"The next thing that happened was tattooing my prisoner's number. Two young slaves - I can't call them anything else - walked along the row, one of them had a book, a typical German book, 19th century type with nothing but numbers. The other one had a pen and a jar of ink and with that he tattooed us very quickly and efficiently. In Terezin no one asked your name, the guys and other people knew who I was. But in Auschwitz you became a number, you knew no one. The only person I knew was my brother and we stayed together."