The Washington Post followed Brazilian journalist Clóvis Messerschmidt, who is convinced residents of his town have concealed secrets for decades about the escape of Nazis from Germany and crimes they committed during World War II.

Clovis, a small-town journalist for a local paper with circulation under 1,000 copies in Ibirubá, has devoted his life to finding the secret tunnel system that many town residents say lies beneath the town center and was used to smuggle Nazi war criminals and stolen property they brought from Europe. The town, where most residents have German ancestry dating to the 19th century, has been home to persistent rumors and mutual accusations among residents about Nazi collaboration.

At the heart of the investigation is Dr. Frederico Ernesto Braun, a town resident under whose house the journalist searched for tunnels and hidden chambers. According to Merschmidt, Braun faked his death in 1964 after a long life of conspiracies and crime, and maintained contact over the years with senior Nazis. An old photograph of Braun beside a man in a Nazi uniform confirms the theory for the journalist.

If the details sound somewhat implausible, it's worth noting that both contemporary newspapers and Brazilian police records show that a Nazi cell did operate in the town, gathering weapons, portraits of Hitler, and money to aid Nazi Germany during the war. Is it implausible to think the same cell mobilized after the war to help senior regime figures escape? Moreover, Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal said at the time he received evidence that senior Nazi Martin Bormann was spotted in the Brazilian town. However, so far, Merschmidt's searches have raised more questions than they have answered.

At Braun's house, he discovered a hidden door leading to an underground chamber, which was sealed by high concrete walls. In other locations around town, he discovered mysterious shafts, but nothing beyond that.

"The soil in Ibirubá is dense and thick, without rocks or gravel, which is perfect soil for growing soybeans but terrible for digging tunnels. Amazingly, no one thinks that for 60 years, no such tunnel has collapsed," Brazilian historian Rene Gertz told The Washington Post.

He believes all Messerschmidt has is circumstantial evidence and an obsession. "This is another unfortunate case of a Brazilian town trying to deal with its Nazi past and with conspiracy theories," he told the American newspaper. But Messerschmidt himself hasn't ceased his search for the Nazi tunnel system. "What began as an article marking 60 years since the establishment of the town center has become a relentless search for the truth," he said.

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"We could have continued with this flag, but sometimes embarrassing situations can arise with foreign visitors," explained Colonel Tomi Bhem, head of the air defense force of the air wing in the Karelia region, in an interview with Finnish public broadcaster YLE. "Sometimes it's wise to move with the times."

Although Finnish defense forces claim the flag renewal program, launched in 2023 with Finland's NATO membership, is not directly related to alliance membership, the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat revealed the symbol is perceived as "embarrassing in international contexts."

It was also reported that in 2021, German units refused to participate in a closing ceremony of a joint exercise due to the use of swastika flags.

The story behind the controversial symbol began in 1918, shortly after Finland gained independence from the Russian Empire. A Swedish count named Erik von Rosen donated Finland's first military aircraft, and the plane bore his personal symbol, a swastika. Von Rosen, who was a researcher and ethnographer, was the brother-in-law of Hermann Göring, a senior Nazi Party member and commander of the Luftwaffe, the Nazi air force.

Finland fought alongside Nazi Germany in the Continuation War (1941-1944) against the Soviet Union, attempting to regain territories lost in the Winter War. Despite the military alliance, Finland refused to adopt Nazi antisemitic ideology, and Finnish Jews served in its army, and it refused to hand over its Jewish citizens to the Germans. Only at the war's end did Finland switch sides and declare war on Germany.

The new flags will feature an eagle instead of the swastika, and they will be introduced after their preparation is complete, though the Finnish military did not specify when this will be finished. "Von Rosen's swastika has been used by us since 1918, but we already removed it from most air force symbols in previous reforms," stated the message to AP. "Removing it from unit flags is simply a logical continuation."

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An additional banner, with the same message, was hung on the front of the TOS church and the adjacent conference center on Eisenbahnstraße street. The initiative is led by church members and the March of Life movement, which has worked for years to commemorate the Holocaust and build bridges with the Jewish people – and now mobilizes for the approximately 50 hostages still held in Gaza.

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However, a Daily Mail investigation has cast a dark shadow over this milestone appointment. German archival evidence reveals that the woman destined to head the agency that battled Nazi Germany is the granddaughter of Constantin Dobrovolsky, a Ukrainian Nazi collaborator infamously known as "The Butcher" for his savage wartime conduct. He served Nazi forces as "Agent Number 30" after abandoning the Red Army in 1941 to become Germany's primary intelligence operative in Ukraine's Chernihiv region.

