The women decided not to grant any extra rations or any privilege to the men who carry the soup to the women’s section. If they refused to deliver the vats to us “free of charge,” we were determined to set up a voluntary service among the women who had more or less conserved some physical strength, in order to ensure steady provisions for our section. The following day, on Sunday, these two decisions were put into effect, which aroused a lively interest among all the inhabitants of the barracks.
Everything was working for the better, until the barracks chief, the Barackenleiter, the women’s section’s director’s husband (and former representative of the Swedish match trust in Yugoslavia), sensed that this action organized by women didn’t sit well with him at all. Therefore, appealing to others and supported by his first assistant in particular (an extremely crafty man with a dangerously keen if primitive intelligence), he set about creating obstacles for us and putting up all sorts of impediments to the execution of our project. It was clear to everyone that the system chosen by the women did not please the barracks’ administrators in the least, since it threatened to convince others of the need for an even wider reorganization of tasks. Our adversaries displayed unbelievable malice and guile. An entire set of refined, well-calculated tactics constructed of both traps and subterfuge. But we did not back down. The women, confident and brave, supported me courageously. Thus we were able to predict and prevent each of the adversary’s new maneuvers.
Suddenly, I felt within me an extraordinary strength, a surprising firmness and resolve, with which I was extremely pleased. Nothing could intimidate me. I was not unaware that I was dealing with an adversary who was clearly stronger than me, since the Germans favored him—he held power here, in some ways—and since, precisely because of his position, it wouldn’t take much for him to go denounce the whole situation to the German camp commander. And yet, we held our ground.… The justness of the cause and the mass suffering inspired a noble courage in each fighter. And when the barracks chief and his acolytes realized that we would stand up for ourselves and that we were determined to fight to the end, even if it meant submitting to the “bunker,” and that we carried out our task as vat carriers with honor (they forced us to get up very early, before the dawn, in harsh cold weather, claiming that if we didn’t our vats would be stolen by people from other blocks, etc.), when they understood that we knew what we wanted—at that moment something happened that completely showed the barracks chief’s true colors.
One morning, he appeared abruptly in the women’s section and brutally announced in a dictatorial tone (he’s far from being a hero; he’s a coward who cries when he’s hungry) that the “women’s reign” (Wirtschaft—he was using the German word) was henceforth abolished, that he would not permit any competing action, that he would not tolerate any “soviets” or “republics” in any barracks that was entrusted to him. To which the women retorted that they were determined to continue what they deemed advantageous for the collective and what the collective had already agreed upon, that they didn’t need a dictatorship in these already sufficiently severe conditions, that they refused to put up with a double enslavement, and that, if there was a recourse to violence to crush our initiative, the women and children would go on a hunger strike.
For all these reasons—and also influenced and advised by people more capable than he and who feared that this whole affair might expose the corridors where even more complicated and incriminating politics went on—the barracks chief changed his mind, quickly shifted his tone and his tactics, and acquiesced to our demands. That’s how we won two officially recognized victories: first, no reward would be doled out to the vat carriers who were expected to perform their task according to principles of equality and solidarity in forced work and suffering. Second, the distribution of food in the women’s section would be done equitably, openly, and without secrecy, such that all hundred and twenty women could know at all times where every mouthful went. Any eventual surplus would be shared regularly, in turn, once the regular distribution was complete. To oversee the new distribution system, we chose personnel in charge, drew up lists, developed a numbering system, etc.
This entire episode was of great importance to me. It enriched me with precious experience. I realized that people of dubious character and conscience are not as strong as they would have us believe, and that it’s possible to win out over them in an open struggle. I also ascertained that I was still capable of finding my bearings, of choosing the adequate tactic—that my brain was not irrevocably numb, that I emerged easily from torpor and still found enough freshness and strength within me for a just battle.… And that my knowledge of life and of human character types, acquired over these past several years, had borne fruit. I ascertained as well that I had seriously matured and that I was much stronger and surer of myself than previously.
And I learned many details necessary to the struggle, crucial little tactical rules: prudence, patience, the necessity of considering a point in all its aspects before coming to a decision; in negotiations with the adversary, keep your calm, with a resolute, fearless mind; once a decision is made, act on it methodically, according to the prescribed plan, which is also the best way to create obstacles for your adversary and make him back down … especially when you’re dealing with an adversary whose power is only apparent.
And I learned one other thing, which is not negligible: in times of struggle, of action, you always have to reckon with an annoying and persistent obstacle raised by the typical opposition of mean, petty people with no principles, with crude ideas, poor imagination, people incapable not only of undertaking but even of conceiving of something positive, socially oriented, collective; people always ready to disturb others’ minds, to sow distrust, to impede the course of things. These are the supreme petty-bourgeois types, small-minded, mediocre, pitiable, surly, and refusing to allow or comprehend anything imaginable that doesn’t lead to an immediate profit for them; these are those corrupting natures that sometimes groan against corruption, but only out of envy, because they are ready to keep silent as soon as they are allowed to play the game. This moral putrefaction functions as the ideal lubricant for the development of reactionary elements in society.…
B. B. | October 23, 1944
Judging by the news that sometimes reaches us here, many of our cities in the distant homeland are already liberated. A violent nostalgia torments us. Back there, people move around freely, each one attending to his business. And clarity has already penetrated people’s souls. In the meantime, we are behind barbed wire, reduced to an inhumane existence.
