Bearing Witness
To bear witness is not merely to read or tell a story; it is to engage in an act of transmission in which the witness both recalls and constitutes the event. Felman and Laub argue that Holocaust testimony is not a matter of reconstructing the past as a coherent, linear narrative. Rather, it is an attempt to register the shattering of that coherence — to give form to the fact that what happened exceeds what language, or even memory, can fully contain.
Felman and Laub describe the Holocaust as producing a rupture in historical intelligibility — that is, a break in our ability to make moral or narrative sense of events using the tools we normally rely on. We cannot explain it away with cause and effect. We cannot fit it neatly into a story of progress or tragedy. In this framework, to testify is not to restore what was lost, but to mark the loss itself — to speak from the wound without assuming it can be closed.
For Oyneg Shabes, this was not abstract. They understood that what they were witnessing could not be captured in full, and they did not try to. Their writings — urgent, messy, personal, sometimes contradictory — do not pretend to offer a single story. Instead, they record fragments of experience: hunger, hope, betrayal, prayer, terror, love, death. They create a record not of what the Holocaust “meant,” but of what it felt like to live through the annihilation of a people in real time. That allows us to witness this testimony not as reconstruction, but as transmission of a rupture.
Felman and Laub describe the Holocaust as producing a rupture in historical intelligibility — that is, a break in our ability to make moral or narrative sense of events using the tools we normally rely on. We cannot explain it away with cause and effect. We cannot fit it neatly into a story of progress or tragedy. In this framework, to testify is not to restore what was lost, but to mark the loss itself — to speak from the wound without assuming it can be closed.
For Oyneg Shabes, this was not abstract. They understood that what they were witnessing could not be captured in full, and they did not try to. Their writings — urgent, messy, personal, sometimes contradictory — do not pretend to offer a single story. Instead, they record fragments of experience: hunger, hope, betrayal, prayer, terror, love, death. They create a record not of what the Holocaust “meant,” but of what it felt like to live through the annihilation of a people in real time. That allows us to witness this testimony not as reconstruction, but as transmission of a rupture.
If testimony is speech from a rupture, then the archive — especially the Oyneg Shabes archive — is the material trace of that rupture. It does not present a complete or seamless history. It gives us fragments: diaries with missing pages, unfinished essays, menus from vanished cafes, drawings by children who did not survive. But these fragments are not failures. They are, in fact, the only honest form the truth could take.
Emmanuel Levinas argued that the face of the Other — the face of the human being who suffers — confronts us not with information, but with an irreducible vulnerability. The face says: You are responsible for me. In a similar way, the documents of the archive do not just tell us things; they demand things from us. They are not there to be decoded and explained away. They insist on our attention, our response, our inability to walk away unchanged.
The Oyneg Shabes archive also exemplifies what Jacques Derrida calls archive fever — the idea that every archive contains within it both the desire to preserve and the impossibility of ever preserving fully. In his words, “the archive is never closed. It opens out of the future.” That is, the archive does not just collect the past. It speaks to a future it cannot predict. It is an act of hope that someone will read, someone will care, someone will carry the memory forward.
Emmanuel Levinas argued that the face of the Other — the face of the human being who suffers — confronts us not with information, but with an irreducible vulnerability. The face says: You are responsible for me. In a similar way, the documents of the archive do not just tell us things; they demand things from us. They are not there to be decoded and explained away. They insist on our attention, our response, our inability to walk away unchanged.
The Oyneg Shabes archive also exemplifies what Jacques Derrida calls archive fever — the idea that every archive contains within it both the desire to preserve and the impossibility of ever preserving fully. In his words, “the archive is never closed. It opens out of the future.” That is, the archive does not just collect the past. It speaks to a future it cannot predict. It is an act of hope that someone will read, someone will care, someone will carry the memory forward.
When we speak of “bearing witness,” we usually focus on the speaker — the survivor, the chronicler, the poet. But bearing witness is never a solitary act. It is not complete until someone listens. And not just listens passively, but becomes responsible for what they’ve heard, to participate in the trauma. This is not meant to dramatize the role of the listener, but to reframe it. Because the person who receives testimony — whether a historian, a student, or someone exploring this website — isn’t neutral. Just as the witness assumes risk and vulnerability in speaking, the listener takes on a kind of ethical burden in hearing.
