With the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Bierkenau nigh upon us, I find my thoughts travelling to the memory of two survivors of the death camp, and the hugely divergent paths their lives took as free men. More to the point, the hugely different ways in which each of them coped – or didn’t cope, it turned out in one case – with the very fact of their survival.
One of these young men was a Polish writer, Tadeusz Borowski, who was twenty-three at the time of the liberation. Six years later, just two days after his daughter was born, he took his own life by gassing himself in the kitchen stove. Ironic, right? All the promise he’d shown before the war – talent, intelligence, good looks, a fiancée (who he married in 1946) – were taken away by his own hand when he was no longer a prisoner, but a free man. He’d become a survivor who couldn’t cope with his own survival. The memories, the guilt of still being alive, the horrific visions of what kind of a world his child would grow up into … who knows what demonic thoughts plagued the mind of this doomed writer at the time of his suicide?
During Borowski’s internment in Auschwitz he was assigned to work on the railway ramps, where he witnessed the arrival of unsuspecting Jews who were subsequently ordered to leave their personal property behind, then sorted out via the infamous selection process and transferred either to hard labour or the gas chambers. Such scenes were to leave indelible impressions on Borowski’s young poetic mind, as was his entire two-year ordeal at Auschwitz. After the war he conveyed these experiences into a series of short stories, one of which left a lasting impression on me when I first read it, many years ago: This way to the gas, ladies and gentlemen.
The other survivor I have in mind was a Polish Jew who I met in Kraków in the late 1990s, quite by chance. It was a Saturday evening and I was sitting at the candle-lit bar in one of the city’s ubiquitous cellar haunts, waiting for my friend. And as I waited, twiddling the stem of my almost-empty wine glass (my friend was very late), this distinguished-looking man sat down on the vacant stool beside me and ordered a drink. Although he must have been in his late sixties, he was still a striking man with strong eyes, a direct gaze, and an all-round impressive bearing. I was only in my thirties, but despite the age gap, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of attraction.
He must have felt the same way, because upon seeing that my glass was almost empty, he asked if I’d like a top-up. I honestly can’t remember whether I said yes please or no thank you (probably the former, knowing me) but at any rate, we started talking, and that’s when I found out about his past. He’d been interned in Auschwitz as a teenager, and, as with Borowski, had survived his two-year ordeal by the skin of his teeth. Perhaps it was his good looks and extreme youth (he was only fifteen at the time of the liberation) that got him through, who knows?
What I do know is that the diametrically opposed ways in which these two survivors tried to cope with their trauma says a great deal about human nature. Without any judgement intended whatsoever, one of them wrote about his experiences but struggled with depression and guilt until eventually, he decided he couldn’t go on. The other also struggled, but somehow managed to carve a decent life for himself. He told me that he split his time between California and Poland, and when in Krakow, he conducted guided tours of Auschwitz-Birkenau in both English and Polish. I’m sure the fact that he was actually there must have given the guy a great deal of kudos. As to his time in California, I can’t actually remember what he did there. Whatever it was, it must have paled into insignificance compared to his experiences in Auschwitz as a teenager, and in later life, his impassioned quest to inform as many people as possible about the holocaust.
When the tardy friend I’d been waiting for finally arrived at the bar, my other companion took the hint, finished his drink, and stood up. Although I never saw him again, I still remember those darkly intense eyes of his and the way they bored into mine as he said, ‘The world must never forget, even after the last survivors are no longer with us.’ Then he donned his cap, squeezed my hand, and left.
These two survivors to whom I’ve dedicated this post may no longer be with us, but their shared experiences live on, thanks to our memories of their memories. Through the written word, the spoken word, and the commemoration of days such as January 27th, when the most notorious camp in history was liberated, the victims of Auschwitz-Birkenau will never be forgotten.
Note: Tadeusz Borowski’s literary works have been translated into English.
Wendy Skorupski 