B. B. | October 23, 1944
Every day there’s an air raid warning after six-thirty in the evening such that we are left in total darkness all evening and all night. The men return from work in darkness, they have to find their place in the barracks gropingly, and they have to eat their humble meal in the dark as well. The darkness adds to the overall state of agitation, people jostle each other; frightened, crowded, and irritated, the children let out piercing screams, people call out to each other blindly and yell into the shadows from one end of the barracks to the other. All manner of thieves make use of the total darkness. They especially go after the bread, the main currency for trafficking in the camp and the sole substance that prolongs our existence in the slightest.
The struggle for bread, a desperate struggle for the tiniest crumb, the anguish of being deprived or stripped of it by either thieves or the Germans—who amuse themselves at times by letting us go several days without this basic ration—this has become the most immediate, the most emotional concern for each one individually and for all the internees in general. The rations get systematically smaller every week. The daily ration, measured here in centimeters, is today only 3.5 cm. People tremble for this piece as though for gold. They cut it cautiously, devotedly, into slices only one or two millimeters thick. So it’s a tragedy when someone swipes your ration or when, for some reason or another—or for no reason—you are punished by
being denied one or two rations of bread.…
And yet, in spite of all the inconveniences of the darkness, in spite of the mortifying anguish, of the deafening noise, of the risk of getting robbed, we are all content when the air raid warning comes. First, I would say there is a sort of complacent indifference in the face of the possibility of an Allied aerial attack. That’s because we calculate logically: surely they’re not going to come and drop their bombs on barracks full of deportees … even though this possibility is not out of the question. And then, it’s because at the end of the day these air raid warnings are the only pleasant thing that we experience, the only thing that connects us to the outside world and feeds our hope.…
This morning, dawn broke, clear and frozen; the barracks’ roofs were covered by a thick layer of ice. In the courtyard, the ponds were frozen. November will be here soon. We still have hope. The course of world events works in our favor—without a doubt.
I regularly take care of the children. I distinctly feel that our “school” has become indispensable and that it’s the only way to revive and maintain any freshness in their souls. The vast majority of the children evince a strong desire to study, to make up for lost time; it is with cries of joy and “hooray!” that they welcome my calls to gather together. The most resourceful among them then fight to get a free corner in the barracks where we can have class. They all settle in and I see adorable children’s faces around me, on which I read both cheerfulness and concentration.
On days when we are prevented from studying, the students’ mood changes visibly; they become bored and indignant at seeing themselves reduced only to a sensation of hunger, at having no human activity. Because it is truly a deplorable thing that children, at an age when their minds and bodies struggle to develop, are reduced to vegetating physically and morally in humiliating conditions of mass servitude that distort and defeat their energy.
That’s why I push myself to make them study as often as possible. With the very youngest, it’s irresistible: they have become so attached to me that there would be no way to extricate myself from them. As for the older children, they currently study with me, because of Professor K.’s illness and the complete indifference of all the other “pedagogues.” The older children’s class has a particular flavor to it. They like to discuss various problems of life with me, which allows me to guide them toward ideas I hold dear. That’s how it came to be that the other day, I had them read and discuss Verhaeren’s poem entitled “Effort” (found here by chance and translated into Serbian). The simplicity of his description of human labor in this poem aroused a lively interest on the part of the students. They began spontaneously to talk about everything they knew about various trades, and I gently pushed them to point out the value of work, the role of workers in society, in the development of the earth’s wealth, in production, etc. From there, they went on to ascertain that a tight bond unites the fate of civilized humanity to working-class consciousness and movement. Thanks to the fact that a good part of my students are of working-class origins, from families of farmers and craftsmen from the southern regions of Yugoslavia (Kosovo and Metohija), I was able to concretize the discussion and help the students acquire knowledge based on their own experiences.
I am still in charge of the distribution of food, as it was decided. But more and more I realize that it is difficult and even illusory to expect any serious and lasting success because it all takes place in these horrible conditions where an amorphous and divided human mass struggles. What’s more, the guile and treachery of these morally decadent, sinister types who, like predatory animals, insist on wanting only to save their own skin while playing with the lives of hundreds of their fellow men is beyond me. I feel like I can’t take it, all alone, confronted with so much depravity and meanness.
