Diary of Bergen-Belsen

by Hanna Levy-Hass

  There’s a kind of pervasive distrust that reigns in the camp and in our barracks. Complete lack of interest in anyone else’s fate, lack of solidarity and cordiality. So that you can hardly imagine having any sort of exchange of ideas, about books, any intellectual or even human contact.

  B. B. | August 30, 1944

  For over a month now everyone has been waiting for an extraordinary event to change our situation directly. The reason: from time to time we get fantastic news about the situation at the front, in the occupied countries, and even in Germany. According to rumors that have been more or less verified, France is almost entirely liberated, Romania is in revolt, the Russians are advancing on Hungary.

  We even get reports about headlines in the German newspapers. Titles like “Michael the Romanian’s Treason Surpasses Emmanuel the Italian’s Treachery” or “All of Germany’s Allies, Cowardly, Abandon Her,” etc.c And no matter how unrealistic this news seems to us, we are no less excited by it. There are some optimists among us who predict dates and count the days. Like it or not, everyone is caught up in a sort of psychosis anticipating the end. We feel it is near.

  And yet, the camp regime has gotten worse and more rigid. This exasperates the internees. Shame and servitude seem even heavier when the end is imminent.

  The men working outside are brutally tortured. The German brutes persist in using their favorite method: ferocious blows, rude and hysterical insults. They force the workers to assume the most humiliating positions, running on their knees, dragging carts while they run. All the while, they track them like thieves or, to vary their perverse pleasure, they start a dizzying bicycle race and force the workers to follow them on foot. If one miserable soul, exhausted—and there’s always more than one, of course—isn’t as zealous as they require, the German “heroes” rush to show their power and their bravery by punishing the “guilty parties,” taking away their bread ration or putting them in the brig.d

  They do all this, of course, while continuously hurling the most outrageous insults at their victims, to the point where you wonder if these people are even capable of speaking calmly and behaving like men even in their private lives.

  As for despising and humiliating the Jews, the Nazis are relentless, even though they themselves certainly must know that their end is near. They take advantage of every chance they can to show their contempt for the Jews. The Appell—that daily requirement that all internees gather in the courtyard, the Appellplatz, and stand at attention lined up in groups of five to be counted—this roll call provides a thousand and one pretexts for them to outwardly express their hatred of Jews.

  The regular Appell now lasts at least two to three hours longer than it used to; and almost every other day there’s some excuse for it to last five or six hours or even the entire day, regardless of weather. But in addition to these regular Appelle, there are also times when a sudden order forces us to gather outside (antreten) at any time of day, to hear some announcement or another.

  Then two or three officers show up and inspect our ranks, and woe to he who moves or disturbs the “order.” The scene is unbearable. Especially seeing old men and women, from the south, for example, shivering with cold and fright in front of some pale-faced Prussian criminal. An entire human existence, modest and honest, filled with years of hard work and a traditional respect for others … and suddenly they’re reduced to standing stiffly at attention in front of these scoundrels who spit demented rage in your face, trample your soul and your dignity.

  Or else it’s the children who know no joy. Fear, nothing but fear … these poor little mortified creatures, standing for hours on end, their bodies filled with terror, their gaze fixed, awaiting whatever might happen. They bury their heads in an old rag, press up against the adults, seeking shelter from the cold and the fear. Only their eyes remain wide open, alarmed, like those of a hunted animal.

  And the tyrannical German officers observe all this with disdain, demanding “Silence!” A deathly silence does indeed reign in every soul. The officers announce that such and such internee is being sent to the brig, another one transferred to a more rigorous camp, for having stolen some potatoes from the kitchen or a pair of shoes from a depot. Then they display the “criminals,” parade them in front of us in the center of the courtyard.

  It’s like the circus: the “criminals” in the middle, their modest luggage on their backs, surrounded by rows of us, thousands and thousands of human shadows. They stand at attention under a torrent of abuse, awaiting the end of this “ceremony” before their departure.

  As for the spectators, they’re supposed to learn the lesson well: if they dare imitate the “thieves,” they can expect the same consequences or worse. If, on the other hand, your work is satisfactory and you prove to be zealous, enthusiastic, and willing, if you do nothing but run around, obediently, always repeating “Jawohl, Herr Oberscharführer,” “jawohl hier” and “jawohl her,”e and if you know to click your heels at all times—and there are always those who do, unfortunately—then you get a bonus, guaranteed: an extra ration of rutabaga soup or something at any rate. In a word, this is an ideal institute for teaching “respect,” where starving creatures are crammed together—a school for forced labor, a correctional facility for miserable, undisciplined, grownup children whose souls were crushed beforehand.

  B. B. | August 31, 1944

  The JPA,f a mock news agency operated by internees, reports that the Germans are getting ready to evacuate our camp because they need it for military purposes (Bergen-Belsen, located between Hanover, Hamburg, and Bremen in the Celle district; the closest large city is Luneburg). Apparently we will be transferred elsewhere. In the meantime, endless transports of new deportees pour in day and night. Our numbers are increasing and the misery grows endlessly. So are they evacuating or not? Uncertainty reigns because we are caught in their clutches.

