Excerpts and Summaries of “From the Heart of Hell: Manuscripts of a Sonderkommando Prisoner“
Dear reader, I write these words in the moments of my greatest despair. I do not know, I do not believe that I will live to read these lines again, ‘after the storm’” … “It may be that this, these very lines I am writing, will be the only witnesses to what was my life. But I will be happy if my writings reach you, free citizen of the world. Perhaps a spark of my inner fire will ignite in you, and you will fulfill at least a part of our life’s desire: you shall avenge, avenge our deaths!
Four years ago, I read an article. It was titled, “Becoming Anne Frank”, by Dara Horn, and appeared in the November 2018 issue of the Smithsonian Magazine, which is a fantastic publication that I highly recommend. You can find it in any library and subscriptions are very affordable. The older issues and articles (including the aforementioned) are also typically available online. Most people are familiar with Anne Frank and her diary, which was published by her surviving father and has been translated into 70 languages and sold more than 30 million copies. However, this post will not be about Anne Frank, because this article piqued my interest with the following paragraph:
The line most often quoted from Frank’s diary— “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart”—is often called “inspiring,” by which we mean that it flatters us. It makes us feel forgiven for those lapses of our civilization that allow for piles of murdered girls—and if those words came from a murdered girl, well, then, we must be absolved, because they must be true.
It posits that part of the popularity of the book is that it predates the time when Anne’s family was presumably sold out, and by people who probably received a reward of approximately $1.40 per Jew. It continues:
Readers know that the author was a victim of genocide, but that does not mean they are reading a work about genocide. If that were her subject, it is unlikely that those writings would have been universally embraced.
The article mentions other writers, but the one that has compelled me is Zalmen Gradowski. He was a writer that they correctly bet I had never heard of, and whose work I was luckily able to obtain, but only by ordering it from the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, paying for postage from Poland, and hoping it wouldn’t get lost in a lengthy transit. A far cry from a trip to a bookstore or library, where you could hopefully still easily procure a copy of one of the books that many of us may be familiar with from our time in school. In addition to the quotations at the top, Gradowski wrote the following:
This is the real reason why I write – that my condemned life may attain some meaning, that my hellish days and hopeless tomorrows may find some purpose in the future.
Having read these words, I wished to share with you some of what he wrote so that they may reach more people. So that his words may be immortalized in more minds. So that you too can bear some witness to what he says is, “merely a small part of the hell of Birkenau-Auschwitz. It is for you to imagine the reality[…]” “[so] that you will be able to form an image of how the children of our people perished.”
First, let me warn you that the following will not be pleasant. Zalmen Gradowski was forced to work in the Sonderkommando, made to escort prisoners and process bodies. He did not survive, dying in a courageous but unsuccessful prisoner revolt. He wrote on what he could and buried his writings in cans in the camp. His writings were retrieved by a surviving friend, but were damaged, and there are gaps in the text where parts were lost or unreadable. As such, most of what follows will be direct quotations, but may include some guessed words on the part of the compiler or myself. In some places [–] will denote a gap in the text. In parts where I have chosen to skip forward, the ellipses will also be in brackets. This is another reason I wished to post this; the book can be as physically difficult to read as it is emotionally, and I want people to be able to experience at least some of it. For both his sake, and for all our sake in this new year. If you’re interested in that Smithsonian article, here is a link:
https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/becoming-anne-frank-180970542/
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Zalmen spent just shy of two years in the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp. He and his family had been considering emigrating to Palestine before war broke out, but after the outbreak of war, Poland was quickly occupied and he, his wife, parents, and two brothers and three sisters were all trapped. During the initial occupation, Zalmen did what he could to help his fellow Jews as the head of the medical and health department of the ghetto’s Judenrat (“self-administrating” groups coercively formed by the Nazis to administer the closed-off Jewish populations). He continued to try and help as a member of a health group when they were initially moved to a transit camp where they were held without electricity or heating, and epidemics naturally raged. On December 8, 1942, they were moved to Birkenau where the SS carried out a selection wherein his wife, his mother, sisters, as well as his father and a brother-in-law were immediately murdered. Due to his physical condition, he was selected as a member of the Sonderkommando on December 9, in order to replace the 400 Sonderkommando that had been murdered that same day in the gas chamber of Crematorium I. Being a member of this group allowed him (and others) some ability to smuggle goods such as food to other prisoners, and to bribe guards with personal effects left behind by those murdered in order to lessen the suffering of those guarded. It is, however, also the reason he bore witness to so much hell and was able to record it for us. He worried that the world would not believe what was happening in camps like Auschwitz. That it would be dismissed as “horror propaganda” (which is precisely what the German state claimed it to be). He provides the following reason for his writing:
I write so that at least a tiny fraction of the truth may reach the world[…] This is the only goal; this is the sole purpose of my life. I live here with the thought, with the hope that my writings may reach you, and that at least a part of what I and all of us still alive here strive for, the final will of the murdered sisters and brothers of my people, may be realized in this life.