B. B. | November 6, 1944
A large transport of women arrived again a few days ago. It held seventeen hundred women of different nationalities, most of them of Jewish origin. They were transferred from Auschwitz. According to rumors, the camp at Auschwitz has already been liquidated, or nearly so. These women who have just arrived are among the rare survivors. There are some who come from our northern regions (Vojvodina or Croatia). They were all recently deported, so we can’t find out anything definite about the fate of our loved ones who were sent to Poland in 1941 and 1942. Apparently, there are no living witnesses of the horrible crimes perpetrated in 1941.
Here, the new arrivals are crammed together in tents. They sleep on a thin layer of straw or, more precisely, on the bare, wet ground. They look dreadful, sick, withered, covered with foul and filthy wounds. It’s impossible to get near them or talk to them. In the evening, on the pretext of going to the WC, we perceive in the dusk an oppressive noise that rises up like a black tide from the other side of the barbed wire, mixed with children’s sobs, with moans, groans, and complaints. There’s no way to make out a single word. This baleful hum of a human mass is at once poignant and dreadful.
Every day, the barracks are subject to a severe inspection. By a young SS woman, a “gray mouse,” elegant and coquettish in her uniform, spick-and-span; cute shiny boots up to her knees. She intrudes into the barracks, arrogant, noisy, accompanied by a soldier and the Jewish commander of the camp (the Judenälteste). The “gray mouse” makes excessive, aggressive gestures, swings her whole body around, and lets out cries of horror, theatrically calculated, on seeing a poorly washed bowl or a poorly made bed. She excels in slapping you in the face at full force, sudden, impetuous, rapid slaps, without ever removing her glove.… And she punishes at least seven or eight internees in each barracks every day by depriving them of bread or soup. Intimidate, quibble, humiliate, for the slightest thing—that’s her only goal. These visits have no other meaning. Because fundamentally the Germans do not now nor do they intend to adopt even the slightest serious measures against infection and filth—both of course fatal and without remedy in these vile conditions in which they themselves have forced us to “live” and to die. Their visits and their “inspections” are nothing but formalities. So no one among us is impressed by the loud extravagances and perverted profanities of this creature beyond belief. But what is repulsive is the fact that every morning you are forced to witness these humiliating scenes, to feel this anxiety invade the air, to be confronted by these servile expressions on people’s faces.
With the severe cold of the past several days and the forced fast that has systematically sapped our bodies for two months, we all feel extremely weakened. The sensation of hunger is pervasive: your stomach empty, your mind constantly, painfully preoccupied with a mad desire to eat till you’re full, endless conversations about all kinds of dishes. If someone is fortunate enough to find or steal a raw turnip … it’s a feast for his whole entourage.
B. B. | November 8, 1944
I would love to feel something pleasant, aesthetic, to awaken nobler, tender feelings, dignified emotions. It’s hard. I press my imagination, but nothing comes. Our existence has something cruel, beastly about it. Everything human is reduced to zero. Bonds of friendship remain in place only by force of habit, but intolerance is generally the victor. Memories of beauty are erased; the artistic joys of the past are inconceivable in our current state. The brain is as if paralyzed, the spirit violated.
The moral bruises run so deep that our entire being seems atrophied by them. We have the impression that we’re separated from the normal world of the past by a massive, thick wall. Our emotional capacity seems blunt, faded. We no longer even remember our own past. No matter how hard I strive to reconstruct the slightest element of my past life, not a single human memory comes back to me.
We have not died, but we are dead. They’ve managed to kill in us not only our right to life in the present and for many of us, to be sure, the right to a future life … but what is most tragic is that they have succeeded, with their sadistic and depraved methods, in killing in us all sense of a human life in our past, all feeling of normal human beings endowed with a
normal past, up to even the very consciousness of having existed at one time as human beings worthy of this name.
I turn things over in my mind, I want to … and I remember absolutely nothing. It’s as though it wasn’t me. Everything is expunged from my mind. During the first few weeks, we were still somewhat connected to our past lives internally; we still had a taste for dreams, for memories. But the humiliating and degrading life of the camp has so brutally sliced apart our cohesion that any moral effort to distance ourselves in the slightest from the dark reality around us ends up being grotesque—a useless torment. Our soul is as though caught in a crust that nothing can soften or break.
And to think that this is only our fifth month here and that we are in a camp that, if you believe the Germans, is not among the worst.… And yet, what a deadly night!
I will definitely remember everything I have seen, experienced, and learned, everything that human nature has revealed to me. From this moment on it is encrusted in the depths of my soul. And in normal life (but what is in essence normal? All this, this eternalized anguish—or rather what is beyond, before and after?) I will never again be able to forget, I believe, the findings and verdicts arrived at here: I will measure each man against the criteria of today’s reality, from the perspective of what he was or could have been in these conditions of ours. To form an opinion of someone, to have a high opinion of him or not, to like him or not, everything will depend first and foremost on knowing what his behavior, his physical, moral and psychological reaction was or might have been during these dark years characterized by great trials—the force of his character, his emotional endurance. I will no longer be able to separate my thoughts from my understanding of war’s events; the two will be intimately linked forever in my mind.
Diary of Bergen-Belsen Page 6