In memory of those who perished in the Holocaust.

Below is a piece of creative writing composed in respectful memory of all those who did not live to see the liberation of the Nazi death camps, and all those who are still tormented by their memories. This piece was originally written as part of my undergraduate degree and was inspired by the work of I would like it to be open for general readership to make more people aware of the horror of the Shoah. It is gory, horrific, and contains vivisection. It is important for future generations to be aware of the true face of the evil that was found in the Nazi death camps, so that history may not repeat itself. While this is a piece of creative writing, it is inspired by the evidence presented at the Nuremberg trials (that can be read here).


The soft breeze entered the clearing, and flew over the rippling grass. The light grass was uplifted and revived, the field whipped round as if it were alive, until the grass was weighed down by a memory. On the soft grass there rested a mound of small stones. The sunlight danced across each one of them. A butterfly basked on one pebble, bathing in the heat.

He was dragged by the heels to the room, the sharp cement rasping his skin. The men in grey hoisted him up, pinning his arms apart and his legs spread. Fear was rank in the air, his heart thudded. Faster and faster. His chest was tight, as the cold air rushed in and out. Shallow. Faster. Panic waited for the moment. The branded body was ripe. The blade comes closer. Stammering, he screams “Why?” A question answered by a golden star. The hot knife slices round his neck, wrists and ankles. The blood beings to seep out, soothing. A searing cut across the underarms. Inner legs. If they stopped now, he could recover. A deep plunging into the waist, around the waist. Lifting a corner to show the red mess inside. Lift. Peel. Pull, hard. Harder. He screams like a dying horse, and the noise shakes the building. Again, the scream paces the corridors. Again, the scream is heard but no one notices.

Now we can observe the internal organs functioning whilst the subject is living. Note the heart beating, inflated with blood and then empty once more. On either side are the lungs, blackened by tar. Smoker was he? As we can see, the lungs fill when the rib cage expands to its full extent. Here is the torso. Note the layer of fat on top of the organs. Here is the intestine, still digesting. You can see the food moving through, where the intestinal tract is a little larger. Also note the blood. The body is covered in veins which connected to the pelt, which are now pumping blood onto the floor.  The body holds 8 pints of blood, he has lost about 5. Moving on, then.

The Angel of Death moved on, leaving him dangling. The blood flooding out over the little muscle he had. The bones shining through. The heart glowing. The shimmer of the chopped fat.

He was mourned by his family, those who knew him, and by thousands who had never met him. Each in their turn came to the mound of stones and were respectful. Gradually, pebble by pebble was added until there was a monumental mountain, symbolising millions of names. He was only one of them.