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Come here to me, you free citizen of the world, who have had the good fortune not to know the rule of the cruel [–] two legged beasts, and I will tell you by what sophisticated, sadistic methods they have murdered millions of human beings from the defenceless, suffering Jewish people, protected by none. […] If you do not return from your journey, it will be because your human heart was too weak to bear the strain of the gruesome, bestial deeds which your eyes beheld. […] For you will have fled the world of men to seek comfort among the wildest, most savage beasts, rather than live among cultured demons.
From a section on transport to the concentration camp:
See, my friend, how they march in line as if turned to stone. No weeping, not a cry from a child is heard. Do you know why? Because all weeping by a child is stifled by a blow, both to the mother and the child. Such was the order given by the young wild animals [(Nazi guards)], such was their will. Their bestial instincts have been given free rein, and they are looking only for victims to sate their murderous souls, thirsting for warm Jewish blood. This mass of human beings must comply with their dreadful orders, since their lives are in their hands and their bodies could at any moment be corpses lying in red rivers of blood, with no one to bring them to eternal rest. See, my friend, how the mothers hug their children to stifle their weeping. They tuck their little heads under their shawls, so that the sobbing of the baby, freezing to death, will not be heard.
Here you see a woman standing with a baby in her arms. Her husband is standing next to her. They are staring out at the world passing by them, and instinctively keep glancing down at their lovely little baby. They are plagued by deep anxiety. They are still young, full of life, and the world they see through the windows is calling to them. They have someone to live for, someone to be there for, someone to work and labour for. They have just brought their first child into the world, and thereby woven themselves into the web of eternity, become partners in the building and development of the world. And at their very first steps in the world, they have been stopped and told to leave, to depart from the place they had begun to build their nest.
It is not themselves that they are thinking about. […] For them, the child is the greatest happiness, the greatest comfort, the shared ideal of their lives. But for those cruel criminals, it is a useless plaything, without value or the right to exist.
After the train from the transport camp has begun moving. Remember that the camps were claimed to be “work camps”:
The sound of the whistle rouses the people from their rigid immobility. The train has wrenched itself from [–] of death and is moving on. Mothers kiss their children, women their husbands. Tears of joy are flowing. Everyone has revived and drawn new breath. Hope for new life begins to form. […] The belief is strengthening that all the rumours are false, all the terrible prophesies are baseless, built upon a single incident, dreadful in itself but not of a mass character.
The adults, who are suffering no less than the children, console themselves with the thought that the authorities will surely provide them with food and water at the next station. They will not deport a people intended as a labour force and let them die of hunger and thirst.
We get off the train. Now, my friend, see what happens. See who has come to welcome us. Soldiers in helmets, with large whips in their hands and big angry dogs at their sides. These are the open arms waiting to receive us [–]. No one understands why there is such a heavy guard. Why such a threatening reception? Why? What are we, that armed forces and wild dogs are needed to deal with us. We have come here to work, calm and peaceful people. So why all these precautions? Wait, and you will understand.
