Sobibor Concentration Camp Revolt | Part 1: Blueprint For Extermination

Transcript

It's the 14th of October 1943 at the It's the 14th of October 1943 at the Sobibor extermination camp in eastern Poland.

The capo's shrill whistle cuts through the air, the signal to begin roll call.

Inmates scramble into position, neat rows of men shoulder to shoulder or fall silent and keep

their eyes on the ground. For most of them, this was just another day in hell. Their only

thoughts were surviving the next 24 hours, surviving until their next meal. But a handful

of them knew that the next few minutes would be the most important in all their lives.

They knew that in less than five minutes, everyone that stood beside them would either be free of

this prison or lie dead at its gate. But it didn't matter. The Nazis were losing the war. Any day

now the order would come to liquidate this place and remove all traces of the evil that took place

inside. Every one of them would be dead soon, either way. But this way they would have their revenge.

For the cruelty and the humiliation they were subjected to, they would make the Nazis suffer.

And for anyone that lived, they would tell the world. Everyone would know of the Nazi's dirty

little secret. Weeks of planning had led to this very moment. Adrenaline shot through the veins of

Shlomo Shmajna and Toivi Blat as they stood in their positions in line. Their arms tucked deep

into their pockets to cover their hands, wet with Nazi blood. Hidden under his jacket, Shlomo

hid a stolen rifle while Toivi gripped a homemade knife, his knuckles white and shaking. The teams

looked tensely to Sasha, the big Russian Jew who had made all this possible. Sasha, as usual, was

confident and determined. He always seemed to have the answers. As the shriek of the whistle died down,

the door of the officer's barracks flew open, and the first Nazi officer strutted into the courtyard.

Indifferently, he strolled towards the lines and began counting the prisoners.

Ains, Zvi, Dry. But then he stopped, just for a moment. Did he realize? Did he notice how many

German officers were missing? Did he notice some of the Jews were wrapped in shawls and mumbling

prayers to themselves? Sasha nodded to the boys. It was time. Jumping on a crate, the burly blonde

Russian pulled a stolen pistol from his jacket. Pointing it into the air, he yelled to his

fellow Jews. This is our moment. Death to the fascist. Hurrah! The signal was given. It was now or

never. Jews burst forth from their lines, pulling sheaves, hatchets and pistols from their clothes

as they charged the stunned Nazi guards. Gunfire erupted from the guard towers as the prisoners

surged towards the barbed-wire fences. Whatever happened in these next few moments, they would show

their jailers and the world that these Jews would not walk placidly to the gas chambers.

My name's Elliot Gates and you're listening to the Anthology of Heroes podcast, the podcast sharing

stories of heroism and defiance from across the ages. Anthology of Heroes is part of the Evergreen

podcast network and this episode is the Sobibor concentration camp revolt, part one, blueprint

for extermination. Late last year I visited the Auschwitz concentration camp, the largest and most

infamous of all death camps. I'd wanted to see Auschwitz all my life and I always felt it was

one of those places you just needed to see before you die. As I walked the 150 hectare complex, I

saw rooms filled with women's hair, children's shoes and suitcases still labelled with return

addresses from all across Europe. I walked through the gas chambers where millions, millions of people

died, choked to death in the pitch black, where moments earlier they were thinking they were just

going for a shower. But what I remember most was this hallway in one of the administrative buildings

was a hallway full of the faces of men, women and children, photos taken of them just before

their arrival at camp and it recorded their name and their profession and how long they managed

to survive at the camp. When we talk about the Holocaust, Hitler's attempted genocide of the

entire Jewish race, I feel like it's a bit too easy to get lost in numbers, 100,000 people

died from X, 500,000 people were transported to Y. But when I saw all the terrified faces of old men

and little kids, it was just so sad. And after I left, I decided I wanted to write an episode on

the Holocaust, but I wanted to focus on the people rather than just diving into the politics and the

background of it all. Soon enough, I came across an article about Sobibor written by a survivor

named Toyvi Blat. Sobibor was the smallest of all concentration camps and it's not as well known

as Auschwitz or really any of the other camps. And that was on purpose. Sobibor was the Nazi's dirty

little secret. Even decades after World War II ended, the story of Sobibor lay almost forgotten by the

world, apart from a few historians and Jewish survivors. But in 1987, a Hollywood movie about

it was released. The movie was a big hit, it won two Golden Globes and all of a sudden the world

began to take an interest in the story. All of a sudden, everyone wanted to know how. How, despite

all these people were up against, these prisoners managed to overthrow the jailers, steal their

guns, tear down all the fences, cross a minefield and then escape. Richard Rashke, the first person

to chronicle the story end to end, said it best when he said about Sobibor, quote,

a story of resistance, hope against all odds, a scream for human dignity and revenge.

This will probably be a three-part series. This episode will focus on two young boys who found

themselves inside Sobibor, how they got there and how they survived. The second episode will lead up to

and feature the revolt itself. In that episode, we'll follow the two leaders of the revolt.

Two Jewish men from very different worlds with very different skill sets who came together

and planned this whole thing out. And part three will be the aftermath. As you'll see,

escape was only the beginning for anyone that made it out. The lives of these men both before,

during and after their imprisonment at Sobibor is honestly the stuff of legends. If the accounts

weren't cross-collaborated by other survivors, you might struggle to believe them. They're deeply

personal stories and reading the memoirs of these men at times felt wrong, almost voyeuristic.

It was hard for me to get my head around that in such a desolate, hopeless place,

all the normal experiences of human development still took place. People fell in love,

experienced heartbreak, friendships formed, and young men and women lost their virginity.

All of this by the glow of the crematorium flames that were,

at that moment, burning the bodies of people just like them.

We've covered some dark topics on this show, but really do we discuss something so recent with

so many horrific details, so I've done my best to be as respectful as I can. If I misrepresent

anything or miss out something, please know that was not my intention. For the sake of storytelling,

when survivors recall an event a bit differently, I've just picked one version.

