‘Voices from the Archives’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

 Voices from the Archives

I hear whispers guiding me through the darkness. Each voice is a reminder, each name a life. Guilt smudges my words, reaching for what’s beyond. Yet I write to honor, to make them whole, and I fail. Words bridge past and present, tangled mumbles that point me through the archive’s door. In each story, I seek light, a path through mirrors to remembrance. How dare I.

The gate consumes names. Eli steps through, wearing his father's dreams like a heavy coat. Faces pass like ghosts before indifferent SS-guards. Walls rise within him, essential armor in a world stripped bare. Sounds from Grodzisko Dolne linger—stories caught in time, contours of synagogues. Memories of a world gone, but still here in the quiet corners of Shmuel’s mind.

Ribs like scaffolding, breath a prayer. Men reduced to sinew; eyes hollow. Eli listens, the music of hunger plays. The science of starvation, guilt and rationing. Eyes accuse in silence, mirrors reflecting theft, life stolen from death. Ovens in Grodzisko baked more than bread. Warmth and stories shared. A vanished world.

A specter, Eli stands, apologies brittle in the air. “Standing here, I begged you for help.” Words as fragile as the past. Choices: walk or truck, a wave, a goodbye. “The child—unfortunate,” regret woven into the director’s voice. A growl suppressed, a cough escapes, bitter reminders. “Bundle up,” he’s told, words hollow, forgotten. He leaves, carrying silence.

A breath drawn from ashes, footsteps in a haunted land. The edge of my vision is a tightrope where the past bleeds into the present. Whispers come at night, accusations from the grave, unanswered pleas, lives unlived. Guilt wraps around me. Anger simmers beneath the surface, a cold flame in a world gone dark. Rage at the choices made. Cuts deep. In Grodzisko, synagogues towered over the cobblestones, children played among the ruins. A place of stories and faces, a burden Shmuel carries, a testament to lives entangled.

Dreams walk paths of memory. Faces rise, eyes plead. Pain amassed, glass reflection. Promises unkept, vigil in silence. In dreams, tears wept. Shades creep, accusations cut. Freedom, honor, memory—a course set.

"The silence, the fear—you can’t write that down."

Between life and death, Eli walks, every step a negotiation with fate. They stroll with him, melodies persistent, never fading. Survival is a paragon, each breath a reminder of loss and a beacon of hope. The stories of Grodzisko are written into Shmuel’s soul, a landscape of suffering cast by what is forgotten and remembered, guiding him.

In silence, children dance. Past and chance. Guilt and grace, faces to embrace. Streets alive, dreams survive. Pain unhealed, truth revealed. Hope bright, guiding light. Lives weave through him.

Yesterday alone stands. Ghosts linger. Streets worn by steps, time traces paths. No sound reigns, stories untold. Bells toll lost souls, lives that were. Corners converge, weight of what’s gone. Children’s laughter forgotten, world torn. Ruins hold past, haunting presence. Flame thrives.

Eli stands, a ghost in his own skin. The camp is a stage, actors without an audience. Eyes vacant, souls tethered to an existence that defies meaning. Names drift through his mind—Isac, Barry—stories cataloged in silence. A library of loss and longing. He must not forget, even as he pretends not to see. In Grodzisko, stories hung in the air, names part of the whole. Now they hang in the silence, sounds of a world where identity and community were one.

Born in Grodzisko, history and hope, shtetl tales rise. Rabbi’s songs, notes of the past. World shifts, refuge in The Hague, stories and bonds remain. Two worlds, steps honor heritage. Never fade, carrying the gaze. Samuel mirrors Eli. Paths merge in survival, memories intertwined.

Stillness brings cries, lives once whole. Memories rise, sorrow tolls. Whispers in the quiet, darkness stole. Presence a riot, haunting cries. Grozdisko’s bells toll for life and death. Voices resound, threads connect.

“What am I missing?” I ask, desperate for the missing pieces.

They stand in line, eyes forward, marching past the remnants of Isac Jacovici. Barry, young and wide-eyed, forced to bear witness, the morning air cold against his skin. He does not remember the first man he saw die, but Isac is carved into his mind, a stone monument of absence. They circle the body, silent as the graves they are destined for, a parade of ghosts still clinging to life.