After being sorted into groups, apparently by age, sex, and prior occupation for the pretense of work. Zalmen himself was selected as one of the able-bodied:
The stronger ones, the small group supposedly selected as the best labour force, comfort themselves that transporting the women and children, and the weak and old men, in trucks is a mark of [humanitarian] feeling. Perhaps the authorities wish to spare them the burden of a march on foot after such an exhausting journey.
[…] They came with their wives and children, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, and now they are all alone, without anyone. […] They were together everywhere. Left the ghetto together, marched from the camp together, travelled on the locked train together. And now, at their final destination, when they have at least reached the dreadful and frightening point of culmination, they have been separated.
After arriving and being tattooed with an identification number:
From that moment on, you have lost your identity. You are no longer the man who once existed. Today you are a meaningless, worthless, walking number. [–] A hundred such numbers are created and taken to their new homes. […] We stumble across the clayey ground and reach our new graves in fear and exhaustion. We have scarcely the time to look at our new home and breathe its air, when we are clubbed over the heads. Split skulls and battered faces are pouring with blood. Such is the welcome extended to the new arrivals. We are confused and shocked. […] They explain briefly that this is the [bouquet] welcoming them to life in the camp.
Who knows how those vile criminals, to whatever species they belong, are now treating his weak, sick mother and dear, beloved sister? Who knows in what grave his father and brother have fallen, and how they are being treated? All stand helpless, anxious, despairing, alone, suffering and broken.
In a heavily damaged passage, Zalmen describes the daily march to work, and every man’s eyes looking to the barbed wire of the women’s camp. Searching for a relative, wife, sister, child. That maybe a ray of hope still glimmers. “You cannot make yourself believe that they have gone forever.”
Outside our block too, a dead number is lying. We approach and have a look. Only this morning he was at work and now he lies motionless. No one cares. No one even sighs. Poor man, if you were with your parents now, their child, what commotion would surround you! Your mother would be lying beside you, weeping and sobbing. Your father would be pacing back and forth, unable to sit still, crying like a baby. Your brothers and sisters would be sitting around you, weeping bitterly and grieving for you. Your friends and [–] would come, and each would [–] the house would be full of sorrow [–] carried away by the terrible misfortune.
[–] brothers and sisters [–] like stones in the camp. And when a stone sinks [–] no great misfortune. Grief has [–] them [–].
Zalmen writes about how some individuals still carried out the weekly prayers and songs of praise for God, and the struggle many felt on the topic of faith. As with everything else, he wrote much more, but here is an excerpt regarding the disillusioned bitterly watching the ever-faithful pray and sing, while in their daily lives they watched one tragedy and atrocity after the other:
[They] could inspire no feeling of gratitude, nor move us to sing praises to the Creator of the Universe who had allowed a barbarian nation to murder and annihilate millions of innocent people, men, women and children whose only crime was having been born Jewish; for recognizing the omnipotence of that same G-d to whom they now prayed for having brought monotheism to humanity. And because of this they have now become victims. And they should keep singing his praises? What for? To sing a song of praise before this sea of their own blood? To pray to him who refuses to hear the cries and screams of innocent children?
A recurring theme, but one for which there are no “succinct” passages is that of the despair of separation. The breaking up of families and not knowing the fate of loved ones. The despair of mothers who would have gladly died in their children’s stead, but knowing that “the devil wants her too, along with her child, as a sacrifice”. It is difficult to convey the sorrow in these pages. Gradowski saw the mass graves, the bodies, and the cremations. The hell of the Sonderkommando was bearing witness to it and knowing the fate that awaited them. It did afford them some capacity to help ease the suffering of fellow prisoners, but also meant quite literally processing the murdered.