For conversations between two people, I've usually taken them directly from memoirs. It would be

redundant for me to say quote end quote for every line of interaction, so I'll instead just call

that when I'm paraphrasing something. My hope for this episode is that with anti-Semitism and

holocaust minimization on the rise all across the world, perhaps this can be a reminder of where it

can and did lead less than a century ago. Obviously, considering the subject, there will be some serious

acts of violence and mass murder mentioned constantly throughout this episode, but just a heads up.

Let's get started. The Sobibor concentration camp revolved part one, blueprint for extermination.

It's a rainy day in September 1939. In the small Jewish village of Izbika,

13-year-old Toivi Blatt raced through the town square heading towards the bakery.

His school friends had told him with excitement that there were real German soldiers in town.

Toivi had never seen German soldiers before, and once he got there, he stopped and stared.

The two men wore dark green uniforms with rifles slung over their shoulders.

They were buying a few loaves of bread and chatting as they did so.

Noticing the boy staring at them, one of them reached into his pocket and threw Toivi a piece of

candy. A shinam dunk, Toivi responded in Yiddish. The German soldier smiled and laughed and corrected

him in his native tongue. Dankeschön. When World War II had begun that month,

the Polish army had quickly capitulated. Lodged between Germany and Russia, it had little chance.

The government went into exile and Hitler and Stalin split Poland down the middle.

Izbika, Toivi's city, fell on the Soviet side. But once the borders were fleshed out by men on

the ground, there was a last-minute change, and his city ended up under German control.

Izbika was all Toivi had ever known. His family were up in middle class, which for the time meant

a wooden house with their own stove, table and clock. It was a quaint life, but they were happy.

Most of Toivi's neighbours and friends were Jews, but the level of orthodoxy between them

really varied. It wasn't uncommon to see men in traditional orthodox clothing,

complete with a wide-brimmed hat, curls and long beards,

but it was just as normal for townsfolk to be dressed in western, modern clothing.

Toivi had been named after his grandfather, a man who was something of a pillar of the community,

very pious and wise. But Toivi's father, Leon, didn't take after him. He was a limbo, and to the

shock of his neighbours, he ate pork regularly, something strictly forbidden in the Jewish faith.

One day, as Toivi watched his father tuck into a nice cut of ham at the dining table,

his dad teased him. Waving the forbidden meat in front of his son's face, he laughed,

Toivi, come on, try it. It's really good. The Jews then, as Izbika, enjoyed good relations

with the Christian villages that bordered them. Many Catholic children attended the Izbika school.

Occasionally, graffiti or posters would be stuck around town saying,

Jews go back to Palestine or don't buy from Jewish shops, but no one took much notice.

But by the time Toivi hit his teenage years, there were signs that things were changing.

Despite the isolation of the little Polish village, all residents knew that Hitler and the Nazis

were no fan of the Jews. The oppressive laws of Germany were well known even in the countryside.

When it became obvious that the Nazi occupation was more or less permanent,

quite a few longtime residents of Izbika sold their belongings, loaded up their life into

horse carts, and moved west of the Bug River, the river that split the zones of control between

Soviet and German. Toivi's mother, Marsha, pressed her husband. She felt like they should be leaving

too. Lieber, listen to me, I can speak Russian, we'll get along. Anything is better than suffering

persecution by the Nazis. I've heard about the anti-Semitic measures in Germany, they could be

doing the same thing here. But Leon was insistent. He would not go into exile with a family of young

children, where would they go? Their whole life was here. After all, he told his wife,

there were Germans here before the Russians and they weren't so bad.

Persistent as she was, Marsha could not change her husband's mind, so they stayed put.

When Hitler and the Nazis gained power in Germany in 1933, they began to change the law to restrict

the freedoms of Jews all across the realm. It was slow at first, little changes like,

you know, not allowing Jews to teach German schoolchildren. The Jews are no stranger to

persecution, all throughout their history. But here it seemed like with each week there was a new

edict, a new restriction. Even people who didn't consider themselves Jews weren't safe.

Atheists and those who had no ties to the Jewish community, even people who had converted to

Christianity, were still classified as Jews. By 1939, Jews were barred from most professions,

they couldn't travel freely, they were banned from marrying Germans, and their children were

forbidden to attend any public schools. The punishment for breaking any of these rules was

usually death. The Nazi government used any opportunity to scapegoat the Jews for any issue

that the country faced, leading to the most infamous pogrom in history. A pogrom was when the

citizens of a city, pumped up with anti-Semitism, worked themselves into a frenzy and just rampaged

through the streets, looking to smash up Jewish-owned businesses, houses, or synagogues.

Crystal-nucked, meaning the night of broken glass, took place on the 9th of November, 1938.

All throughout Germany, citizens, egged on by Hitler's brown shirts, took to the street and

destroyed everything Jewish they could find, including people. The police looked on and did

nothing as Jews were lynched, murdered, or raped. As the nation's Jews did their best to keep a low

profile, up at the Nazi capital, Adolf Hitler had come to a decision about what was to be done with

them. Originally, Nazi High Command had tossed around the idea of a new homeland for the Jews,

preferably somewhere away from Germany. Palestine, Siberia, even Madagascar was put forward.

But in the end, Hitler decided that instead of rehoming the Jews, he would exterminate them.

Every living Jew in the German Reich would be killed. According to the Jewish-American yearbook,

that was 9.5 million people, about 60% of the entire Jewish population worldwide.

You might have heard the phrase, the final solution. Well, this was that, as in the final

solution to the question of what should be done with the Jews. As Hitler edged Germany closer

to war with Western Europe, he was intent on blaming this too on the Jews. For shadowing the

dark days ahead, Hitler's first public admission of his final solution would come to be known as

Hitler's prophecy, as he told the German nation quote. If the international Jewish financiers

in and outside Europe should succeed in plunging the nations once more into a world war,

then the result will not be the Bolshevization of Earth and thus the victory of the Jewry,

but the annihilation of the entire Jewish race in Europe. End quote.

As the German war machine began to wor, construction began on the first three

extermination camps. I just want to point out the difference between an extermination camp

and a concentration camp, because I used to think they were the same thing.

