
The most unforgettable day in my life was April 11, 1945. It was on that day that as a young American army chaplain, I served with frontline troops across Europe and then precisely on that day came upon the infamous, notorious Buchenwald concentration camp.
I had heard nothing of Buchenwald until that day. It was only my sad experience to have seen, to have participated in the ravages of war, to have seen cities laid waste and homes destroyed and human beings crushed.
But especially do I consider it a privilege, tragic and grievous though it was, to have come face to face with the stark, bitter, sordid reality of Jewish tragedy.
As I mentioned a moment ago, I came upon this hellhole called Buchenwald within a matter of hours after the first columns of American tanks rolled through and liberated that dungeon on the face of this Earth.
I do indeed consider it a privilege, tragic, sad, to have been among those who literally opened the gates of Hell.
The crematoria. I saw hundreds of human bodies strewn in front of the ovens that were still hot, the smoke still curling upwards, waiting, waiting to be shoveled into the furnaces.
How can any human being ever forget such a sight?
I stood there in front of those hot ovens, my eyes riveted—[garbled] I must tell you that whenever I even attempt to repeat this story, to relive that moment, it is exceedingly difficult to do so.
I ran to seek out Jews, to find that Jews were still alive, and indeed there they were, in a long series of low barracks. I ran into one after another, and there again, no matter what we have seen or heard, there simply are no words in the human vocabulary that can even remotely attempt to describe the horrors, the brutal, inhuman horrors, that were perpetrated against our people.
Within this huge Buchenwald camp, there was one area that was called das kleine Lager, the small camp, that was reserved especially for the brutal treatment of Jews. I went into those barracks and there I saw just raw planks of wood shelves on which were strewn scraggly, stinking, straw sacks, and there they were looking down at me, men, a few boys—there were no women in Buchenwald—but I will never forget those eyes: haunted with fear, half crazed, emaciated, more dead than alive.
Spontaneously, intuitively, I felt the only language that I could speak that most of them would understand was Yiddish, and I called out “Sholem aleichem Yidn, ir zent fray”: You are free, the war is over.
And there they were looking out at me through incredulous eyes.
But again, I can't continue. I could go on and on, but from that moment I must tell you that my life changed—the impact of that experience was enormous on the whole course of my career.
The Rabbi of Buchenwald is published with the support of the Michael Scharf Publication Trust of the Yeshiva University Press and the Fish Center, and distributed by Ktav Publishing House.