What you do with what you’ve read matters —
especially in the context of Holocaust testimony, where speech itself is fragile. Many survivors described how difficult it was to speak at all. Some felt no words could be adequate. Others, like Elie Wiesel, insisted on speaking despite that impossibility. Theodor Adorno famously claimed that “to write poetry [about the Holocaust] after Auschwitz is barbaric,” but later revised this view, acknowledging that silence can become its own form of cruelty. In his revision, he added: “perennial suffering has as much right to expression as the tortured have to scream.” The problem, then, is not that we cannot speak — but that we must do so without pretending that speech makes things whole again.
That means your role as the reader is not just to absorb facts. It is to become the listener they hoped for. That doesn’t require you to agree with anything, or to understand it all. It does mean reading with care. Slowing down. Not skipping past the harder parts. It means recognizing that these texts don’t just describe trauma — they enact the difficulty of trying to speak from within it.
What you do with what you’ve read matters —
especially in the context of Holocaust testimony, where speech itself is fragile. Many survivors described how difficult it was to speak at all. Some felt no words could be adequate. Others, like Elie Wiesel, insisted on speaking despite that impossibility. Theodor Adorno famously claimed that “to write poetry [about the Holocaust] after Auschwitz is barbaric,” but later revised this view, acknowledging that silence can become its own form of cruelty. In his revision, he added: “perennial suffering has as much right to expression as the tortured have to scream.” The problem, then, is not that we cannot speak — but that we must do so without pretending that speech makes things whole again.
That means your role as the reader is not just to absorb facts. It is to become the listener they hoped for. That doesn’t require you to agree with anything, or to understand it all. It does mean reading with care. Slowing down. Not skipping past the harder parts. It means recognizing that these texts don’t just describe trauma — they enact the difficulty of trying to speak from within it.
Contents
II. Account of Black Monday and its aftermath
III. Account of Pomiechówek transit camp
IV. Hersz Wasser’s account of Nazi atrocities
V. Account of “A Visit to the Unfortunate Children”
VI. Account of mass slaughter of several hundred Jews in Dynów
VII. Account of the liquidation and mass slaughter of ~8,000 Jews in Tarnów
War!
Special editiooooon!!! Border crooooossssed!!! It's waaaaaaaar!!!
“Attention! Attention! We shall now present to you the speech of the president of the Republic of Poland, Professor Ignacy Moscicki” — [and then]: “Citizens! Today at ... o'clock the enemy declared war on us....”
Again you hear the beating of the boots. Again the grey line of heroes stretches on and on. Stomping. Boom, droom-droom-droom-boom, droom-droom-droom...
Unuuu-eeeeeeeee!!!
The sirens started wailing over the city. Uuuuu-eeeeeeeee!!!
Their giant necks are choking out: “I declare the city of Warsaw to be under a state of emergency. The city of Warsaw. Attention! Attention! Attention! Emergency in the city of Warsaw!”
Barely visible, three silver machines have appeared high in the sky. Harbingers. Their tentacles stretching over the city. The zenitowki sound off. A metallic thud like when you bang on a barrel. Fiery red oranges are flying up at the enemy.
“A VIOLENT ATTACK MUST BE FOUGHT OFF WITH VIOLENCE.”
War entered the city. Stormed into it. It penetrated the silent buildings. It brought the depressed people to life, and rent their ties with their offices or workshops. It set into motion that dense swarm of people who make up the population of Warsaw. It surprised everybody.
The declaration was so unexpected, so sudden that everybody lost their heads even before they were hit with German shrapnel.
Nobody believed that the Germans would start a war. Not after Poland, France, and England had signed the treaty. Thus, all the greater was the surprise of 4 those two-legged creatures that squirm all over the city and listen to amateur politicians perorating here and there. Despite everything they still believe that the Germans will retreat. Because such thinking comes easiest.
Video: Montage of clips from a German propaganda newsreel of the German invasion of Warsaw.
In the weeks that followed, another witness took up the task. Their writing, dated 25 September 1939, records not just bombardment, but the unmaking of a city — and the slow, disfiguring effect of constant death. What had begun in terror now settled into something colder, more enduring: a landscape ruled by ruin, and a silence thick with corpses.
We are still alive. Our turn had not come yet.
But later no one even cared. Death was a given. It was just a matter of time.
I survived the war.
I survived that horrible month. A gruesome month of blood, corpses, and death. A month of fire.