A concentration camp was a work camp. Prisoners were put to work on tasks like creating ammunition

or creating panels for German planes. It was tough work for sure, but the intention wasn't

explicitly to kill the people performing the work. But an extermination camp was where people

were transported to be murdered, as quickly and quietly as possible. The Nazis had some prior

experience murdering people in this way. They didn't just come up with it for the Jews.

In 1939, Adolf Hitler himself championed a program to murder the sick, handicapped,

autistic or intellectually disabled. The campaign, known as Life Unworthy of Life,

referred to these people as, quote, mentally dead, empty shells of human beings and human ballast.

One propaganda poster that I found that stuck with me showed a handicapped man sitting as stool

with the following written below him. This person who suffers a hereditary disease

has a lifelong cost of 60,000 Reichmarks to the national community. Comrade, that is your money too.

The program was cut short due to the backlash of the German public,

but by then a framework had been established. And 85 kilometers south of Toivy Blat's village,

the finishing touches of paint were being put on a sign in front of a train station that read

Sobibor. By March 1942, things had gotten much, much worse. It was now well known that Jews were

being rounded up and transported somewhere. Already rumors were spreading about Jews being killed on

mass. No one knew how or where, but almost everyone knew something was happening. A Jewish council or

Judenrat had been set up by the Nazis. Prominent members of the town were forced to join the Judenrat,

and it was their job to ensure the correct number of Jews who were assembled for transportation

in time for the trains. At first, there were a few groups of people who bought into the Nazi lies

of a better life somewhere else. Those who were homeless or very poor assembled willingly for

transportation, but this didn't last long. Once the volunteers ran out, the Nazis started carrying

out acches, translating to the English word actions. Kicking down the doors of houses, they

quite literally dragged Jews, any Jews, out into the town square to fill the quotas. Anyone that

resisted or heard or even looked like they might was executed on the spot. These murders shocked

everyone, Toivy included. I mean, he was a kid from rural Poland. He'd never seen a dead body

before, but soon these were a regular sight. As things devolved, Poles from neighboring villages

took the opportunity to rob the Jewish-owned houses in his beaker. They knew the police wouldn't lift

a finger to help Jewish families, many times they'd even join in. If any Jews tried to protect the

houses or the families, the Polish burglars would kill them without a second thought.

So far, Toivy had survived the roundups by working for a local mechanic. The mechanic was

an abusive drunk who beat him for no reason, but the boy made himself invaluable and effectively

worked his boss's job too. Toivy also had the advantage of not looking Jewish, and I put that

in air quotes. They were ready for dark hair, dark eyes, and big crooked noses, while Toivy was

fair-skinned with blue eyes and blonde hair. The Nazis were masters of false hope. To keep the

Jews placid and discouraged resistance, they'd hand out official-looking documents to townsfolk,

certifying that they and their family were required for the war effort, in other words,

marking them safe from deportation. All of this was part of a smoke screen to discourage organized

resistance. I mean, if your family had the certificate, they were safe, right? Why risk open

rebellion? If we just keep quiet for a little bit longer, this will all be over, right?

It wasn't long before the Nazis became more open with their brutality.

One day, as Toivy was making his way through the streets, a Jewish boy turned the corner and

screamed that two infamously sadistic guards were roaming, killing any Jews they came across.

The street emptied in seconds, and sure enough, the two guards appeared.

Knocking on the door of a nondescript house, they casually entered and murdered the entire family,

from grandparents to infants. Toivy and his family sat silent in their hiding spot,

listening to the horrific screams mixed between gunshots and laughter. As the two men left the

house, they laughed again, mocking the cries of those they just killed. The best hope for a family

like Toivy's were to create hiding holes, little cubbies in between wall cavities or an attic.

When they heard screaming, everyone clambered as fast as they could and sat silent,

praying they wouldn't be found. As the Nazis became more familiar with these hiding spots,

the Jews had to make them more elaborate. An old board covering the entrance was no longer enough.

The townsfolk would cleverly weave an entrance into a dresser, a fake window, or even an oven.

Once they'd all made it inside, they'd sit there for as long as it took.

If their Christian neighbors heard noises more often than not, they'd just tell the Nazis

where they were hiding and that would be the end of them. During one actua, two Ukrainian guards

just finished cleaning their guns and, wanting to test them out, they aimed and took a few shots

at a wall at the side of a house. Toivy could only watch in silent horror. He knew, at that moment,

his brother was hiding behind the very wall they were emptying their bullets into.

Breathlessly, he watched as the men lined up their sights and fired a few rounds,

praying that his brother wasn't hit, or that, if he was, he didn't scream. Toivy checked the

hiding spot and found that his brother had curled himself up in the corner. He was lucky that time,

but how long could they last like this? Death had become an all too familiar reality for the 15-year

old. In the aftermath of one of the actua, as the families lined up for the boxcars,

Engels, the man responsible for rounding up all the Jews, he realized he'd made a mistake with

counting. He'd rounded up too many Jews for the spaces available on the trains. At first,

he tried to force them all in, ignoring all the screaming and begging he ordered his guards to

keep pushing and pushing. The crush was so immense that many people suffocated on their feet before

the train had even left the station. Once he realized, no matter what he did, he wouldn't be able to

fit them all in, he was furious, and ordered everyone left outside, rounded up, and moved

into a meadow nearby. People begged and pleaded to be allowed to leave, but his guards kept everyone

in place. Engels made one of them kneel, set his machine gun up on his shoulder, and mowed down

everyone. A minute or so later, 300 people were dead. Among them, Toivy saw an old family friend

laying next to his wife. Though her jaw had been torn off by a bullet, he recognized her open eyes

and address that she wore regularly. Toivy talks about the feeling of numbness at this moment,

quote. I used to feel faint at the sight of blood, not to mention dead bodies.

Now at 15, I was immune. Viewing this massacre, I felt only pity for the victims,

and great fear for myself. By October 1942, it was clear that things were getting worse by the day.

