On January, 1945 in Buchenwald, Wiesel's father died of dysentery.
To this day I am mourning for my father, perhaps because I didn't mourn the day I became an orphan. The ordeals that preceded his death remain with me, in all their violence. I described them in : the death march to Gleiwitz, sleeping in the snow, the train journey standing up in open wagons exposed to the elements, the demented cries of the living dead before our arrival to Bucehnwald. Here again, I could spend my life retelling that story. How can I silence the cries that rage within me? (Wiesel, 92)