neither poems nor prose just a length of rope just the wet earth -- that's the way home. neither vodka nor bread just bursts of rage just more new graves -- that's youth and that's love. neither sleep nor waking neither joy nor laughter just tears in the night -- so the rope, paper, knife.

Why is it that nobody cries out, nobody spits in their faces, nobody jumps at their throats? We doff our caps to the S.S. men returning from the little wood; if our name is called out we obediently go with them to die, and we do nothing. We starve, we are drenched by rain, we are torn from our families. What is this mystery? This strange power of one man over another? This insane passivity that cannot be overcome? Our only strength is our great number; the gas chambers cannot accommodate all of us.

The world is ruled by power and power is obtained by money.

I risked my life to save lives. I'm not looking for glory. I just want people to know the truth about what happened.

It is the camp law: people going to their death must be deceived to the very end. This is the only permissible form of charity.

Between two throw-ins in a soccer game, right behind my back, three thousand people had been put to death.

Real hunger is when one man regards another man as something to eat.