The Uctchas were every other day now. Izbika had been transformed into a kind of distribution

center. Jews from all across Poland were arriving there, before being sent onwards to whatever

extermination camp was expecting them. When families were forced to provide a set amount

of people to be transported, tragic scenes took place. Children waited uncomfortably for perhaps

a father or grandfather to volunteer to be transported. The cold logic made sense. Someone

in their mid-70s wouldn't live much longer anyway. But if that was your father and you had your two

children to think of, would you ask him to volunteer? Would you wait for him to offer? And what if he

didn't? Toivy's family now no longer lived in their old home. All of them now lived in a single

room behind an old apartment block. Walking home from his shift late one night, Toivy walked past

his old house. From inside he could hear drunken singing and laughter. The pavement outside was

strewn with broken glass and smashed furniture. The Poles had ripped apart everything, looking for

the hidden Jew gold that Hitler had spoke of. Toivy struggled to understand why he was born a Jew.

It didn't seem fair. All of this, everything that was happening to him, was because of something

he had no control over, something he was just born into. He did his best to try and look less Jewish.

He didn't look like any of the cartoons on the posters. He spoke Polish, but he spoke with a

distinct Jewish accent, and so made every effort to stares quite as possible in public. But the

biggest problem, a telltale sign that he was Jewish, was his foreskin, or lack thereof.

As part of their custom, Jews circumcised male children at birth, and the Nazis weren't above

pulling down the pants of men and boys they believed to be Jewish. Painfully, Toivy tried tying

a piece of string around the head of his penis to try and pull the skin down somewhat, but obviously

that didn't work. By November 1942, there were a precious few Jews remaining in his beaker.

Arches had all but stopped, and the city had now been officially classified as a Judenstadt,

a city where Jews were allowed to live. To mark the occasion, Engels had ordered Toivy's father

to dress up as Jesus Christ with a crown of barbed wire and a sign on his chest that read,

I'm the King of the Jews. No matter the death, the misery, and the torture that Toivy saw,

the hatred of his Christian neighbours and friends sent him reeling. An old family friend saw him

walking through town and smirked sarcastically. You're alive? You could live yet another couple

of days. And a janitor, Toivy had known his whole life, greeted him in the same manner.

You're still here? Soon I hope the devil will take you.

In barely three years of occupation, Nazi propaganda had succeeded in turning every

resident against people they'd known their whole lives, people that were no different to them apart

from visiting a different building on Sunday. On the 28th of April 1943, Toivy bolted upright

from the space on the floor. Someone had fired a gun outside. It was just before dawn. He and his

family now lived in a large room behind a leather tannery with a few other Jewish families.

More gunshots and whistled followed. It had to be another accha.

There must be, there must be someone here, Toivy heard voices say outside in Polish.

The Poles outside entered the tannery and began stripping the walls with picks and shovels.

Toivy and his family sat terrified in the dark, closer and closer they raked to the trick wall

until the first pickaxe broke through the thin plaster. And Toivy saw the face of the first

man as he peered inside. Rouse, Schnell, the Nazis yelled inside. Toivy and his family were

closest to the entrance and they slowly crawled out, but other families inside looked at them with

pleading eyes. They hadn't been found yet. Toivy's father and mother said nothing about the others

hiding inside. But before they left, the leading guard pulled a pin on a hand credade and tossed

it casually inside. As he was marched towards the boxcars, Toivy saw a Christian boy from school.

Upon seeing his school friend and family being marched away to their death,

the boy waved at him cheerfully and called out, quote,

Goodbye, I'll see you on a shelf of soap in a store someday.

Under heavy guard, Toivy sat on the cobblestone with hundreds of other Jews.

Everything was chaotic and loud. A heavily pregnant woman begged for clemency before being

crammed into a carriage. Another woman screamed desperately that she wasn't a Jew and that

there'd been some mistake. But it didn't matter now. Everyone standing there was destined for the

same place. Train carriages soon began arriving at the station. These weren't passenger trains,

these were called boxcars, a kind of enclosed wagon meant for carrying livestock.

They were completely sealed with just a small window covered in barbed wire to allow for a

tiny breath of air to circulate. Once everyone was inside, a heavy iron bar was bolted to the

outside to ensure no one could escape. Inside, the conditions were barbaric. Usually about 100

people were crammed into a single car. There was no room to sit or lie down. People were pressed

so closely to each other that many, particularly the elderly, died from suffocation. With no room

for the body to fall, lifeless body was propped up face to face against other people, dead standing.

The sanitation was appalling. With no toilet, the floor became a sloshing pool of urine and

excrement that went up to everyone's ankles. One of our survivors, Shlomo, who we'll be

introducing soon, said about the transportation quote. The human mind cannot accept that this

could have ever been done in the middle of the 20th century against rational beings,

when these medieval methods had already been banned for a long time before the Nazis made

them come to life again. The heat was unbearable, but the stench, even when the Nazi guards who

were conditioned to it, the stench made them wretch. As the train rocked and rattled along

the rails, people prayed quietly while others cried, holding their children against them to

try and protect them from the crash that came with each of the turn of the tracks.

Leon, Tovey's father, was struggling badly with the heat, and Tovey did all he could,

poking his handkerchief through a hole on the side of the train to cool it down

for wiping his dad's brow. Many times, Polish peasants would gather outside their hovels

as the trains passed them. When the train was moving slow enough, they'd call out and torment

the people inside, telling them that they were going to die soon anyway,

so why not throw out their money and belongings to them?

As the train rocketed past the turn off for the Treblinka concentration camp,

all knew that there was only one stop left, Sobibor extermination camp.

The train slowed and then stopped. Tovey heard the sound of a heavy iron bar lifting and the

wooden boxcar slid open. As the human cargo tumbled out onto the ground, Tovey got the

first look at his new home. In front of him were neat, coloured houses, a black paved road, and

flowerbeds. Signposts, beautifully carved, directed them, barber this way, canting that way,

and streets named cute names, the Mary Flea and the Road to Heaven.

A tinny-sounding instrumental band played classical songs as birds

sagging the trees against a pleasant autumn wind. As a massive humanity in the sea of excrement flowed

from the carriage, that poisonous hope that Tovey could never rid himself of resurfaced.

