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1.01.2007
Editorial (Re: Capital Punishment)
People have said that this blog has an unusual style. A collection of my pictures, mainly anachronistic ones, travel stories, and excerpts from books I've read, with a caption to help me remember the what, where, why, who, and/or whom of it. Whatever the editor could have been thinking, there's rarely a political or religious statement.
Sometimes I read books about war, like all quiet on the western front. There were riots from the favelas, 18 dead in Rio de Janeiro while I was in a hotel room in copacabana; the world hardly noticed. Saddam had been executed. I am against capital punishment.
Days later I read Night, in airport waiting areas and airplanes. Terrifying.
Two SS were headed toward the soliatary confinement cell. They came back, the condemned man between them. He was a young boy from Warsaw. An inmate with tree years in concentration camps behind him. He was tall and strong, a giant compared to me.
His back was to the gallows, his face turned toward his judge, the head of the camp. He was pale but seemed more solemn than frightened. His manacled hands did not tremble. His eyes were coolly assessing the hundreds of SS guards, the thousands of prisoners surrounding him.
The Lagerälteste began to read the verdict, emphasizing every word:
"In the name of Reichsfuhrer Himmler ... prisoner number ... stole during the air raid ... according to the law ... prisoner number ... is condemned to death. Let this be a warning and an example to all prisoners."
Nobody moved.
I heard the pounding of my heart. The thousands of people who died daily in Auschwitz and Birkenau, in the crematoria, no longer troubled me. But this boy, leaning against his gallows, upset me deeply.
"This ceremony, will it be over soon? I'm hungry ..." whispered Juliek.
At a sign of the Lagerälteste the Lagerkapo stepped up to the condemned youth. He was assisted by two prisoners. In exchange for two bowls of soup.
The Kapo wanted to blindfold the youth, but he refused.
After what seemed like a long moment, the hangman put the rope around his neck. He was about to signal his aides to pull the chair from under the young man's feet when the latter shouted, in a strong and calm voice:
"Long live liberty! My curse on Germany! My curse! My—"
The executioner had completed his work.
Like a sword, the order cut through the air:
"Caps off!"
Ten thousand prisoners paid their respects.
"Cover your heads!"
Then the entire camp, block after block, filed past the hanged boy and stared at his extinguished eyes, the tongue hanging from his gaping mouth. The Kapos forced everyone to look him squarely in the face.
Afterward, we were given permission to go back to our block and have our meal.
I remember that on that evening, the soup tasted better than ever...
I WATCHED other hangings. I never saw a single victim weep. These withered bodies had long forgotten the bitter taste of tears.
Except once. The Oberkapo of the Fifty-second Cable Komando was a Dutchman: a giant of a man, well over six feet. He had some seven hundred prisoners under his command, and they all loved him like a brother. Nobody had ever endured a blow or even an insult from him.
In his "service" was a young boy, a pipel as they were called. This one had a delicate and beautiful face—an incredible sight in this camp.
(In Buna, the pipel were hated; they often displayed greater cruelty than their elders. I once saw one of them, a boy of thirteen, beat his father for not making his bed properly. As the old man quietly wept, the boy was yelling: "If you don't stop crying instantly, I will no longer bring you bread. Understood?" But the Dutchman's little servant was beloved by all. His was the face of an angel in distress.)
One day the power failed at the central electric plant in Buna. The Gestapo, summoned to inspect the damage, concluded that it was sabbotage. The found a trail. It led to the block of the Dutch Oberkapo. And after a search, the found a significant quantity of weapons. The Oberkapo was arrested on the spot. He was tortured for weeks on end, in vain. He gave no names. He was transferred to Auschwitz. And never heard from again.
But his young pipel remained behind, in solitary confinement. He too was tortured, but he too remained silent. The SS then condemned him to death, him and two other inmates who had been found to possess arms. One day, as we returned from work, we saw three gallows, three black ravens, erected on the Appelplatz. Roll call. The SS surrounding us, machine guns aimed at us: the usual ritual. Three prisoners in chains—and, among them, the little pipel, the sad-eyed angel.
The SS seemed more preoccupied, more worried, than usual. To hang a child in front of thousands of onlookers was not a small matter. The head of the camp read the verdict. All eyes were on the child. He was pale, almost calm, but he was biting his lips as he stood in the shadows of the gallows.
This time, the Lagerkapo refuused to act as executioner. Three SS took his place.
The three condemned prisoners together stepped onto the chairs. In unison, the nooses were placed around their necks.
"Long live liberty!" shouted the two men.
But the boy was silent.
"Where is merciful God, where is He?" someone behind me was asking.
At the signal, the three chairs were tripped over.
Total silence in the camp. On the horizon, the sun was setting.
"Caps off!" screamed the Lagerälteste. His voice quivered. As for the rest of us, we were weeping.
"Cover your heads!"
Then came the march past the victims. The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing...
