Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
The Krakow ghetto is a reality. Over the last several months, I have watched its construction from a distance. Brick walls now seal off more than twenty thousand Jewish souls in a section of the city where only a few thousand people previously lived. We hear reports of four and five families crammed into every apartment with hundreds of others living on the streets. In each building around the periphery of the ghetto, the windows and doors have been bricked over, preventing those trapped inside from even a glimpse of the rest of the city. Eventually I stopped watching. It is more than I can bear.
Having experienced Sachsenhausen, and now witnessing the treatment of Krakow's Jews, I realize with great sorrow that the Nazis have dragged Germany into a chasm of depravity I never believed possible of the civilized and culturally advanced country I knew. That the country which gave us Bach and Brahms, Goethe, Nietzsche and Albert Einstein also gave us Adolf Hitler tears away the very fabric of my belief in mankind.
Frank visited the library today for a meeting with Herr Kruger. As he was leaving, he stopped at the table where I was working. He has done this frequently during his visits, stopping by to chat, as though we were still professional colleagues discussing legal principles. Today he expounded on how he has tried to guarantee a “right of reprieve” for all those arrested during the
AB Aktionâ
arrested on his ordersâbut how his efforts have been in vain because of Himmler and the SS. Then he rambled on for more than ten minutes about how the Jews of Krakow would be kept safe in the ghetto from the ravages of the SS. I listened silently, my stomach churning. Why does he tell me these things? Does he think I actually believe this nonsense, that this barbarism is not his doing, that it is all Himmler's? What can I say in response to this madness?
As Frank was leaving I noticed Herr Kruger standing nearby, watching. There was that hint of sadness I've seen before in his expression.
Now it is summer, but that brings no relief to us. We work long hours at the library as we did all winter. But then yesterday work came to a halt. Germany attacked Russia! Everyone whispered about this incredible event. What it means for Poland is impossible to predict, except that we will have many more months of war on our soil.
Will Russia now become allied with Britain and America? Has Hitler gone completely mad? Certainly he cannot expect to defeat Russia while fighting Britain and America at the same time. The Americans have yet to enter the war, but it is only a matter of time. With America's industrial might combined with the horde of millions that Stalin will throw into the breach, how can there be any outcome other than the defeat of Germany? But then the Russians will stomp into Poland. And who will be left to drive them out?
Books are being smuggled out of the library. I have struggled with the potential danger of recording this activity in this journal, but then it is probably no more damning than most everything else I have written. And if this journal ever reaches the civilized world, it is important to record for history that some of us are attempting to preserve what we can of Polish culture.
The schools in Poland have been closed for almost two years, but teaching continues. It continues in the cellars and attics of people's homes, in the backrooms of shops and warehouses, wherever people can gather with their children out of sight of the Gestapo. Months ago, those of us working in the library learned of these activities and focused our efforts on smuggling out Polish books, passing them on to operatives in the Resistance to aid in the continuing education of our young people. The candle of learning must not be extinguished, no matter the danger.
The task is complicated because of the extreme danger if we should be caught. It would be a death sentence for all of us, of that I am certain. It is complicated and hazardous, and today it almost ended in disaster, but for a very strange occurrence which I cannot fully explain.
Herr Kruger approached me late in the afternoon holding a sheet of paper that he said was a message from a local Gestapo agent. The agent reported that a box of Polish books had been discovered hidden in the back of a grocer's cart not far from the library. The Gestapo agent interrogated the grocer about the source of the books, but the man insisted they were from his family's private collection and that he was delivering them to his daughter. The books were confiscated and the grocer shot for subversion.
I held my breath as Kruger said this, swallowing hard for fear I would get sick. The Gestapo agent wondered if the books had been smuggled out of the library, Kruger said, but he had assured him they had not come from the Staatsbibliothek Krakau. Then he turned away without further comment.
Autumn has come, and we face another brutal winter under German occupation. Reports trickling out from the Krakow ghetto describe deteriorating conditions beyond anything we could have imagined. Within the last month, another six thousand Jews from surrounding villages have been herded behind the brick walls. Desperate people are chopping up furniture for fuel and bartering what few possessions they have left for bread and potatoes. Every day horse-drawn carts laden with corpses exit the ghetto through the heavily guarded entrances.
Frank spoke to the workers in the library today, telling us how pleased he was at our progress and how the Staatsbibliothek Krakau will soon become the most renowned institution in the Third Reich. He praised Herr Kruger for his leadership, then dismissed us to resume our work.
Later, on his way out of the building, Frank asked me to walk with him to the door. He said that he was pleased to hear from Herr Kruger about my excellent work at the library. Then he added that he was certain Beata will be pleased when she returns to see what has been accomplished. The comment drove a stake of fear into my heart. I was so stricken that I stood mute as he turned away and walked to his waiting automobile.
At six o'clock, just as the workers were about to leave, Herr Kruger summoned me to his office. We spoke for a few moments about the progress of the library, then he asked me what Frank and I had talked about. I repeated what Frank had told me about my work in the library. He asked if Frank had mentioned his future plans for the ghetto. I said that he had not, and as I said this I noticed that Kruger's face was pale and his hand trembled. He stared at me for several moments, then stood up and bid me good night.