You cannot describe it. Nor can you imagine it. You have to experience it — and survive or die. I survived. I know neither how nor when. I do not know why. Why am I alive when hundreds of thousands of healthy, creative, and worthy people were killed? I do not know how I survived in the middle of that hell, in that sea of fire, in the hail of bombs and shrapnel, on the hottest stretch of the frontline.
I walked out into the strangely, unnaturally silent street. How weird! No whine of falling bombs. No crack of bursting bombs. No swish of shrapnel. Just corpses, corpses, corpses everywhere ...
Rotting and stinking human and equine corpses lying unburied for three weeks. Crows had left them untouched because they too had abandoned this city doomed to annihilation. Yes, even those creatures that feed on death had left.
Over the streets, buildings, and ruins of this once beautiful city there now reigned a single, all-powerful ruler — Death.
She was lurking in the unexploded shells. She was ready to suddenly fall down on you in the form of a brick. Or bury you under a collapsing wall.
You knew this was Her kingdom. Oh, you knew it!
Rubble, bricks, and bullets on the street. Whole streets strewn with corpses.
The colour red flashed before your eyes at every step.
Raw red. Blood red. You could not see any buildings. There were no buildings. There were only corpses, corpses of buildings. Red and jagged edges of destroyed walls and foundations. Bloodied with brick dust — rent asunder, dead.
Who knows whence and why this wind has come to us — to the dead. A skeleton. A skeleton of a building — as if eaten clean of its flesh. Roofless. It looks out with its hollow, burnt, blackened eye sockets of windows. Blackened by fire and smoke, its walls did not hide its interior. They did not obscure what was behind them. The naked corpse of a girl reveals shapely, young body. Its womb and full breasts are pallid, but woundless, flawless. Except the hip, where you can see a small spot. That's where the shrapnel entered. And those eyes! Those eyes!! Staring as if ripped open in deathly pain and fear. Bottomless eyes with all the pain and fear of death preserved in them. The eyes of a human. Alive and testifying to death. They will exist as long as there are wars. Another corpse nearby. The corpse of a man covered with bricks and plaster and stained with blood. A corpse which a mighty force had impaled with a burning beam. A big piece of charred wood sticks out through the stomach and chest. And the
clothes and the body are charred, too. Only the face, which is looking to the heavens, as if crying out for vengeance and punishment, is intact. It is blind because its eye sockets and mouth are covered with a black mass—blood. The
dried blood has filled all the pockets, all the creases and wrinkles in the face. Dante [Alighieri] is dead and he will not rise from the dead, but if he were alive, even he would be unable to render or depict these thousands of corpses — of people, horses, and buildings lying motionless, naked, uncovered, and terrifying in their mute accusation. They all seem to be imploring the Earth and sky with one and the same question:
Why? In the name of what? By what right?
Thousands of people were intoning: "For the soul of ..."
But nobody lit candles for the corpses of the buildings. Silent and motionless, their skeletons stood empty and torn apart all the way down to their basements, exposing their red, gaping wounds, from which wires along with power, gas, and water mains were spilling out like intestines or veins.
And then a strange, if not a miraculous, paradoxical thing happened! Snow fell. And it was white! Over so many corpses and so many rivulets of hot, red blood, white snow now fell. Such is the work of Mother Nature. So it has to be. Such is the law.
The second entry shatters this detachment as the destruction becomes tangible and overwhelming.
By the third, tragedy strikes intimately: Rachela, the diarist’s lover, is among those claimed by the same relentless shelling.
“Yours.. R.”
“Führer, Sieger des Judenkrieg, account for what you have done! Why have you fooled us? Why have you lied, oppressed, and murdered us? Why have you brought the leprosy of dishonesty and inhumanity upon us? Be condemned, be damned forever as a criminal and murderer! Die and vanish like a festering sore that has left an ugly mark on a healthy body!”
The day will come when an anguished mankind will cry out:
“Hitler! Stand trial! Explain yourself, and your deeds! Why do you keep silent? You, the author of the fascist ideology of blood, torture, and the fist — why do you keep silent? Away, murderer!”
“Hitler! Stand trial! Explain yourself, and your deeds! Why do you keep silent? You, the author of the fascist ideology of blood, torture, and the fist — why do you keep silent? Away, murderer!”