This discovery carries particular weight given current geopolitical tensions, as the Kremlin attempts to legitimize its Ukrainian invasion through anti-Nazi rhetoric, transforming what should have been a triumphant moment into a complex diplomatic challenge.

Metroville's background includes an international upbringing in a polyglot household, anthropological studies at Cambridge, and a career spanning decades in MI6's most perilous assignments across Europe and the Middle East before advancing to senior MI5 leadership.

Active participation in Jewish extermination and property theft

German archival documents demonstrate Dobrovolsky's direct involvement in what he termed "the extermination of Jews" in correspondence with Nazi superiors. His operations included commanding a 300-strong Ukrainian police force that systematically "cleansed" 12 sub-districts, executing hundreds of Jewish civilians and Ukrainian partisans while systematically looting victims' possessions. The gravity of his crimes prompted Soviet authorities to post a 50,000-ruble bounty for his capture.

As Soviet armies advanced westward in 1943, Dobrovolsky orchestrated his family's evacuation, smuggling his wife Barbara and infant son (Metroville's father) to Germany before their eventual arrival in Britain. Barbara subsequently married David Metroville, a Georgian immigrant, in 1947, with their son adopting the Metroville surname while remaining seemingly unaware of his biological father's criminal wartime activities.

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The executioner behind the violin

Richard Rokita was a prominent German officer at the Tarnopol camp and earlier at Janowska. He had two hobbies – one as a mass murderer, the other as a violinist and musician who organized an orchestra from Jewish prisoners. The orchestra accompanied many of Tarnopol's Jews to execution sites while playing the "Death Tango." Rokita insisted on this. Sometimes he would point his pistol at someone and kill them simply because he felt like it in that moment. But occasionally, one of Poland's greatest violinists, someone Rokita knew from pre-war days, would see the hand with the gun and rush over. He would break into virtuoso playing, enchanting Rokita, and the gun would return to its holster.

When Professor Ram Ben-Shalom was about three years old, around 1962, he disguised himself as a secret agent equipped with a Beretta pistol with the clear mission to hunt down Rokita. This story closes the narrative of one of the best books I've ever read about the Holocaust. That closing chapter brings into action figures like Ilya Ehrenburg, the Beatles, and Rokita himself. Rokita was then in his 60s. He had given up one hobby – the mass murder of Jews – and kept his second hobby, which became his profession – playing violin in jazz bands in Hamburg. Simon Wiesenthal managed to discover the murderer behind the violin. The man who played in one of the clubs near the basement where the Beatles sometimes sang and sometimes screamed their first hits before becoming famous in Liverpool.

When I met Professor Ben-Shalom this week, author of "Salomea's Letter" (Magnes Press), I asked if he could guess what my first question would be. He couldn't say. The question was why he included Chapter 86 in the book. For me, the story called "Report from 1962" confused and troubled me greatly. His character takes the stage and whispers in violinist Rokita's ear, "Rache." Revenge.

"In this book, I'm actually in two roles. I'm also the researching historian, looking at this detective story from the outside," he answers. "And as a historian, I operate according to all the known methodologies and possibilities of the profession. At the same time, I also serve in some way as a witness. It's hearsay, not eyewitness testimony, as a second-generation survivor. As such, I'm both one of the story's heroes and examining the plot from the outside with all the facts, documents, and archives. But I'm also reflecting my father's story (Shmuel Ben-Shalom) from fragments, from broken pieces that I heard in my childhood, and had to undertake a long journey into my memory to bring them back. This is how the last chapter was written, which was obviously written after the entire book was finished. I was left with some empty space that I needed to resolve."

About revenge

"You beautifully develop this revenge motif. I read what seems to me a masterpiece. I felt you were in the same territory as Timothy Snyder's 'Bloodlands' but penetrating much deeper, in a more detailed way. And then, with the story at the end, you make me doubt whether everything you wrote until the last chapter is even real."

"I know. I took into account that this could raise doubts. On the other hand, I'm so confident in my work as a historian and in the professionalism of the puzzle of facts, the realistic details. I'm so in command of the methodology and the material that after so many years in the profession, I allow myself to also go in the direction of the detective novel. With the understanding that the skilled reader can make the distinction themselves."

