One question drives me mad: did Papa know what he was doing in Dachau, in Buchenwald, in Majdanek, in Auschwitz? I can’t think of him as a victim any more, as some fresh-faced innocent unwittingly infected by evil. And even if he were, there comes a moment, a split-second, some event, however trivial, some unexpected, fleeting series of terrible images which lead to realization, doubt, revolt. At that moment something within us cries out, it must do, if it did not then there is nothing, no God, no man, no truth. How could anyone fail to react, if only with an imperceptible shudder, when faced with the haunted eyes of a sickly child shivering with cold in the desolation of a death camp, with a naked woman hiding her pudenda as she is dragged to the gas chambers, a woman without hair or name, with no more strength to remember, eyes empty and womb cold as a frog in winter, with a man clinging to a dignity long since destroyed even as the last tatters of humanity are stripped from him, a man who dies at a yes or a no.