In a series of chapters close to the end, Zalmen describes the work they were forced to do. Watching as truckloads of women and children were brought to the gas chambers of Auschwitz-Birkenau. They were stripped and forced to stand naked, waiting for “gates of hell to open and give them free passage to the grave.”. He describes girls reunited with their mothers kissing and rejoicing at their reunion despite the knowledge that they will soon be leading them to death. He describes the pain of seeing all these people, full of life, who will “in a few hours, be frozen in death. Their mouths will be silent forever. The sparkling eyes, the bewitching charm, will stare fixedly in one direction - searching through dead eternity”.
He laments how this multitude will soon be bodies lying in the mud. Their teeth ripped out for metals, rings and jewelry removed. The pale bodies who were just moments earlier their kin will be dragged across the cement and thrown “like a foul carcass” onto elevators to the crematoria. Within minutes hundreds of lives are reduced to ash. Soon, all of these lives will be confined to wheelbarrows, destined to be dumped into unmarked graves.
No trace will be left of those who stand here now; all these people who once filled entire cities, who once had a place in the world, will be effaced, torn out by the roots as if they had never been born.
Sickeningly, he mentions that on this occasion, representatives of the Nazi party had come for the day’s “celebration”. High-ranking officers whose faces they had never seen in the 16 months he’d been imprisoned coming to watch these women marched into the gas chambers. At this point in 1944, Germany was losing their war. Somehow this slaughter of innocents was supposed to convince them that this was the real battle, and that this extermination was what mattered as their soldiers fell on all fronts.
Further groups are herded into the gas chambers, more than two thousand people, and he describes how soldiers coldly and calmly dumped the poison in through “eyes” at the top of the chamber and walked away “Proud, brave and content, having accomplished the great task for their nation, their fatherland. They have come one step closer to victory”.
Finally, Zalmen describes how, after the gas had been administered, they were to open the doors of these great tombs, from which would blow a “wave of atrocious death”. The only sound was a barely audible trickling of fluids flowing from bodies. In a “vast, naked sea”, body parts protruded, and heads appeared as if floating in this abyss. They are to pull apart these bodies, that are “twisted into each other like a ball of yarn, as if the devil has deliberately played a diabolical game with them before their death and set them in this pose”.
Two frozen eyes stare at you, as if to ask: what will you do with me, brother? More than once you recognize an acquaintance with whom you had spent time before he entered the grave.
At the end, he describes the burning.
The hellish fire extends its flames like open arms and snatched up the corpses like precious treasure. The hair catches fire first. The skin swells up in blisters that burst within a few seconds. The hands and feet start to writhe-the veins tighten and move the limbs. Now the entire corpse ignites, the skin has burst, the fat flows, and you hear the sizzle of burning fire.[…] The head burns the longest. Small blue flames flicker in its sockets-the eyes are consumed with the brain deep down and in the mouth the tongue still burns. The entire process lasts twenty minutes - and a body, a world is reduced to ashes.
In one final letter in September of 1944, Zalmen Gradowski described the location of some of the ash pits, and how much had been dumped into the river. He told the finder where to find his other writings. He died less than one month later, probably on October 7, 1944, in a Sonderkommando revolt after almost two years in the camps. Auschwitz-Birkenau would be liberated by the Red Army three and a half months later, on January 27, 1945.
One message that rings through everything is of the barbarism to which people will resort, looking to blame others for a problem. Complex explanations for ills are ignored entirely in favor of a scapegoat. Further, to paraphrase Gradowski, the greater the civilization, the greater its barbarism. It was an organized, efficient society which gave rise to this atrocity, and it is within organized and “civilized” societies that we see an ever-increasing number of people downplaying or denying them. Societies wherein we have more and more people subscribing brazenly to the ideology of the perpetrators. Please, read and learn as much as you can. Humans are uniquely able to learn, almost directly, from those who came before us. Take in their memory and their lessons and carry them into the future.
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