As I was about to leave my apartment this morning, I noticed an envelope which had apparently been slid under the door sometime during the night. Inside was a key with the marking “L-3” embossed on the head. I was dumbfounded. Who could have left it? What could it possibly mean? L-3 is a designation for a room on the lower level of the library. I hesitated for a long time, wondering what to do, my mind conjuring up all manner of possibilities, none of which made any sense. Finally, I removed one of my shoes, slipped the key inside and left for work.
Just as he had last night, Herr Kruger summoned me to his office at six o'clock, as everyone was leaving. He said that he had advised the night shift guards that I would be working a few hours later this evening. He looked at me for a moment as though trying to decide what to say next. Then he told me that the guards take a forty-five minute dinner break at seven o'clock, up on the third floor.
A few minutes after seven, I sat at my table in the Reading Room thinking about the inexplicable conversation with Kruger. I hesitated for several more minutes, then got up, walked across the large room to the door at the far end of the counter and descended the service stairs to the lower level. I located room L-3, unlocked it and stepped inside.
The room was filled with shelves containing dozens of cardboard file boxes. In the center of the room, a small table held one box marked with the word “Podgorze,” which is the section of the city where the ghetto has been constructed.
I opened the box. As I went through the documents inside I was astounded. They included detailed plans for the construction of the ghetto, calculations of the number of people that could be crammed into various types of houses and apartments, and predictions of death rates due to starvation and disease. My hands were shaking as I removed document after document, each filled with gruesome details of the carefully planned imprisonment and extermination of Krakow's Jews. And everywhere I found the signature of Hans Frank.
I glanced at my watch. It was seven thirty. I went through the documents a second time, removing several I judged to be most important and replaced the lid on the box. Scarcely able to breathe, I left the room, locked it and went home. In my apartment, I hid the documents beneath the floorboards of the closet where I keep this journal.
I have been assigned “night duty” every other week since last October. There is always a single cardboard file box on the table in room L-3. The boxes include drawings, specifications and detailed work plans for concentration camps all over Poland. There are memos from Frank to various officials in Berlin, with attached reports written by Frank's subordinates, describing in academic detail the gradual starvation of the Polish population. There are reports itemizing the thousands of tons of agricultural production diverted to Germany each month and others documenting the tens of thousands of Jews arriving in Poland, transported from Western Europe in trucks and railroad box cars. It is so incomprehensible that I sometimes wonder if this is really happening or if we are all caught in some cruel, demented dream.
Shortly after my “night duties” began I realized what had to be done with documents I'd smuggled out of the library. The channel has been resumed. Many are taking risks to preserve what little is left of our humanity. May God grant that our efforts are not in vain.
Frank summoned me to his office in Wawel Castle today. This was the first time I have been there since I was assigned to work in the library seventeen months ago. I was terrified. Had he found out about the documents I'd been smuggling? Had he discovered the channel?
When I was shown into the office, Frank ordered me to sit and stood over me waving a sheaf of papers. “This is proof of their madness!” he shouted, dropping the papers on a table in front of me. I did not reach for them. I have learned not to anticipate anything where Frank is concerned.
He paced around the office, clearly agitated, explaining that a conference had been held at a suburb of Berlin called Wannsee. General Heydrich had presided. Finally realizing this had nothing to do with me, my fear subsided a bit and I was able to concentrate on what he was saying.
Frank's voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned close to me. He said they had discussed a “final solution” at the conference and intended to gas all of the Jews. He asked if I could imagine itâgassing all of them. He wondered out loud how it could be possible, how it would be organized. His eyes were wide, and he stared at me for a long time, as though he were trying to envision the event. Then he abruptly snatched up the papers and waved his hand, indicating that I was dismissed.
As I stood to leave he said a remarkable thing: “I did not attend. I sent Colonel Buhler instead. Remember that, Dr. Banach.”
The last five months at the library have been uneventful. Our work has progressed steadily, and Herr Kruger seems pleased. I had not seen Frank since January, then today I was summoned to his office. After inquiring about the state of the library, he informed me that he will soon be leaving for a visit to Germany to deliver a message directly to the people. He will be giving a series of public lectures, he said, emphasizing the importance of an independent judiciary within a totalitarian system and promoting the idea that a “police state” can never be tolerated. He leaned across the desk, looked me directly in the eye, and said, “This is what you and I have always believed, Dr. Banach,” as though we were still colleagues.
I was frightened by the intensity of his gaze, and all I could do was nod in agreement. He waited, as though expecting me to say something that would validate his intentions. Over the many months since my return to Krakow I have realized that Frank seems to be concerned about what I think of him. It is as though he needs someone to talk to, someone who reminds him of his former life before the madness consumed him. His comments about fighting for the “right of reprieve” for those he had arrested in the
AB Aktion,
about protecting the Jews from Himmler, about not attending the Wannsee conference, all of it is some attempt to make me think he is above all the brutality and murder. Yet, the hundreds of documents in room L-3 tell a very different story.
As he continued to stare at me, I finally mustered the courage to ask if he thought it wise to lecture on that subject at this time in Germany.
On his desk, Frank keeps a framed photograph of himself standing next to Adolf Hitler. He picked up the photo and looked at it closely, as though trying to make out some small detail. Then he set it down and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed me.
Late this evening Frank called me to his office unexpectedly. He was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his tie undone. There was a bottle of schnapps on the desk. He poured himself a drink, swallowed it in one gulp and leaned forward. His eyes wandered about the room. He mumbled about the Fuhrer stripping him of his party offices as he rolled the empty glass between his thumb and forefinger.