After reading "Salomea's Letter," it seems that the letter event, which is almost unknown in Israel, soars to heights parallel to the "Warsaw Ghetto Uprising," which has lost altitude over time. Salomea Ochs Luft was Ram Ben-Shalom's aunt. She was the sister of his father Shmuel, who survived the Holocaust. Her cousin is the artist Willy Ochs, known by his Hebrew name Ze'ev Porat, who immortalized German sadism in his amazing illustrations and later became known as an architect. Only about a decade ago, Ben-Shalom discovered that the letter Salomea left before she too was led to the killing pits in the Tarnopol region of Galicia had become legendary in Germany. We're talking in a café in Ramat Aviv, Ben-Shalom's childhood district, as descendants of Polish ancestors. My father would say about the miraculous twists and turns that accompanied Salomea's letter that it's "a lange mayseh" (a long story). The letter documents over about 12 pages the acts of slaughter from the German occupation in summer 1941 until April 1943.

"I am still alive and want to describe to you everything that happened from April 7 until today," Salomea wrote in her letter, and Ben-Shalom describes how a German aristocrat reads the letter years later, in days when German editors and politicians tried to clean up their past and destroy evidence. "The prevailing opinion is that now it's time for 'everything.' Galicia must be free of Jews ('Judenrein')... We, in the camp, could look from our room windows and see everything. Oh, these scenes, these images. How to describe them? We ceased to be human... One sees the square filling up with an increasing number of those condemned to death. This time, the graves in Petrikow were prepared in advance... The men were stripped to their shirts and led like sheep to the slaughter on foot. It was very close. Why waste fuel for cars, why bother with the train? It's a shame. It's simpler to get rid of this harmful material on the spot."

Salomea ended her letter with a call for "revenge." The fact is that the letter fell into the hands of officers in the Red Army when they captured Tarnopol from the Germans in 1944. It was a powerful, living, and moving testimony of an eyewitness who was later murdered, and the Soviets worked constantly to instill a fighting spirit in the troops, and that fighting spirit also contained the motif of revenge. Ben-Shalom describes in detail the role of writer Ilya Ehrenburg in propaganda directed at Red Army soldiers. The slogan was "Kill a German." Salomea's letter brought to life the hate slogans against the Germans.

Action against terror

Meanwhile, the Soviets decided to send the letter by mail to the Lichtblau family living at 3 Geula Street in Tel Aviv – the address Salomea had written. But Ben-Shalom's discovery that excited him so much was that already in 1954, author Erich Kästner organized a public event in Munich intended to mark a decade since the assassination attempt on Hitler. The atmosphere in 1954 in West Germany was that the July 20, 1944, conspiracy was an act of treason. Not to mention, in the background, the major victory in the World Cup in Switzerland. At that evening organized by Kästner, Salomea's letter was read aloud. How did it get there? How, in 2005, was an exhibition presented by a Berlin artist featuring an item called "The Jewish Woman's Letter"?

The letter came to the artist from the daughter of Wehrmacht General Otto Körps. She found it in her father's estate. The Germans deleted the "revenge" from the letter, and that text served them for purposes completely opposite to the use the Red Army made of the letter during the actual days of battles. Ben-Shalom determines that "the artist" developed a fetishistic relationship toward the letter. She was unwilling to give him the copy of the letter called the "Abel-Körps version." "From this moment, the roles were reversed, and in the relationship between us, I (Ram Ben-Shalom) became the aggressor... while she again filled the role of victim. The reversal of images and roles – 'the upside-down world,' where the victim becomes the aggressor, and the victimizer takes the place of the victim – is what allowed the artist to ignore all my requests to receive the letter. Salomea's letter became her exclusive property(...) She refuses to transfer it to the victimizing, strong 'Jew,' the Jew who extracted from her the 'secret,' intimate information about Gunhild Körps" (the general's daughter).

Ram's wife is curator Yael Katz Ben-Shalom. He quotes her in his book, "The letter that survived time and place reveals Salomea's act of writing as an action fighting against terror and silencing. She does not remain silent even though her body is already mute, and she is on her way to her death. In the video work, there is a role reversal. The poetic gaze destroys the victim's words, Salomea's voice, and focuses on the German's bodily performance... presented as suffering in the face of the erased words."

