For my father, Shlomo Wiesel, who passed away January 28, 1945.

         We were lucky. We were lucky to stay together through this horrible dark time. I was ashamed and angry in how I thought I was better without you, but I see now that you were the only thing in my life that helped me live on. We were lucky. I remember how before we left Sighet, I needed your attention and affection that you gave to others. But I found out through out the years at the concentration camps that you survived only to take care of me. I remember what I did when we were directed to Appelplatz: I tightened my grip on your hand. The old familiar fear was not to lose and to stay with you, no matter what. At the beginning of the separation of our family, I was a scared boy, who would do anything to stay with you, and at the end I still feared losing you, even though I did not weep when you had been taken, but it pained me that I did not. I wanted to tell you that when we arrived at Appelpatz and all I wanted to do was scream in anger at you because you wanted to rest. We did not live to rest, we now lived to survive. We were lucky. I was lucky to have you as my father and how in the end I knew you deeply cared for me. We were lucky. We were lucky that you survived that selection process. But in the end I was not lucky for losing you.