  There’s no Appell today. Something must be going on—the arrival or departure of another convoy in the next block (where the criminals and politicals are detained)? Or was there a sudden change in the camp’s command? Who knows? The important thing is that there was no Appell today, which means that there will surely be one this afternoon or tomorrow, and that it will last twice as long.

  B. B. | September 1, 1944

  Sure enough, the Appell lasted twice as long as usual, allegedly because of a child who didn’t show up on time or some such thing. Besides, they leave us standing and waiting for hours on end so frequently that we don’t even try to find out the fallacious reason any more.

  It’s an autumn day. A continuous light rain is falling, a very damp drizzle, along with a powerful wind that reminds me of a stronger, more violent version of our kochava.g This morning at roll call we were frozen to the bone.

  We spent the whole day replacing our two-level bunk beds with three-level bunks. We only finished about a third of our barracks, which means we’ve got at least two or three more days of work to do. They’ve piled us into these three-tier bunks claiming that it will open up some space for a table and make room for people to move around more freely. But it has done nothing of the sort, especially when you consider that we already lacked beds for some fourteen–to sixteen-year-olds.

  The end result is that we are even more crowded than before, since each one of us now has a more cramped space for sleeping and less air to breathe, and we haven’t benefited from any “room to move” at all. It is impossible to sit or to move on these three-tier beds. We have just enough room to slip into a hole, provided you curl yourself up tightly before taking your place to sleep and you don’t move too much.

  The foot traffic between these new bunks is more intense, of course. Being so jammed is enough to drive you crazy. Screams, noise, arguments, moans, infernal turmoil to no end. Endless comings and goings with straw mattresses, bowls of soup, the pathetic nourishment we lug around and devoutly store under reeking rags … endless comings and goings with boards, pitiful rags, and still-damp laundry. Comings and goings, crie
s of despair, children’s sobs, dust, straw everywhere, the stench, the filth, excrement.…

  Quarrels are inevitable, especially among the women, either when the beds are being made or when the laundry is being done. Each woman feels uniquely threatened or mocked, a victim of a unique injustice, without realizing that her neighbors are no less miserable. We are all slaves here, and it’s on purpose that they’ve piled us on top of each other, with barely any room to breathe. It’s on purpose that they let us insult each other, bicker and argue, to make our existence unbearable, to reduce us to animals, to be better able to mock us, humiliate us, torture us … the beasts. The suffering is even more dreadful when they cut off our water without warning.

  I’m standing near the bed, observing all this, reflecting. People bump into me. People push me. I’m surrounded by filth and screaming. I really don’t know where to position myself, where to put myself so as not to bother anyone or myself. I don’t know what to do with my body.

  The Dutch Jews deported here celebrated their beloved queen’s birthday yesterday. They even put on a play. For the children. How can they think of such things? You can’t believe your eyes when you see them all dressed up in their Sunday best; the Germans didn’t take everything from them as they did us when they were deported here. What makes the Germans decide to act a certain way at certain times?—who will ever know? Nevertheless, our Dutch walk around all spick-and-span! Two young men catch your attention in particular, with their white collars and their ties.… Yes indeed, the queen’s birthday is very moving, very moving indeed.

  B. B. | September 4, 1944

  Our barracks is an insane asylum. Rare are those who know how to control themselves. The slightest incident gives rise to violent quarrels, insults, threats. Everyone has become extremely touchy, always ready to lose their temper and see others as their personal enemy. Distrust, suspicion, and ill will have entered every heart; it makes you shudder.

  What a disaster, what a disaster … these miserable faces on which you can read terror, hunger, primal fear. Especially during the distribution of soup. Each person gets enough to fill two-thirds of a bowl.… They dig down deep into the pot with a large spoon. Such expressions, such a zoological crowd, such tears in the eyes of those who fear that they won’t get their share. Panic in the face of uncertainty. Is the pot full enough or only half full?

  During this whole time, during this desperate struggle around a spoonful of rutagaba boiled in water, among these screams, these emotions, in the midst of this multitude, in the narrow spaces between beds, the coming and going continues. Bedpans are dragged from one end to the other, depending on whether they are full or empty. And we are never done with these nighttime pans because of the children and the sick.…

  In this chaos of soup, filth, excrement, brooms, dust, in the midst of the children’s screaming and crying, the “merchants,” insolent and tiresome, circulate indefatigably, miserable, as miserable as their clients. They exchange rags for bread, bread for cigarettes, and vice versa. These strange dealings are accompanied by long discussions and negotiations without end.

  Unbounded misery, shamelessly displayed, foul and shrill. This is exactly what the Nazis wanted, exactly this! To vilify us to this unspeakable degree, to humiliate us to the point of insanity, to kill in us the very memory of having once been human beings.