Sobibor looked okay. Apart from the barbed-wire fences it looked inviting, and the reception

it could even be described as friendly. All the rumours of mass murder the Nazis had

insisted were lies, maybe they were just that, rumours.

Groups of men helped Tovey's mother and father out of the train. It took Tovey a few

seconds to realise that they too were Jews. They wore jumpsuits with the word bunk commando,

train squad written across the back. All of them smiled, but a kind of sad, forced smile,

as they sorted out any baggage belonging to those on board.

Few of them spoke, but one tall man occasionally whispered to the new arrivals,

say you have a profession, tell them you're a carpenter, make up a skill.

This man's name was Leon Felhenler. As one of the leaders of the revolt,

he's going to be one of our main characters. Felhenler had been in Sobibor for about five months.

The son of a prominent rabbi he had spent his life in positions of leadership.

Saved from the gas chambers by a fellow inmate who pretended he was a carpenter,

Leon now worked on the train brigade, where he helped as many as he could avoid extermination.

He was a natural leader, calm and soft spoken, he always seemed to know what to do.

And other Jews, both young and old, looked to the 33 year old for guidance, spiritual and practical.

Over the upbeat sounds of the brass band, a slick looking German with a warm smile spoke

to the new arrivals. He apologised for the inconvenience of the way they'd been transported.

He said that usually there'd be beds and food ready for everyone as soon as they arrived,

but unfortunately there'd been an outbreak of typhus at camp. Because of this, all workers

needed to take a shower before being escorted to their quarters. The arrivals were split into two

groups, men to the left and women and children to the right. Tovi looked up at his mother.

She was just 46 but looked much older now. Deep wrinkles had formed at the corner of her mouth

and she was pale and thin. She, like so many other Jews, had been physically and mentally

broken by what she'd endured over the last few years. His two brothers clung to her tearfully.

Then Tovi said something to his mother, completely out of the blue.

He scolded her, saying, and you didn't let me drink all my milk yesterday,

you wanted me to save some for today.

Slowly, sadly, his mother turned to him and said quietly,

this is what you think about at such a moment.

For the rest of his life, Tovi would regret the strange sentence that came out of his mouth.

He could never understand what made him say it and, by his own words, he'd give anything to go

back and give his mother a hug and tell her that he loved her. Because as soon as the words left

his lips, his family was split apart. His mother and his two brothers were gone,

marched away for their shower. The whole thing was over in less than 30 seconds.

There was no goodbye, no hugs, no tears. Within 20 minutes, his mother and his two brothers would

be dead, suffocated to death in the pitch black gas chambers a few hundred meters away from where

they stood. As his mother and brothers were being led away, a tall, strong German carrying a club

walked up and down the lines, barking over the din. Any tailors? Is anyone a baker? Do we have any

carpenters? Even though Sobby Ball was an extermination camp, permanent staff were required to keep

things running. Due to the brutality of the work, there were always openings for new roles.

Many now clued in that this may be their last chance at living and they clambered forward.

Here, yes, I'm a mechanic, I can fix anything. This was what Leon Feldhelter had been whispering

to the new arrivals. Even if you had no idea how to make clothes, perhaps once you'd watched your

mother do it, that was your best bet at survival. All of this was happening in seconds though,

real time. Toyvy, small for his age with no discernible skills, was too stunned to say anything.

Silently, he begged, begged the Nazi to pick him to be saved. As the guard bashed the front row of

people to keep order, he peered down a little Toyvy. Something about the boy could as I,

and over the commotion, he singled him out. Com, rouse, declainer. Come on out, little one.

Toyvy didn't understand why, but he'd been saved. Still numb, he left the pandemonium of the

sorting behind him. As men pleaded and begged, the guard bashed them back into formation.

They had all they needed. Their quota was filled and anyone left was sent to the gas chambers.

Toyvy's father, Leon, was one of them. In a matter of minutes, the lives of Toyvy's family

members had been snuffed out. Within the hour, they'd be nothing but ash, scattered as fertilised

to be used on flower beds, just like the one Toyvy'd seen when he first got off the train.

The big man who carried the club was Gustav Wagner. Out of all the survivor journals I've read,

there are none that don't mention Wagner. Some prisoners called him the wolf, others called

him the beast, but all agreed that he was the most sadistic, the most cruel, and the most cunning

of all Nazi personnel at Sobibor. Gustav Wagner was the perfect product of Nazi indoctrination.

He stood at over six foot two inches and weighed 240 pounds, 110 kilos, a literal wall of solid

muscle. Good looking with blonde hair and greeny blue eyes, Hitler himself couldn't have picked

out a more perfect looking Aryan man. Like many other top-ranking Nazis at Sobibor, Wagner had

been personally selected for his job. Earlier we mentioned the Nazi euthanasia program,

where the government murdered all physically and mentally handicapped people within the

German controlled territory. Well, Wagner actually worked at one of those killing centres in Berlin.

Almost like a test run for the Holocaust. Busloads of handicapped people were taken from their homes

by SS members dressed up as doctors, complete with ambulances and white coats. They'd then be

murdered in one of the many gas chambers throughout the German realm. Even with all the Nazi propaganda

to cring these people as unworthy of life or inhuman, murdering people like this, murdering

children, on a human level it's something that goes against our nature. Not every Nazi could

take part in something like this. But Wagner could. In fact, he reveled in it. It was almost

like he found his calling. So it was no surprise that when Sobibor was up and running, he was the

ideal command. Other high-ranking Nazis preferred not to get to know the prisoners they were soon

to be murdering. But not Wagner. The more he knew about the prisoners he tortured, the sweeter

their suffering was. The survivors say he was extremely unpredictable. To survive at Sobibor

prisoners would try and learn the temperament of guards watching over them. Some were violent but

lazy, others were aloof but volatile. This way they could try and predict their patterns and stay alive.

But Wagner had no patterns. One day he might give a prisoner an extra ration of bread and the next

day whip him to death. When he chose to whip, beat or execute someone he always did it himself

rather than assigning it to a subordinate. And just a slap from this man was enough to knock

you to the ground and take out a few teeth. He even learned basic Hebrew in preparation for

when Germany conquered Palestine. Prisoners spoke of how he looked almost demonic. He had a skull

that was so rigid it was like it was made of a solid piece of granite. One prisoner said,

if Sobibor was hell, then Gustav Wagner was Satan.

