“There are only two kinds of blood, the blood that

flows in the veins and the blood

that flows out of them”

-Julian Tuwim

Last time I was telling you about my experience reading memoirs of a Jewish soldier, a prisoner of war. But there is another book, one of the first stories about II World War I read, which had a greater impact on me- “Fateless” by Imre Kertesz.  At the age of 15 he gets imprisoned in the death camp. The perception of children differs from the perception of adults: while the adult soldier described the actual events themselves, and didn’t focus much on his emotions; the 15-year-old Imre bases his memoirs on what he felt; that is why some parts of the story seems to be somewhat vague, but much more colorful (although with a predominance of the dark colors) and appealing to readers' emotions.

“The prisoners suddenly got very curious about our age. "Vier-zehn, fiinfzehn" (fourteen to fifteen)- we answered them. They immediately shook their heads violently, expressing protest and resentment. "Zeshzain,"- I heard a whisper from everywhere, "zesh-tsain." I was surprised - and even asked one: "Warum?" (Why?). "Willst du arbeiten?" - he asked me in return, if I want to work, staring at me with his empty eyes. I said: "Naturlich", that is: of course, obviously; after all, that’s the only option I had. Then he grabbed me with his yellow, bony, hard hands over my shoulders- not just grabbed, but shook it thoroughly, repeating: "Zeszine ... ferstaist di? .. zeszcine! .." I saw he's seriously angry: for some reason, it is very important for him; and though with a little grin, I agreed: okay, let it be sixteen. There was another weird thing he said: no matter what they say, there should not be any brothers among us, and especially - here I was quite amazed - twins; and his last advice was: "Everyone has to work, otherwise- death".

Then I saw two groups ahead. On the right - a larger group, quite more diverse; on the left - smaller and somehow more pleasant to look at, and I saw there several guys from our company. People in the left group looked - at least in my eyes - suitable for work. The medical examination itself actually took about two to three seconds. Just in front of me was one of my friends, Moshkovich; however, the doctor immediately sent him in the opposite from “working group” direction, to the right. I heard how Moshkovich was trying to explain: "Arbayten ... Zekszen ..."; but soldiers forced him to go to the right, and I took his place in front of the doctor. I saw, that the doctor examined me more carefully, with a serious, attentive, estimative look. I straightened my shoulders, straightened up to show my chest, and even, I remember, smiled slightly - perhaps, to emphasize that I'm not Moshkovich. With a quiet but very clear voice, the doctor asked: "Wieviel Jahre alt bist du?(How old are you?)". "Sechszehn (Sixteen)" I said. He nodded slightly - but it seemed like I gave him the answer he expected to hear. And then, with one hand still touching my face, he pushed me to the left, across the road, to those who were recognized as suitable for work.”

Few hours later…

“And then all of us, like it or not, had to pay serious attention to the smell. It was, it was difficult for me to describe or define it: sweetish, some sticky, it contained a familiar chemical taste and something else, and all this in such a combination that I felt nausea. We quickly discovered the source of it - a pipe that could be seen on the left, quite far off the highway. It was obviously a factory trumpet, (so the headman told us), and it looked like a factory. Later, other prisoners told to us that it was a "crematorium", that is, an oven for burning corpses.

Then I looked at it more closely: it was squat, angular, with a wide hole. I can say that after learning this, I felt nothing special about it, except for some fear- well, and, of course, the smell, which simply was enveloping, was tightening like a thick sticky liquid, like a swamp. A little further, we were able to see, one more, then another and, already somewhere on the horizon, on the very edge of the shining sky, another pipe.

And after this observation, I had a more or less accurate understanding of where we were. I knew that there, in front of us, at that very moment, those who rode along with us on the train, but were sent to the right group, were burning in the stove. Those who at the station asked for a truck, those who for age or for some other reason, the doctor considered unfit for work, toddlers, and their mothers.”

Some people believe that wars and battles make people cruel. But is it so? Read a few excerpts I gave above: none of these people, including SS, doctors, and guards of the camp were on the wart, and yet their cruelty towards the prisoners is beyond the limits of my perception. It is not war that inculcates cruelty to us; it is us bringing cruelty, violence and ruthlessness into war. We respond to words with an aggression, aggression leads to a feud, feud leads to a war, war ends with the execution of prisoners, and the execution of prisoners is being responded with genocide... 71,170,000 people were sacrificed 73 years ago to break this loop, so let's not start it again. "No color or religion ever stopped the bullet from a gun."