  B. B. | September 6, 1944

  They’re rounding up laborers again. They violently push the men out of the barracks, punching them, kicking them, beating them with clubs. Everybody out! Raus! Men, women, old, young, sick, healthy, no matter. Antreten! Lined up in rows, five by five. They count us like we’re livestock, or worse, because no one ever thought to pour so much hatred and outrage, so many insults, onto animals. … And so it is that they drag away the new work crew, yelling “Marsch!” and “Los!” It’s repugnant. Is there any equal in the world to the Nazi beast when it comes to rudeness, infamy, the art of physically and morally destroying men? Debauched!

  Not far from here, about five to seven hundred meters away, you can clearly see an isolated little camp enclosed by barbed wire. About a hundred Hungarian Jews are interned there. But don’t come near! We hear that these people receive packages of food from abroad. The Germans tell us it’s a Sonderlager (special camp). “Jews?” we ask. “Yes.” “Then why is it a Sonderlager?” we insist. “Weil die haben spezielle Papiere.” (Because they have special papers.h) That’s the answer. Bizarre.

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  B. B. | September 8, 1944

  I would so like not to think, not to see all this, but I can’t help it. Indifferent and detached from everything around me as I felt just a few weeks ago, today I fully realize that my life is irrevocably tied to the life of this camp and that we are all, like it or not, united by the same fate and in the same misery.

  I could write and write, hundreds and thousands of pages—and I would never manage to exhaust all the misery, to bring out all the bitter details of our existence. Especially if I were to begin to enumerate all the cases of personal disaster, the tragedy of former lives, the great individual sufferings that came before this, the collective misery, the total continuity of the curse … it would be endless! Because the volume of man’s pain is immense; it’s impossible to measure this ocean of suffering; the abyss of the human soul under terror and torture is unfathomable. To try to describe all this—a useless endeavor. It far exceeds my capabilities.

  More than once, at certain moments of our enslavement, confronted by the desperate torment of the masses, I have thought of Dante’s Inferno. And not for the pleasure of literary reminiscence. It’s just that the images of Hell that we are used to imagining were the only feelings that my mind was able to conjure up. It wasn’t in my power to evoke any other memory; that was the only idea still alive in my mind.

  The horror that surrounds us is so great that the brain becomes paralyzed and completely incapable of reacting to anything that doesn’t stem directly from the nightmare we are presently living through and that is constantly before our eyes.

  That’s why I am incapable at this time of recalling anything from the past except what we lived through most recently: the trip they made us take to get here. What an ordeal! Two weeks in cattle cars. Piled up, forty to sixty per car, men, women, the elderly, children. Hermetically sealed, with no air, no light, no water, no food … we were suffocating in a tiny space saturated with filth, fumes, sweat, stench … ravaged by thirst and lack of space.

  Only twice during those two weeks did they give us a little bit of water and some tins of food. We were “lucky” when we crossed Czechoslovakia. The Czech Red Cross treated us to nice warm soup. We almost fainted with delight.… Then they gave us some water. You had to see the expressions carved on the Czechs’ faces as they watched us fighting over every drop. Who knows what they read in our eyes and on our faces!

  And the distressing trip continued. The Germans refused to open the train cars for even the most basic needs. Only three times during the whole trip were we able to get out and relieve ourselves. But it was so humiliating and shameful that I still blush. In the midst of a splendid countryside, in a large, open field … and us, so ill at ease. The Nazi soldiers kept close to us, shamelessly watching us go and even calling on us to hurry up.… standing so close to us, pointing their rifles, supervising us.

  All this accompanied by insults, jeers, savage and sadistic screaming aimed at those who, sick, mortified, pitiful, exhausted by hunger and constant thirst, humiliated in the extreme, didn’t manage to finish what they were doing. I didn’t notice one single time, not once, the slightest indication of a human reaction, the slightest hint of difficulty or discomfort in these soldiers who were under orders to behave as they did. Nothing! Their faces didn’t reveal anything human.…

  At night, under a torrent of gunfire and machine-gun fire, the train crossed regions under attack by partisans or airplanes. There was one air raid siren after another. The Germans would get out of the train and take shelter
wherever they could while we remained, piled up in the box cars, very visible on the tracks, panic-stricken.

  Inside, in the dark, the children screamed at the top of their voices, the women wailed, the men argued over space. Exasperated, driven mad, people didn’t cease quarrelling and telling each other to go to hell. We had an insane desire to stretch out and we couldn’t. In these deplorable conditions, there was no question of falling asleep, since even breathing was impossible.… It was Hell.

  And when we finally arrived at our destination, not having the slightest idea where we were, and when we climbed out of our holes … it was like wild animals emerging from the shadows of death. Then the sad procession began: faded and yellow like the ground, starved, exhausted, pale, fever in our eyes, we dragged ourselves like worn-out rags along an endless road that led to the Bergen-Belsen camp, dirty and sweating under the weight of what remained of our miserable possessions.

  Frightening human shadows—mute, slow—moved along an unknown road. The inhabitants of the villages—women in coquettish summer dresses, passersby on bikes or on foot, all fresh and properly dressed and groomed, with the calm that comes from a normal life engraved on their faces—would stop for a moment and look at us with curiosity … and with absolute indifference! Without ever letting go of their rifles, numerous soldiers walked along the columns we formed, doling out their club blows to whoever dared turn around or fall slightly behind.