The_Holokaust_-_origins,_implementation,_aftermath

UNDER A CRUEL STAR
It seems beyond belief that in Czechoslovakia after the Communist coup in 1948,
people were once again beaten and tortured by the police, that prison camps existed
and we did not know, and that if anyone had told us the truth we would have
refused to believe it. When these facts were discussed on foreign broadcasts,
over Radio Free Europe or the BBC, we thought it only more proof of the way the
“imperialists” lied about us. It took the full impact of the Stalinist terror of the
1950s to open our eyes.
It is not hard for a totalitarian regime to keep people ignorant. Once you
relinquish your freedom for the sake of “understood necessity,” for Party discipline,
for conformity with the regime, for the greatness and glory of the Fatherland, or
for any of the substitutes that are so convincingly offered, you cede your claim to
the truth. Slowly, drop by drop, your life begins to ooze away just as surely as if
you had slashed your wrists; you have voluntarily condemned yourself to
helplessness.
In the last of the concentration camps that held me during the war, we worked
in a brickyard, far from the camp. It was late autumn, beautiful but cold. In the
mornings when we stood for roll call long before dawn, a thick crust of hoarfrost
covered the ground. It would not thaw until afternoon. We wore nothing but short
shifts made of burlap, no shoes, no underwear. We used to collect the scraps of
paper that were strewn about our workplace, especially the heavy cement bags
that were thrown out. Even though it was strictly forbidden, we stuffed them under
our shifts so that we would freeze a little less. The morning roll call lasted two
hours. Then we marched to a funny little train made up of flatcars, each holding
two long benches mounted on a wooden floor. The trip to work took one hour.
Then there was a half-hour hike to the factory, twelve hours of passing along
bricks, the trip back to camp, another roll call, a little turnip soup, a slice of bread,
and a short restless night.
The trip on the train was the worst thing about it all for most of the girls.
During that hour we became so chilled that when we finally reached our destination,
we fell rather than stepped off the train. It took us half the day to warm up a little.
But I loved those trips. The tracks crossed an area under which an entire industrial
complex had been built. Clouds of steam issued out from the earth in many places;
mysterious iron constructions and fantastic twisted pipes rose from the mosscovered
ground of the woods. The sun was already rising and, since there was
always a thick fog hugging the ground, the sun’s rays broke through it and colored
the mist a variety of deep pinks, an orange, gold and blue. Out of this shimmering
vapor, dark shapes of trees and bushes emerged, drifted toward us, and vanished
again. Several clusters of trees seemed especially beautiful to me, and I always
looked out for them. I remember, even now, a small uprooted spruce resting on a
mound while another handsome symmetrical one stood above it straight and
solemn, as if standing guard over the body of a fallen comrade.
Sunday was designated for work in the camp, but most often, we worked
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