Defying darkness with every inhalation. Eli stands in the aftermath's quiet, the world rebuilt around him, yet words persist within. In his heart, he holds space for the lost.

Spring blooms in silence, the earth awakens once more, whispers of new life. Eli walks the path, each step a dance with the past, a journey begun.

In quiet moments, clothes rise, a chorus of souls that cannot be silenced. They walk beside him, presence constant, reminders of roads not taken, paths unexplored. He carries them, each recollection a thread in the fabric of his soul. To the burden of the past, to lives entwined with his, I raise my voice in lament.

To the journey of life, to the road stretching beyond the horizon, I raise my voice in praise. In winding paths, in quiet reflections, we find strength to rise above, to carry the light of those lost. Eli walks this road, a pilgrim in a world reborn, each step a testament to truth and hope. He carries stories, voices of Isac, Barry, all who stood in despair’s building. Voices are wind that escort him, presence a compass pointing toward light. In journey’s end, peace is found, a sanctuary of understanding, stones become music of the present. To the journey, to the endless dance of life, I raise my voice in praise.

Eli stands at the crossroads, the past pressing down, lives carried within him. In the darkness, hope flickers, stories held dear, never forgotten. A journey, marked by guilt and anger. He walks with courage, each step honoring the stories of those before.

"I was in hiding," Frieda's voice reaches me, a whisper of anguish and hope.

The camp is a landscape, woven with threads of dust and despair. Eli walks among them, a silent guardian, a keeper of forgotten names. He recalls the eyes of Isac, the way they spoke without words, a silent plea for remembrance in a world that erases. For Barry, the child who saw too much, Eli holds a fragment of light, a promise that his story will not fade with the setting sun. Frieda stands apart, yet within, a testament to the strength of those who endured beyond the camps, her courage the uncertain light of tomorrow. In the ashes, Eli sees reflections, faces lost to time, yet alive in the corridors of his mind. He carries them with him, a weight and a blessing, as he steps beyond the gates into the uncertain light of tomorrow.

Every breath is a betrayal, a reminder of those who did not survive. He walks through life with the weight of ghosts, each step a dance with death. Survival is a paradox, a blessing and a curse, a life lived in the explosion of loss. He feels the guilt of living, the anger of injustice, the sorrow of absence. Yet he knows he must carry on, for their voices are his monitor. In the quiet moments, he hears them, a chorus of souls urging him forward, a reminder that survival is not the end, but a beginning. He carries them with him, each breath a thread in the fabric of his soul, each voice a beacon of hope. For in the darkness, he finds strength, in the forest, a light to accompany his way.

Guilt keeps its vigil in the quiet hours, meals rising, past movements haunting my mind. I write their stories, knowing I can never reach them, but feeling their weight. The gap between past and words is unbridgeable, each name a life lost. Guilt shadows every word, yet I write to remember, to honor lives interwoven. My words are bridges, preserving light in stone.

Helmut meets American Jacqueline, stories in skin. Camp corners, astonishment endured. Uniform innocence. Jacqueline’s pity, hate’s machinery. Beaten man, scream cuts silence. Her cry, haunting refrain, war’s symphony.

Darkness offers hope, stories I hold dear, never forgotten.

Eli walks the path, each step a dance with the past, a journey begun.

I raise my voice in remembrance of those who walked before, in the archive's quiet, your stories chime. Your names guide me through the dark. I feel the weight of your lives, the burden of your past, a responsibility I cannot escape. I cannot fully understand, but I write, hoping to honor, to bear witness. In remembering, there is you, and in us, light. Yours in remembrance, Historian.

Words are beacons to the past, a bridge to what’s been. In shades, I write lives anew, finding light between. I raise my voice in lament.

Amanda Kluveld is a Holocaust historian and associate professor of history. She has authored several non-fiction books. Coming from a Dutch Indies family, Amanda is the first generation born in the Netherlands, and she brings a unique perspective to her research and writing, blending personal heritage with scholarly rigor.