Rain. An unpleasant autumn drizzle taps at the window panes, patters on the window sills, and sobs. The clock has come to its aid ... with its monotonous, incessant ticking. The bust of Voltaire on the bookcase, ever the same and smiling mysteriously, seems to be content. Like a malevolent satyr it enjoys the misery of the world. It seems to give orders to the rain from the height of the bookcase in the small, distant room. And the rain obeys. It patters and sobs. No wonder. The long-expected foul autumn weather has come. The soaked, rain-drenched city dissolves in the fog outside the window. It is
nothing like the same, yet already so distant, world — that of last summer. So recent, but so distant. The light from the street lamp mixes with the shadows to form violet streaks and reflections in the dark room I know so well, but
which seems so novel. It is already dark. Pitch black. And yet not every night is like this. The pine forest which I know so well and of which I have so many memories suddenly appears before my eyes in the darkness. I can see the shapely figure and the delicate, subtle features of my summer queen — Rachela. Her face looks just as I saw it that last time. I also remember that
glowing night not so long ago — and the beauty of the forest's terrifying majesty. That last night. The night of love. The night when we knew only love and thought about nothing else.
I could swear with clear conscience that the creature next to me is not human. This petite figure in a white dress is not Rachela, but a Nymph. She has walked up out of the river and she is luring me back. The clothes left on the bank have melted and disappeared in the faint glow. They have blended in with the green of the grass. You can only see two bodies glimmering, as if cast in silver, glistening with droplets of water, and silently chasing each other. Naked and refreshed, we step out onto the bank. Light. The grey light warns us about the oncoming sunrise. Rachela throws her arms around my neck. Her petite shapely body embraces me tightly. I feel her two breasts protruding and her warm, supple body pressed against mine. We hear the rhythm of our hearts now beating as one, how it's now one heart beating evenly in our chests. We stand pressed against each other, embraced. Her lips are suddenly so close, so temping and enticing...
It happened. That was our first and last kiss. Blushing, Rachela grabbed her dress and ran into the forest. From between the trees her naked back flashed at me. Not knowing what I was doing I called out.
— Come back!
— Remember!
Yes, Rachela. I remember. I remember what we promised to each other and I shall fight for this idea until I die. And even after my death. As long as I can and longer. I will fight, though without you. You are gone. But I will fight thinking of you, in your name, and for you. I will fight under your banner, under the banner of Culture and Love.
I shall fight for culture and humanitarianism in word and deed. I will fight against barbarity, atrocity, murderous wars, and fascism. I promise this to you, Rachela. I promise to fight and win, or to contribute to victory. I swear.
The first car with German officers. Their green uniforms and flat caps are an eyesore not only because of their novely, but also because of their hostility. They are to blame for the changes all around us. A tall, elegant, handsome officer turns over an unexploded cannonball meant to have sprayed shrapnel, and paints the name of its manufacturer and its serial number. He then looks down the destroyed, ruined street, with the red outlines on both sides marking what used to be the sidewalks. He pulls out a small camera and takes a commemorative war picture aus Warschau."
But he's nagged by the question: "Wieso ist hier noch so viel Menschen?" Are we in the wrong place?"
An endless wave of helmets spiked with rifles. The ceaseless, steady stomping, its rhythm so strange after the earlier events. And the endlessly flowing, triumphant "Horst Wessel Lied." [The Nazi anthem]
Armbands with the Star of David.
The doorbell rings. Somebody rushes in. Silent whispers. Secrets.
— The Germans are conducting a search. Hide.
The men disappear behind the door.
Heaps of razor blades. Tissue papers piling up. Red. White. Fingers wriggling like snakes on the table. Chaos. All is spinning, the table too. Fingers running across the table. Tissue papers flying. Razor blades cutting. Fingers. Tissue papers. Razor blades. Fingers. Tissue papers. Razor blades. Fingers. Blood.
“Was ist hier? Was macht Man?” What is it? What is going on here?
“Wir packen Rasierklingen.” We are packing razor blades.
“Ah, so. Rasierklingen. Rasierklingen. Rasie...” Oh, yes. Razor blades. Razor blades. Razor...
He walks over. A heavy, fat, soft paw grabs a razor blade from the heap. Steel. Blood. Silent contentment. They give him a pack of ten razor blades.
“There are no men here. Keine Männer. Auf wiedersen.”
