Borowski writes Auschwitz from a place rarely encounterd: not as a Jew, not as a victim in the usual sense, but as a Polish prisoner caught inside the camp’s machinery. He’s sardonic, numb, and at times shockingly harsh toward others, Jews, Black American soldiers, anyone. On the surface, it reads as cruelty. But it’s clear that he isn’t actually a cruel man. Perhaps this is simply what happens in Auschwitz: you adapt quickly to death being everywhere. After all, He married a Jewish woman. His friends describe him with warmth. The “cruelty” in these stories feels more like a mask, a literary persona designed to show what Auschwitz did to the moral world. If you entered the camp, you entered a different universe with different rules. Everything humane was suspended. it’s as if he wanted to emphasise for 'you people who never went to the camps' that even the idealist can become a monster, and he insisted on that on behalf of his ego.
That’s what makes his writing unsettling. Not the graphic horrors, I’ve read far more brutal accounts, but the way he depicts a functioning society inside the camp, where people adapt, survive, look away, and even joke. in its own twisted way, a privileged cast inside the camp. He shows the grey zone with no attempt to rescue anyone’s dignity, including his own. Borowski doesn’t want us to admire him, we have no heroes here. He wants us to understand the system that devoured everyone, each prisoner and their own faith. It’s really not surprising that he couldn’t adapt to life after the camp.
His perspective as a non-Jewish prisoner also shapes the tone. He gets parcels from home. He sometimes began his day with a big meal of bacon while others (jews) barely lived on watery soup. He belonged to a different category inside the camp’s hierarchy. I can’t judge that, it simply gives the stories their unusual vantage point.
And strangely, he keeps returning to images of trees throughout the book, almost obsessively, as if nature were the only witness that still made sense, and yet it’s always eerie, a glimpse into a different world. Those moments say more about his inner life than any of his irony does, as far as those descriptions are sometimes tiring to read.
This isn’t the most horrific Auschwitz book I’ve read, but it’s one of the most morally disorienting, and maybe the an honest take about the fact that survival in such a place meant stepping into a world where morality had been erased. The questions screams throughout the pages - what would you do in this situation? Probably nothing at all.
He writes all that, still haunted by his experience in the camp, and yet still looking for poetic achievements, which at one point he thought he’d found under stalinism after the iron curtain dropped. I wonder what Adorno would’ve thought of the whole thing.