Losing his entire family in the space of an hour, Toivy was escorted to the barracks and assigned

to space to sleep. It was less of a bunk and more of a small shelf about two feet wide.

As he climbed in he found cigarettes, notes and a few pictures of someone's family. Perhaps as

recently as that day someone had been sleeping there. Whoever he was he was gone now and Toivy

was probably only alive because he was dead. Old-timers from the barracks pressed Toivy from

information about the outside world. How was the war going? Where was the front now? Who was winning?

They salivated over the news of the Warsaw uprisings, of stories of Jews that died,

molotov cocktail in hand, as the Nazis kicked down the doors of their synagogues.

When night fell, a few women from the ladies' quarters snuck in to see their boyfriends.

A few inmates who had smuggled instruments, played tunes and sung old Jewish songs as they

gulped down contraband vodka. Toivy couldn't believe it. All these people knew everything he

did. How could they sing and dance and laugh? When a few hundred meters away the bodies of people

just like them were being turned into ash. Noticing his torment, a bunkmate took Masar and told him

apathetically, don't be amazed. Only a few hours ago you were still free. You will get used to it

if they give you enough time. We all know what awaits us. You see that fire over there?

He asked, pointing to the crematorium. This very minute your whole family is turning to ashes,

just like my family half a year ago. And I didn't cry. And now you're not crying.

Before Toivy could respond, he continued, you have no more tears you want to say? No.

It's because we've become robots. Our survival instincts have taken over.

If we thought like normal people, we would all go mad.

Toivy turned away and tried to sleep, but he couldn't help but fixate on how the man had said,

turning to ashes, just like my family. So bluntly, so matter-of-factly,

as if he was just stating the natural order of things.

At 4am the following morning, Toivy's new life began. A whistle sounded and the prisoner's

barracks erupted into activity. All the Jews scrambled out of bed and rushed to get themselves

ready for the day. Sometimes there's a small chunk of bread for breakfast, but today there was

nothing except a weak glass of coffee. Gulping it down, Toivy followed a friend he knew from his

beaker and took his place at the morning roll call. He noticed that it was other Jews who were

organising the prisoners in line rather than Germans or Ukrainians. Armed with a whistle and

a whip, these Jews had been hand-picked by the Nazis to keep order. While they were still Jews

like him, there were a rung above him on the social ladder. Toivy learned they were called

Kappos, as in K-A-P-O. If there were any late rises, the Kappos whipped them liberally. At first,

Toivy hated them for this, but he soon learnt that if a Kappo was seen as being too soft on other

Jews, his punishment would be even more severe. Like every prisoner, they were just doing what

they could to survive. After each man was accounted for, the Kappos led off groups of prisoners to

work. Sorting clothes, welding, laying pipes, digging trenches, fixing fences, the work could be

anything, and Toivy today was chopping wood. After a morning of felling trees, his group returned

to camp for a quick lunch, which today was horse meat and watery soup, before returning to the

forest until 5pm. Again, they returned to camp, where the Kappos counted them once more, and then

set off for dinner, this time a cup full of black watery soup. This was a typical day at Soppovo.

Toivy soon got to learn which jobs were the least physically demanding,

and the furthest away from the supervision of Nazi overseers. The guards were exceptionally strict,

and the usual punishment was 25 lashes on the bare ass. Each time the whip hit the prisoner's skin,

they would need to count 1, 2, 3, all the way up to 25. If they missed a number, the guard would

start again from 1. And if they couldn't be bothered to recount, they were just as likely to

kill the prisoner right in front of everyone. The Nazis in every sense of the word were the

masters of life and death. And if one of them was in a bad mood, if Germany had lost a battle

recently if that had an argument with their wife, or even just because they felt like it,

they made the prisoners suffer the most inhumane and brutal punishments.

A short and ugly SS guard named Valister was in charge of building new railway lines.

Valister carried a hammer with him at all times. Walking the length of the rail if he

even suspected a prisoner was slacking off, or if he just didn't like the look of him,

he would jump on him and bash the man's skull in without warning.

Other prisoners could do nothing but continue working as bone and brain matter landed near them.

Eric Bauer was a stinking drunk of a Nazi. Unlike most officers who kept themselves clean and

prim, Bauer was always filthy and wreaked of booze. This usually wasn't tolerated by High Command,

but for him they made an exception. Because Bauer did the job no one wanted to do. He operated the

gas chambers. He was the man who got the engine worrying and escorted the prisoners inside before

dropping a cartridge of Zyklon B into the darkness. He was cruel and would often tease and mock the

prisoners on the way to the chambers. The inmates at Sobibor hated him, but usually he was too lazy

or drunk to go out of his way to make their life even more miserable. Prisoners and officers called

him the gasmaster. Wagner, Valister and Bauer, these were just three of the many Nazis that

the prisoners needed to placate on a daily basis. Tovi learned quickly, out of sight, out of mind,

the less these men saw of him, the safer he was. The shrill sound of the capo's whistle soon

became the only marker of time in Tovi's world. From boys his age to old men, everyone inside

was just trying to make it to the next day. With each new transport, new faces would appear and

fill the gaps of those who died the day before, and each of them would go through the same

existential crisis that Tovi had, losing their family then being forced to serve the people

that had murdered them. Some would steal themselves and focus on their work, those that couldn't never

lasted long. There was little time for anything, apart from self-preservation. Just like Tovi was

told, everyone was in survival mode. The majority of the prisoners were housed in Camp 2, the work

quarters. But if anyone got sick or pregnant, they'd be marched off to Camp 3. Camp 3 was where

the gas chambers and crematoriums were. It was here where all the new arrivals were marched for their

showers. For a Jew, it was dangerous to be so close to the gas chambers. Guards seemed to be more

inclined to kill them when they had truckloads of other Jews being murdered in quick succession.

