I had pancakes, believe it or not. LOL.
In the 80’s, during the Soviet era, I had a friend in Warsaw drive us down to Oscwecim, the town in southern Poland outside of which was built Auschwitz. He thought I was crazy, nobody went to that place, there were many more interesting places he could show me—we coud go to beautiful Zakupani in the mountains. I could see national pride was at stake, but I insisted.
It took all night to get there in adverse weather on a two lane, unlit, pitted blacktop through tundra like land with only darkened rural villages along the highway to remind us we weren’t on the moon.
We arrived at the camp at dawn, under steel gray skies in ice cold weather. I don’t remember a lot of other visitors, this wasn’t the Polish version of Disney World. There were no cute little restaurants or cafes nearby, there were no conveniences to make people feel welcome. This was not on the State Turist Buro’s list of sights to see.
We went through the infamous gate, under the wrought iron arch with the optimistic motto: Arbeit Macht Frei. It was a silent, cold, gray morning – the kind of silence you feel while standing in a farmer’s fallow field on a midwinter’s day. There were columns of wooden barracks, surrounded by dirt. No foliage grew in this place.
We crossed the railroad tracks to what was once the Commandant’s office. Inside there were two female curators crowding the woodstove to keep warm. They offered us coffee, then showed us the ledger with name after Jewish name, city of origin, profession, age, height, weight, build and cause of death. It was always cardiac arrest, which was true. For one reason or another, the heart always stops.
One took us in hand and showed us the long intitial processing building conveniently placed along the tracks. Behind glass were mountains of discarded children’s shoes, piles of gold jewelry, bifocals, teeth and internal prosthetics made of precious metals that were ripped from the bodies of victims en viva. There was a furnished living room and bedroom like you might see in a 1940’s model home. Lamp shades of human skin, she said tattooed skin was the most desirable. There was a short sitting stool, its legs made from human femurs in the craftsman style, something one might find suitable in their private hunting lodge. On the coffee table was the cranium of a child, turned upside down and used as an ashtray.
In the bedroom was a lady’s vanity with a lit mirror, make up cases covered in skin, one with a tattooed Star of David on top. In monotone and heavy Polish accent, she described other objets d’art of which propriety prevented her from showing us. Taxidermized women’s breasts and male genitals in frames that could be hung on the wall like paintings, or mounted and placed on a table like statuary.
She took us into one of the barracks where we could see the crowded conditions in which these people were kept. It was packed with columns of bunks, six berths high from floor to ceiling and only inches apart like bookshelving. There was a small woodstove placed cruelly at the very end of the long room, but she said there was rarely anything to burn in it. The camp latrine was outside, a deep ditch with steep sides along the perimeter fencing with a guard tower above. The fence was electric, heavy cyclone fencing topped with concertina wire. Beyond that was more concertina wire, then the guard towers each equipped with heavy machine guns and beyond that was cleared ground, the kill zone, and beyond that was pine forest.
She took us to the gas chambers, windowless rooms approximately 40×40 ft. square with seven foot ceilings. Many new arrivals deemed unsuitable for work were sent here and told they were to be de-loused, then packed in by the hundreds and the door bolted behind them. When the Zyklon gas began pouring out of the ports, reality struck and the screaming and wailing began. Soon there was silence. The bodies carted away to the crematory by the Kapos—the privileged prisoner trustees who did horrible things to their fellow prisoners for an extra crust of bread—and the next batch was brought in. There were deep scratch marks in the walls and door. There were thousands of fingernails embedded in the concrete ceiling.
She took us to the crematory, a line of furnaces with heavy metal doors like bank vaults, each about 10×20 ft. Each with it’s own smoke stack. This is where the evidence was destroyed. Beyond the crematory, was land, acres of barren land where the ashes were buried.
She took us back to the gate. She said goodbye, pointed at the wrought iron arch and asked us to please never forget what we saw here.
On the way back to the car, we took a detour toward the thick line of trees to our south. The dirt trail opened into a vast clearing. In front of us, beyond larger, taller guard towers and much more substantial fencing, were building after concrete building in endless columns on tarmac as far as the eye could see. In the distance was a huge hangar-like building big enough to house the Space Shuttle. It had huge smoke stacks rising from it.
Auschwitz was just a prototype. This was Birkenau.
I stood there trying to understand what I was looking at and then puked until I had the dry heaves. And then we drove back to Warsaw.
TJBM will tell a happy story now.