I made the mistake of reading “Night” first which had moments of tenderness or what I call “breaks” from the cruelty. The only “breaks” I could find in “A Year in Treblinka” was in his descriptions of work, eating moldy bread, and his eventual escape. The inhumanity never ended from the very beginning.
it was the “little” torments of their everyday life in those concentration camps that got me to ponder the most deeply. It was the rocking back and forth of prisoners looking for treatment for their aliments and injuries that would never come. It was the wide eyed panic of prisoners expecting terror day and night, and dying with the look of frozen horror. It was slow relish that prisoners sipped their bowls of food while lying on dirt as if it were their last meal. It was in the starved protruding angles and curves of moving bones, and their covering of their private parts to try to maintain some modesty, some dignity in the face of their sadistic tormentors. They remained so aware and protective of their human dignity and so very nearly dead.