Elie Wiesel's Dawn is an eloquent meditation on the compromises, justifications, and sacrifices that human beings make when they murder other human beings. "The author . . . has built knowledge into artistic fiction." ― The New York Times Book Review Elisha is a young Jewish man, a Holocaust survivor, and an Israeli freedom fighter in British-controlled Palestine; John Dawson is the captured English officer he will murder at dawn in retribution for the British execution of a fellow freedom fighter. The night-long wait for morning and death provides Dawn , Elie Wiesel's ever more timely novel, with its harrowingly taut, hour-by-hour narrative. Caught between the manifold horrors of the past and the troubling dilemmas of the present, Elisha wrestles with guilt, ghosts, and ultimately God as he waits for the appointed hour and his act of assassination. The basis for the 2014 film of the same name, now available on streaming and home video. “The anguish and loss of the moral Jew who has placed himself on the other side of the gun” ― Commentary “Shines gemlike with delicate writing,” ― Saturday Review Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) is the author of more than fifty books, including Night , his harrowing account of his experiences in Nazi concentration camps. The book, first published in 1955, was selected for Oprah's Book Club in 2006, and continues to be an important reminder of man's capacity for inhumanity. Wiesel was Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities at Boston University, and lived with his family in New York City. He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. Dawn By ELIE WIESEL HILL AND WANG Copyright © 2006 Elie Wiesel All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-8090-3772-8 Chapter One SOMEWHERE A CHILD began to cry. In the house across the way an old woman closed the shutters. It was hot with all the heat of an autumn evening in Palestine. Standing near the window I looked out at the transparent twilight whose descent made the city seem silent, motionless, unreal, and very far away. Tomorrow, I thought for the hundredth time, I shall kill a man, and I wondered if the crying child and the woman across the way knew. I did not know the man. To my eyes he had no face; he did not even exist, for I knew nothing about him. I did not know whether he scratched his nose when he ate, whether he talked or kept quiet when he was making love, whether he gloried in his hate, whether he betrayed his wife or his God or his own future. All I knew was that he was an Englishman and my enemy. The two terms were synonymous. "Don't torture yourself," said Gad in a low voice. "This is war." His words were scarcely audible, and I was tempted to tell him to speak louder, because no one could possibly hear. The child's crying covered all other sounds. But I could not open my mouth, because I was thinking of the man who was doomed to die. Tomorrow, I said to myself, we shall be bound together for all eternity by the tie that binds a victim and his executioner. "It's getting dark," said Gad. "Shall I put on the light?" I shook my head. The darkness was not yet complete. As yet there was no face at the window to mark the exact moment when day changed into night. A beggar had taught me, a long time ago, how to distinguish night from day. I met him one evening in my home town when I was saying my prayers in the overheated synagogue, a gaunt, shadowy fellow, dressed in shabby black clothes, with a look in his eyes that was not of this world. It was at the beginning of the war. I was twelve years old, my parents were still alive, and God still dwelt in our town. "Are you a stranger?" I asked him. "I'm not from around here," he said in a voice that seemed to listen rather than speak. Beggars inspired me with mingled feelings of love and fear. I knew that I ought to be kind to them, for they might not be what they seemed. Hassidic literature tells us that a beggar may be the prophet Elijah in disguise, come to visit the earth and the hearts of men and to offer the reward of eternal life to those who treat him well. Nor is the prophet Elijah the only one to put on the garb of a beggar. The Angel of Death delights in frightening men in the same way. To do him wrong is more dangerous; he may take a man's life or his soul in return. And so the stranger in the synagogue inspired me with fear. I asked him if he was hungry and he said no. I tried to find out if there was anything he wanted, but without success. I had an urge to do something for him, but did not know what. The synagogue was empty and the candles had begun to burn low. We were quite alone, and I was overcome by increasing anxiety. I knew that I shouldn't be there with him at midnight, for that is the hour when the dead rise up from their graves and come to say their prayers. Anyone they find in the synagogue risks being carried away, for fear he betray their secret. "Come to my house," I said to the beggar. "There you can find f