One morning, after the whistle blew, Tovi was told he was to replace a barber who had died the

previous day. This job was to be the worst yet. As another train of Jews arrived at the station,

they were given the same oily speech Tovi and his family had been given. The brass band, the flower

beds, the apologies, all of it. It was just a script. Those that didn't get selected for work

were sent through the same laneway Tovi's parents went, cruelly named the road to heaven.

Before stepping into the gas chambers, the Nazis inflicted one final humiliation on the women,

who were made to strip naked and have their hair shorn off. They were told this was for sanitation,

but really the hair was to be used in boot lining for Nazi officers. Tovi felt sick,

being so close to these shivering, crying women. He had never seen a naked woman before, and as

they sat down before him, trying in vain to cover themselves, they asked him what was going to happen

to them. A few even asked him not to cut their hair too short. Explicitly told to avoid speaking

to them, Tovi just assured them that everything would be okay. In a few minutes they all crammed

into the cement bunker. From little girls to old women, every one of them was stripped of every

dignity reserved for human beings. Once there was no more space, the door was bolted behind them.

A can of specially designed poison gas called Zyklon B was dropped through an opening above.

As the gas spread, all those inside screamed and stampeded in vain,

clawing at the walls as they choked to their death. Within a few minutes, everything was silent.

By the time a crew of prisoners had begun incinerating the bodies, another train cut was

pulling up at the station. The music had started, the train brigade was ready, the German commander

cleared his throat, and the whole charade began again. One survivor speaks of the bizarrely

mathematical side of it saying quote, levy after levy of Jews were devoured at hallucinating rhythm.

The Nazis had perfected genocide to the point of a mathematical equation. Tovi now knew every

horrific detail of what his family went through. The German guards did their best to hide what

happened at Camp 3 from the others, but sometimes people saw more than they should.

One day a teenager named Jankus had been tasked with returning an item to an SS officer who

worked at Camp 3. Item in hand, he talked his way past the guards that blocked access to the camp.

Walking nervously through the eerily silent road to heaven, he came out on the other side and saw

hundreds of naked corpses being hauled out of the gas chambers and piled into the crematorium.

Since Jankus had arrived at Sobibor, the Nazis had always told him that his parents were working

in another camp. The source of the strange orange fire that illuminated Camp 2 at night was now

made clear. Horrified, he finished his job as fast as he could and ran back towards his uncle's

workshop in Camp 2. Completely stupefied by what he'd just seen, he refused to speak for the remainder

of the day. But within the safety of the workshop, his uncle coaxed the story out of him. Jankus's

uncle is a key character in this story, a survivor whose actions and memoirs have been vital in

telling the story of Sobibor. Jankus's uncle was named Stanislav Shmashna, but everyone called him

Shlomo, and we will too. Considering how crucial he is to the upcoming events, I wanted to further

for a bit and explain how Shlomo came to be in Sobibor. Shlomo was a polished Jew. Like Tovi,

he was 16 years old. He had been in Sobibor for a couple of months at this point, which was an

unusually long time to live considering the conditions. And this wasn't by chance. When

Shlomo arrived, the usual occupation call took place at the rail depot. Carpenters, tailors,

plumbers all stepped forward as usual. But when Shlomo told the enormous SS Wagner his profession,

it immediately took the Nazi's interest. Shlomo was a goldsmith. Wagner's green eyes

must have glowed as he looked over the young boy. Sobibor had never had a goldsmith before.

With his own private workshop, Shlomo and his brother, nephew and cousin, who were all pretending

to be goldsmiths, lived in comparative safety. At first, there was skepticism that Shlomo was what

he said he was. But when the SS Guardsmen crowded into the tiny workshop, they watched in fascination

as the young Jew crafted lumps of gold into intricate shapes and patterns. Rings, buckles,

jewellery, he could do it all. Incredible. Absolutely incredible. One of them repeated

as they snatched the creation from Shlomo's hands. The life of Sobibor's only goldsmith

created its own challenges, though. After Shlomo made Wagner a signet ring, by the end of the day,

every guard at camp wanted one. And each of them wanted it then and there. Shlomo continually

shuffled orders around based on those who had given them. Wagner, as the most dangerous and

high ranking, always came first. And there were many sleepless nights of slaving away over the

world as torched to ensure Wagner had his order on time. There was never a supply issue with

gold to melt down. All manner of family heirlooms and gold jewellery arrived on Shlomo's desk,

stolen from murdered Jews. One day, a tall and fat red-faced SS officer that the Jews called

Red Cake stumbled into his workshop. Red Cake was usually drunk and always violent. He frequently

led his attack dog, Barry, maul any prisoners who displeased him. He demanded that Shlomo make him a

big bulky fingering and told him he had three days to do it because he was going on vacation

soon and wanted it before then. Shlomo nervously explained that Wagner, who outranked Red Cake,

had said he was not meant to take orders from anyone except him. But the drunken Nazi cut him

off. He told him, I don't care, you've got three days and I had better be done.

Banging down a fistful of gold jewellery and a bottle of vodka as payment, he stumbled out of

the workshop. Three days passed and Red Cake returned with Barry gnashing and rearing. He asked

Shlomo, is my ring ready? Inundated with other orders from higher ranking Nazis, Shlomo hadn't

even started on his ring. He told him it wasn't. All right, said Red Cake. He turned around and

left the workshop. Outside he blew a whistle. Come out all of you, you tramps, you lazy Jewish

curse. All men within earshot immediately stopped their chores and lined up, Shlomo included.

Red Cake barked orders at them. Get up, lay down, crouch, stand up, rise, crawl,

one after the other. Every prisoner scrambled to obey as the dog reared its teeth and barked

less than a foot from the faces of the men. Sweating profusely some men were unable to keep up.

Red Cake drew his pistol and shot the ground next to their face. A bullet missed Shlomo by

centimeters. After he'd empty his clip, he walked up to the goldsmith, booted him hard in the chest

and shouted in his ear, run. Holding his ribs, Shlomo did as he was ordered, only to learn that

Red Cake had released the dog on him. Other Nazis stopped to laugh at the spectacle. One called out,

run sons of Israel, you're going back to Palestine. Within seconds, the dog had pinned him and began

tearing into his flesh. Its sharp teeth cutting deep into Shlomo as he tried to defend the softer

parts of his body. At that moment, he was sure that this would be how he died. It was only a matter

of seconds until the dog bit into his neck. But just then, Wagner turned the corner and saw the scene.