A refugee centre. There are 115 people in a prayer room. Military cots set up by the walls. New white floorboards. A spot sometimes disrupts their whiteness. A sick, old man. His eyes wide open, as if surprised by everything going on around him. His beard covers his chest. Long hair, dark, almost blue-black. Long strands fall onto his shoulders.
You can see the sidewalk through the tall windows. And shoes. Boots. Feet. Walking. Flashing past. And suddenly everything disappears. A crack. A shot. A distant scream. Three pairs of feet in high boots. A bang on the door. Three officers enter the centre. People silently press up against the wall. The children are crying. The Germans do not like it.
“Alle Kinder raus!” All children out! They order.
Commotion, running, and the patter of feet for a brief moment-and then silence. You can hear only the ticking of the old clock with a pendulum and an iron face skillfully crafted by an unknown master dozens of years ago. Apparently, the silent hum of this museum piece bothers the Germans too. Several dozen pairs of terrified eyes look into the black barrel of the revolver slowly rising to the level of
— the stomach
— the chest
— the head
— the chest
— the head
Rushing.
A head.
A leg.
Somebody collapses.
A hand.
A pane.
Clang.
It breaks.
A head.
A gash.Blood.
Blood. Emptiness.
A head.
A leg.
Somebody collapses.
A hand.
A pane.
Clang.
It breaks.
A head.
A gash.Blood.
Blood. Emptiness.
A man is lying on a cot. His open eyes still have that expression of unspeakable surprise. His beard covers his chest. Blood flows down the long strands of his hair, drips onto the floor, and forms a large puddle.
A truck. Germans. A round-up for forced labour. The truck is half-full of people. It is still not enough. Ten, fifteen more.
An old grey-haired man with a cane. He walks slowly down the sidewalk. His cane taps unevenly on the sidewalk. He walks on and finally spots them. He quickly lifts his shaking hand to his hat. His grey hair falls in disarray. But he was not fast enough. A thin leather horsewhip lashes his face. A red welt. Another German runs up, snatches his cane, and hits the old man over the head with it. A body lying on the street. The cane broken in two. A German calls a passer-by with a Red Cross armband, who walks over, kneels, and lifts the lying man's head.
“Dieser Leute braucht schon keine Hilfe.” These people no longer need any help.
His hands are covered in blood.
His hands are covered in blood.
A wacha [inspection point located at the Ghetto gate]. A gendarme stands at the crossroads. It is snowing. A crowd of people on the sidewalk. Bare heads. Their terrified eyes stare at the gendarme, at the master of life and death. They are waiting for him to gesture and finally let them cross the street. He makes a strange, vague movement with his hand holding the horsewhip. In a wave the crowd rushes forward to
reach the other side.
“Halt! Zurück!”
The people bow resignedly and return. This spectacle is repeated three times before the gracious dictator finally lets them reach the opposite sidewalk. The first rows have reached the sidewalk and they are now running down the street, making room for the next people. The last ones are almost at the sidewalk, but they have been too slow.
A crack.
A shot.
Two bodies lying
on the street.
Two Jews fewer
in the world.
A shot.
Two bodies lying
on the street.
Two Jews fewer
in the world.
The child twists and wrestles wanting to go back, but the mother pushes him by the legs to the other side, to the other side — to get food.
...
Somebody is sitting up against the wall on the street. A grey figure. It sometimes sits silently, sometimes begs, sometimes just watches the passers-by. Yet hunger never leaves its eyes. Mortal hunger. Its legs are getting thicker and thicker. These are not legs, but enormous blocks of flesh swollen due to starvation. They are swollen logs. It is a macabre, living example of elephantiasis pedis. And this enormous mass of flesh is one festering, swollen wound. Swarms of flies fly around it. They land and drink the trickling blood and pus. An unaccustomed person automatically averts his gaze from this sight. But it cannot be done. The head becomes motionless. The muscles grow taut. The eyelids become too short to cover the eyes. The wound remains. The whole street is a wound. The ghetto is a stinking, festering wound. The sun is a wound. It will not let you ignore it. Having managed to overcome this frozen inertia, you fling yourself into the crowd to look, to listen, to forget, so as not to see the wound anymore. And the crowd absorbs everything. It transforms everything into one wave, one drop in this sea of people. It spins and circles aimlessly, restlessly and without direction. It leads you in front of shop windows where you can see: bread, bikes, hats, and postage stamps. A barbershop. A perfumery. A café. A butcher's store. Everything dances a horrible can-can, a terrible danse macabre [dance of death] before your eyes. Everything spins, fidgets, and circles in a vicious circle, only to subside, stop, mix, and form a festering open wound once again. And your lips automatically start to form a scream for help, for rescue.