And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes. And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
"For God's sake, where is God?"
And from within me, I heard a voice answer:
"Where He is? This is where—hanging here from this gallows..."
That night, the soup tasted of corpses.
Sometimes I read books about war, like all quiet on the western front. There were riots from the favelas, 18 dead in Rio de Janeiro while I was in a hotel room in copacabana; the world hardly noticed. Saddam had been executed. I am against capital punishment.
Days later I read Night, in airport waiting areas and airplanes. Terrifying.
Two SS were headed toward the soliatary confinement cell. They came back, the condemned man between them. He was a young boy from Warsaw. An inmate with tree years in concentration camps behind him. He was tall and strong, a giant compared to me.
His back was to the gallows, his face turned toward his judge, the head of the camp. He was pale but seemed more solemn than frightened. His manacled hands did not tremble. His eyes were coolly assessing the hundreds of SS guards, the thousands of prisoners surrounding him.
The Lagerälteste began to read the verdict, emphasizing every word:
"In the name of Reichsfuhrer Himmler ... prisoner number ... stole during the air raid ... according to the law ... prisoner number ... is condemned to death. Let this be a warning and an example to all prisoners."
Nobody moved.
I heard the pounding of my heart. The thousands of people who died daily in Auschwitz and Birkenau, in the crematoria, no longer troubled me. But this boy, leaning against his gallows, upset me deeply.
"This ceremony, will it be over soon? I'm hungry ..." whispered Juliek.
At a sign of the Lagerälteste the Lagerkapo stepped up to the condemned youth. He was assisted by two prisoners. In exchange for two bowls of soup.
The Kapo wanted to blindfold the youth, but he refused.
After what seemed like a long moment, the hangman put the rope around his neck. He was about to signal his aides to pull the chair from under the young man's feet when the latter shouted, in a strong and calm voice:
"Long live liberty! My curse on Germany! My curse! My—"
The executioner had completed his work.
Like a sword, the order cut through the air:
"Caps off!"
Ten thousand prisoners paid their respects.
"Cover your heads!"
Then the entire camp, block after block, filed past the hanged boy and stared at his extinguished eyes, the tongue hanging from his gaping mouth. The Kapos forced everyone to look him squarely in the face.
Afterward, we were given permission to go back to our block and have our meal.
I remember that on that evening, the soup tasted better than ever...
I WATCHED other hangings. I never saw a single victim weep. These withered bodies had long forgotten the bitter taste of tears.
Except once. The Oberkapo of the Fifty-second Cable Komando was a Dutchman: a giant of a man, well over six feet. He had some seven hundred prisoners under his command, and they all loved him like a brother. Nobody had ever endured a blow or even an insult from him.
In his "service" was a young boy, a pipel as they were called. This one had a delicate and beautiful face—an incredible sight in this camp.
(In Buna, the pipel were hated; they often displayed greater cruelty than their elders. I once saw one of them, a boy of thirteen, beat his father for not making his bed properly. As the old man quietly wept, the boy was yelling: "If you don't stop crying instantly, I will no longer bring you bread. Understood?" But the Dutchman's little servant was beloved by all. His was the face of an angel in distress.)
One day the power failed at the central electric plant in Buna. The Gestapo, summoned to inspect the damage, concluded that it was sabbotage. The found a trail. It led to the block of the Dutch Oberkapo. And after a search, the found a significant quantity of weapons. The Oberkapo was arrested on the spot. He was tortured for weeks on end, in vain. He gave no names. He was transferred to Auschwitz. And never heard from again.
But his young pipel remained behind, in solitary confinement. He too was tortured, but he too remained silent. The SS then condemned him to death, him and two other inmates who had been found to possess arms. One day, as we returned from work, we saw three gallows, three black ravens, erected on the Appelplatz. Roll call. The SS surrounding us, machine guns aimed at us: the usual ritual. Three prisoners in chains—and, among them, the little pipel, the sad-eyed angel.
The SS seemed more preoccupied, more worried, than usual. To hang a child in front of thousands of onlookers was not a small matter. The head of the camp read the verdict. All eyes were on the child. He was pale, almost calm, but he was biting his lips as he stood in the shadows of the gallows.
This time, the Lagerkapo refuused to act as executioner. Three SS took his place.
The three condemned prisoners together stepped onto the chairs. In unison, the nooses were placed around their necks.
"Long live liberty!" shouted the two men.
But the boy was silent.
"Where is merciful God, where is He?" someone behind me was asking.
At the signal, the three chairs were tripped over.
Total silence in the camp. On the horizon, the sun was setting.
"Caps off!" screamed the Lagerälteste. His voice quivered. As for the rest of us, we were weeping.
"Cover your heads!"
Then came the march past the victims. The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing...
And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes. And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
"For God's sake, where is God?"
And from within me, I heard a voice answer:
"Where He is? This is where—hanging here from this gallows..."
That night, the soup tasted of corpses.
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