He scolded Red Cake and ordered him to call the dog off. As Barry trodded back to its master,

still dripping with Shlomo's blood, Wagner smiled at Red Cake and the two men laughed

before walking off, linking arms. Clearly, there were no hard feelings.

For Shlomo, this brush with death was a reminder that, goldsmith or not, he was just as expendable

as everyone else here. That night, as he watched the glow of the crematorium with his brothers and

nephews, the sound of sex and laughter from the officer's quarters told Shlomo that the Nazis

were having yet another orgy with local girls they'd shipped in. Suddenly, the wind turned and the

nauseating stench of human flesh being burned wafted over from Camp 3. Shlomo retched and threw

up whatever gruel he'd ingested over dinner. This wasn't right. Why him? Why was he on this side

of the fence instead of the other? That night, he argued with his cousin, Nojek, long into the night.

Shlomo was more or less irreligious, but Nojek was deeply spiritual. As he lamented over the

miserable life they led, Nojek's placid responses made him furious, telling Shlomo over and over,

we must thank God because everything he made is good and we should never rebel against him.

Shlomo spat back at him. God? Where is your God who lets my parents be eliminated this way?

How is it possible that he, who is so kind, does nothing for them? Where is he who does not come

to our rescue? Why does he accept that Nazi oppression extinguishes thousands of innocent

children who could not even babble the word mother? Would you like me to pray to God and

thank him for the way my loved ones died? What about others who have also died?

Nojek sat silent listening, which just infuriated Shlomo more. To him, at that moment it was Jews

like his cousin who, so placid and unassuming, led them to this hell. He continued to berate him.

You yourself should notice that even in the name of God the Nazis commit murder.

Pay attention, Nojek, to what is written on the henchman's belt. Got mit uns, God is with us.

Answer me now, whom is God with? Is he for us or against us?

Nojek went quiet for a few minutes before he whispered almost to himself,

pray, pray, we must always pray. Shlomo says this night this conversation was when he stopped being

a boy and became a man. In his diary he says, I did no longer feel as young as a 15-year-old boy,

innocent and naive who believed in men. At that moment I changed into a mature 30-year-old man

and divorced myself completely from my chronological age.

A switch had been flipped. What was the point of eking out another day in this hell?

Like the Maccabees as they fought to the death against Hadrian's legions or the Warsaw Jews

that rained down Molotov cocktails at rocks as Nazis stormed their synagogues.

Perhaps dying for a cause like this would bring meaning.

At the afternoon roll call the next day, Wagner made a speech out of the ordinary.

He ordered the Jews, tomorrow all of you are not to leave the workshop for any reason.

You'll be locked inside. This is an order. The prisoners whispered and speculated.

Any change to routine was a bad sign. When there was routine there was a sense of safety.

The next morning they peered through the windows of their barracks eager to see what was happening.

A train soon pulled up but not the usual boxcars. This was fancy. A real luxury piece.

A small group of well-dressed Nazis stepped out. It was immediately obvious who was in charge.

He was middle-aged, tall, with thin black-rimmed glasses that guarded his dark small eyes.

Wagner and every other Nazi commander fawned over him,

laughing at his jokes and following his every step.

The man was Heinrich Himmler, one of the most powerful men in the world.

Second only to Hitler himself, Himmler was the architect of the Holocaust.

He was the man who'd conceptualized how it would all work.

And now he was taking a tour of the different camps to see how his vision was being realized.

As he strutted through the empty yard poking his head into every building,

he inquired about the camp's kill rate, how many Jews could arrive per day,

how many Jews per cartload, how quickly were they killed, and of course, he expected a demonstration.

Planning ahead, Wagner had handpicked the most attractive young women arriving over the last

few days. As a little treat for Himmler, he got to see the process in real time.

The women were stripped naked, shaved, and forced into the gas chambers.

As the last tortured screams died down, Himmler told Wagner he was impressed.

The enterprise was coming along nicely, he said.

And so he gave the authorization for the camp to be enlarged several times over.

The very next day, work began to enlarge the camp.

The barracks, the gas chamber, the railway depot, all of it.

Everything was scaled up, and cartloads of Jews began to arrive at a furious pace.

Dutch Jews, Romanian Jews, French Jews, German Jews, Czech Jews, Norwegian Jews, and Polish Jews.

The Reich spared no expense and left no stone unturned in their mission of genocide.

But one day, from the boxcar, stepped something different.

Stepping out were not the usual, shivering, malnourished people that had been abducted from the ghettos.

Tall and strong, from the way they held themselves, it was plain to see they were military.

Russian soldiers captured from the front line, still wearing their Red Army uniforms.

One man particularly drew everyone's attention.

Tall, blond, with a chiseled jaw and a stern expression, he was obviously the man in charge.

His name was Alexander Pachersky, but everyone called him Sasha.

If Sasha hadn't of been Jewish, she would have ended up in a normal POW camp instead of Sobibor.

And soon he would make the Nazis wish he had of ended up there.

Because Sasha would turn out to be the missing piece of the puzzle to an escape plan.

Leon Felhendler had the will, and Sasha Pachersky had the way.

And like Moses leading the Jews out of Egypt thousands of years earlier,

their revolt would enter into the long annals of Jewish history.

And that is where we're going to park it today guys.

Very soon the Nazis are going to have the rudest awakening of their lives.

Part two should be along in two weeks, so make sure you're subscribed.

And if you're listening on Spotify, tap that bell button so you get a nice little reminder

when the episode drops.

Thank you to the show's generous patrons, Phil, Angus, Malcolm, Alex, Seth, Lisa, and especially

Tom and Claudia who have just been supporting the show now for over a year.

Thanks a lot guys.

This has been the Anthology of Heroes podcast.

Thanks for listening and take care.

extermination camp in eastern Poland.