S.O.S.!
S.O.S.!
S.O.S.! S.O.S.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Help!
Help!
Help!
HELP!!
HELP!!!
Animals! Damn this!
S.O.S.!
S.O.S.! S.O.S.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Help!
Help!
Help!
HELP!!
HELP!!!
Animals! Damn this!
Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto. [“I am a human being, I consider nothing that is human alien to me.”] It is a lie. Human feelings are already alien to me. Love is alien. Mercy is alien. My heart jumps for joy at the sight of an obituary: “er fünfter und letter Sohne gefallen für Vaterland.”
The obituary of the first son even said: “für Führer und Vaterland. In stolzen Trauer—Mutter.”
Quite moving. No? I am going to cry. What? If I could, I would give you more than one chance to show your mercy. I would give you not ten, not one hundred, and not one thousand, but millions of mothers signing their sons' obituaries with the words “in stolzen Trauer.” I would multiply her sons. I would give her not seven, but seventy sons. But I would let her live. Perfectly calm, I would single-handedly shoot or slaughter thousands of people: young people, sons, husbands, brothers, fathers fighting für Führer und Vaterland. After work I would go à la recherche du temps perdu for their slaughter and for a glass of wine.
The obituary of the first son even said: “für Führer und Vaterland. In stolzen Trauer—Mutter.”
Quite moving. No? I am going to cry. What? If I could, I would give you more than one chance to show your mercy. I would give you not ten, not one hundred, and not one thousand, but millions of mothers signing their sons' obituaries with the words “in stolzen Trauer.” I would multiply her sons. I would give her not seven, but seventy sons. But I would let her live. Perfectly calm, I would single-handedly shoot or slaughter thousands of people: young people, sons, husbands, brothers, fathers fighting für Führer und Vaterland. After work I would go à la recherche du temps perdu for their slaughter and for a glass of wine.
Video: Montage of clips from a German propaganda film, “LIBERATION OF FREE CITY OF DANZIG & INVASION OF POLAND.” Courtesy Internet Archive
Others offered equally direct testimonies from the Pomiechówek transit camp, exposing Nazi brutality with stark clarity. Their words capture immense suffering, meticulous records of deportations, and wrenching descriptions of daily torment. Interwoven in these accounts, however, is an undercurrent of resilience — not just a determination to bear witness from within the darkest confines, ensuring their experiences would survive beyond the walls of the camp, but even resistance inside the camp walls.
This document was found damaged. Unreadable text is denoted by ellipses.
And then their ceremony and our tragedy commenced. They arranged us and made us walk between two rows of Germans armed with sticks and truncheons, who beat us mercilessly, not sparing even the children.
... On the ground, where we were ordered to sit. We sat down ... a German approached ... and ordered somebody ... sit there.
We were sitting on the market square not knowing ... several times ... and the commissioner’s wife was learning how to fire a revolver aiming
above our heads.
above our heads.
After we had waited for half an hour a lorry pulled up. ... Arranged themselves in two parallel rows before the lorry and we were ordered ... passing between them. The Germans were armed with bats, clubs, and maces. As we were getting onto the lorry a few people collapsed dead after being clubbed, including two women and a child. On the way a few more ... people died: three men and two women, and two people went insane from the beating.
The Germans hit us only on the face and the head.
Everybody had to give something away and those who had nothing were beaten mercilessly until they lost their minds.
Unable to maintain order, the Germans opened fire at the crowd. An 18-year-old boy was shot in the collar bone. The wound was not lethal but people were forbidden to help him and he was buried while still alive.
On the third night sheer hell broke loose. Drunk, the Germans walked from cell to cell and picked out the prettiest girls. They took them and raped them.
They made them sing during that act of defilement.
Various officers arrived ... when somebody complained to them ... bestial smile on their face: “We do not drink water either.”
Sick and poor, I arrived at the new concentration camp to again fight for my life. Only that time it was a camp on a bigger scale which was called Warsaw.
Video: Montage of clips from 1963 film “Requiem for 500,000.” Directed by Jerzy Bossak and Wacław Kaźmierczak. Courtesy Internet Archive
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