat,

didn't want to talk.

On the fifth day

the barber came.

One of the Greeks.

When it was my turn

I forced myself to get up.

I asked him

if there was any news.

He stopped working,

winked dramatically,

and made a sweeping

gesture towards the west.

[SPEAKS IN GERMAN]

"Tomorrow everyone is leaving."

Alberto and I had often

discussed this possibility.

The evacuation of the camp,

and the dangers which

might accompany it.

In the afternoon,

the doctor came, another Greek.

He said that all the patients

who could walk would be given

shoes and clothes,

- and they'd leave
- With the healthy prisoners

On the evacuation march.

He was unusually cheerful.

He seemed drunk.

We asked what would

happen to the rest of us.

He thought the Germans would

leave us to our own fate.

No, he didn't think

they'd kill us.

We weren't convinced.

His very cheerfulness

was worrying.

Now Alberto comes to my window,

defying the prohibition,

to say goodbye.

We've been inseparable.

For six months we've shared

a bunk and every scrap of food

that we've found

outside the ration.

He's very happy tonight.

Everyone is who's leaving.

Something great and new

is about to happen.

A force surrounding us

that isn't Germany.

We say goodbye

through the window.

- Not many words
- Are needed.

We've already discussed

our affairs countless times.

And anyway, we won't be

separated for very long.

All the healthy prisoners

left during that night.

About 20,000 of them.

And they vanished.

Except for very few.

They vanished during the

Todesmarsch that followed.

The Death March.

Alberto was among them.

Meanwhile we remained

in our bunks,

alone with our illnesses,

and our inertia,

which was stronger than fear.

For us began a series of days

outside the world and time.

January the 18th.

The heating plant

has been abandoned.

In our hut some warmth

lingers on,

but hour by hour it fades.

And outside it's five degrees

Fahrenheit below zero.

During the night we hear

the roar of airplanes

and another

bombardment begins.

Nothing new.

[EXPLOSION IN DISTANCE]

Except this is closer.

The camp itself has been struck.

A nearby hut

is burning fiercely.

Dozens of patients arrive,

crying for shelter.

It's impossible

to take them in.

They keep trying, begging and

threatening in many languages.

We have to barricade the door.

They drag themselves elsewhere,

barefoot in the snow.

Some trailing long bandages.

The whole terrible scene

brightly lit by flames.

And then we notice

something else.

The towers are empty.

The Germans are gone.

Today few speak of providence.

But in that moment

some memory

of biblical salvation

swept like a wind through us.

January the 19th.

Two Frenchmen,

Arthur, a farm worker,

and Charles, a school teacher

agree with me that we have

to go out and search

for a stove and fuel

and food.

What we see outside resembles

nothing I've ever known.

The Lager, barely dead,

is already decomposing.

No water, no electricity.

Broken doors

slamming in the wind.

Loose iron sheets

screeching on the roofs.

Ashes from last night's fires

drifting high and far.

Grey, skeleton-like patients

are dragging themselves

over the frozen soil

like an invasion of worms.

Some of them have found

potatoes and are roasting them

on the embers

of the bombed craters,

glaring about

with fierce eyes.

We hurry to the kitchens.

The potatoes are almost finished

but we gather what we can,

- and also find
- What we're most hoping for:

A cast-iron stove.

We load this onto a wheelbarrow

and steer it back to our hut.

When the stove is lit

and starts to spread its heat,

and the potatoes

are coming to the boil,

something relaxes in us all.

Towarowski,

a young Franco-Pole stands

and proposes that everyone

offers a slice of bread

to us three who've been working.

And it's agreed.

Just a day before,

such a thing

would've been inconceivable.

The law of the Lager says,

"Eat your own bread

and if possible

steal your neighbor's."

So

A human gesture

between us again,

the first one.

The Lager really is dead.

January the 21st.

We've been watching

the Wehrmacht in flight,

passing by our windows.

Armored cars,

tiger tanks

camouflaged in white,

Germans on horseback,

Germans on bicycles,

Germans on foot.

It looked like

it would never end.

But with sunrise today

we realize that the plain

is finally deserted

and lifeless,

white as far as the eye can see,

lying motionless

under a flight of ravens.

Deathly sad.

I feel so weak again.

My scarlet fever

is far from over.

I want only one thing:

To stay in bed,

under my blankets,

and abandon myself to sleep.

But it really would be a pity

to give in now.

January the 23rd.

Our potatoes are finished.

But we've heard that an

enormous trench of them

lies just outside the camp.

A section of the barbed wire

has already been opened.

Charles and I step through,

into the wind of the plain.

Charles says,

"Dis donc, Primo,

on est dehors."

Yes,

it's exactly that.

For the first time

since my arrest,

I am free.

Further on,

we find the treasure:

Two long ditches

filled with potatoes,

these covered with layers

of soil and straw

to protect them from the cold.

An old man,

a Hungarian prisoner,

has been surprised here

by death.

He lies on the ground like

the personification of hunger,

face and belly in the snow,

hands outstretched

toward the potatoes.

Well, nobody will die

of hunger anymore.

January the 26th.

It is Somogyi's turn.

A Hungarian chemist,

on the upper bunk,

aged about 50,

suffering from both typhus

and scarlet fever.

Today he gives way to delirium,

and this goes on

for a long time.

Caught in some terrible

last dream of slavery,

he begins to murmur "Jawohl"

with every breath,

regularly, like a machine.

"Jawohl."

"Jawohl."

"Jawohl."

Until you want to shake him,

suffocate him.

I've never understood so clearly

how laborious

the death of a man is.

Eventually I sleep.

The place is pitch black

when I wake again.

Silence.

Somogyi is finished.

He's somehow found the strength

to throw himself to the floor.

I think I heard the thud

of his hips and head.

Well, we can't carry him out

now.

Nothing for it.

Go back to sleep.

January the 27th.

Dawn.

On the floor,

the shameful wreck

of skin and bones,

the Somogyi thing.

We have no clean water

to wash ourselves,

so we dare not touch him

till after we've cooked

and eaten.

The living are demanding,

the dead can wait.

It's midday when we

finally carry him out

to the common grave.

He's very light,

and since the pit is full,

we overturn the stretcher

onto the defiled snow.

Charles takes off his beret.

I regret not having one.

And while we're standing here

the Russians arrive.

[♪♪]

Four soldiers on horseback,

slowly appearing between

the grey of the snow

and the grey of the sky.

Four men armed,

but not against us.

Four messengers of peace.

[RUSTLING]

They're very young,

with rough boyish faces

under heavy fur hats,

perched on their

enormous horses.

They don't greet us,

they don't smile.

They seem overwhelmed,

not just by compassion

but something else,

something that seals their lips

and keeps their eyes fixed

to the scene around them.

It's shame.

We know this shame.

It's the shame that swamped us

after the selections,

and every time we had to watch,

or submit to some outrage.

It's the shame

which the just man feels

at another man's crime.

A feeling of guilt that

such a thing even exists.

This is why few of us

ran to greet our saviors,

few knelt in prayer.

Charles and I remained

standing beside the pit

overflowing with

discolored limbs,

while others began to

break down the barbed wire.

And then we returned

with the empty stretcher

to break the news

to our companions.

[♪♪]