There will be survivors, no doubt.
Me, for instance.
Here I am, an ordinary survivor, making an opportune appearance in front of these three Allied officers to tell them about the crematorium smoke, the stench of burning flesh on the Ettersberg mountain, the roll calls in the snow, the murderous chores, the exhaustion of life, the savagery of human beings, the grandeur of man, the fraternal and devastated nudity of our friends’ gazes.
But can it be related? Will it ever be possible?
Doubt assails me from that very first moment.
It is April 12, 1945.