Ben-Shalom's discovery is that General Körps, who kept the letter until he returned from Russian captivity, was supposedly anti-Nazi but was very excited by the storm of battles in the war. So were the senior German administrators in Tarnopol. They too were anti-Nazis; they even wanted to evade their role in organizing life in the city, in the ghetto, in the camp, in various factories. Yet they were very instrumental in the exemplary organization of Jews, masses of Jews, on the route that led them to death pits or to the gas chambers in Belzec. One of them was Franz Josef Schöning. On days when he knew that such actions were going to be carried out, after completing his bureaucratic work, he would go on vacation, on hunting trips in the mountains. Schöning was the founding editor of the important West German newspaper Süddeutsche Zeitung.

How did you get the letter?

Dora, Ben-Shalom's aunt from 3 Geula Street, received the original letter. Dora never opened the envelope. One of the mysteries that Ben-Shalom tries to crack throughout his years of research as a detective historian is how the letter reached its destination in Tel Aviv. Was it his father who brought the letter in 1946, immediately after the war, or did an envelope simply arrive by mail as an initiated operation of the Soviet Army? The one who provided him with vital information on the subject is Russian historian Ilya Altman, a man from the Red Army archive.

"Since she writes the letter in 1943 and addresses it to Geula Street in Tel Aviv, I had to find out what was happening at the time she was writing at 'Geula Street' in '43," says Ben-Shalom. "And I have a chapter where I describe the Habima Theater on the day she was writing, the theater was performing the play 'People of Russia.' Both at Moghrabi, where Habima was operating in those days, and at Edison Hall in Jerusalem, performances dealing with the war, dealing with questions of revenge, and the Soviet soldier were being shown. But not about Jews. About Soviets, not Jews! And this was within walking distance of 3 Geula Street, where it was happening."

I told Ram Ben-Shalom that I wasn't surprised that the archivist at Yad Vashem was asked to locate Salomea's letter and couldn't find it. "That was when Ilya Altman was looking for it. I remember my father's immortal sentence, 'I don't want to bury the letter in Yad Vashem's drawers.'"

"For Ilya Altman, in the Red Army archive, the letter is the crown jewel," I say to Ben-Shalom. He replies, "True."

At Yad Vashem, it's an item that someone pushed into some drawer. "My father thought something needed to be done so this letter would be recognized, would be read, would serve as testimony. That was very important to him. And luckily, I came upon the discovery that allowed me to fulfill this spiritual testament. Previously, it echoed in me that I had not succeeded. My father asked me to make something of it, and I didn't do it, I tried and didn't succeed. And this discovery in 2016, that this letter had a life of its own, allowed me to embark on this path, to expose the mystery, and ultimately to fulfill the testament.

"The initial impulse didn't come from the desire to fulfill the testament but from my curiosity as a historian. But during the journey, the testament was fulfilled. Although even now, not everything is resolved."

The existence of Dr. Altman became known to Ben-Shalom from an article by Alex Doron in Maariv. Ilya Altman explained in a meeting with Ben-Shalom in Moscow that if on the copy of the letter it says "sent," there is no doubt that the army sent the letter to Tel Aviv. The reason is simple – in Stalin's days, if you wrote such a thing and it turned out you hadn't sent it, it would end with a bullet in the back of your neck. But Altman was disappointed that Ben-Shalom hadn't brought the original copy with him; he so wanted to touch the paper and see Salomea's handwriting. Such an intimate relationship was also expressed by the German chaplain of one of the divisions of the 6th Army that fell into Russian captivity at Stalingrad, when he returned from Russian captivity in the 1950s. "Imagine, he takes sheets of makhorka (for rolling cigarettes), writes on them word for word the contents of the letter, and sews them inside his coat – knowing that this way it doesn't rustle and when leaving the USSR, they won't find it."

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Rabbi Joachim Prinz's journey from Nazi Germany to the forefront of the American civil rights movement is a remarkable testament to the power of standing up for justice. A fiery orator and a fearless leader, Prinz's life was driven by his commitment to fight against hatred and oppression. His legacy reminds us that silence in the face of injustice is the greatest crime of all.

Early life in Nazi Germany

Life for Jews in Europe has always been fraught with challenges. After gaining full rights as citizens in Germany, many Jewish families, including Prinz's, felt a sense of relief. However, this emancipation led to a troubling trend where many German Jews sought to assimilate into secular society, distancing themselves from their Jewish identity. For young Joachim Prinz, Judaism was almost non-existent. His father had renounced their Jewish heritage, and it was his mother who remained his only link to their faith.

After his mother's death, Prinz's connection to Judaism waned until he discovered Zionism. He secretly ordered Theodor Herzl's "The Jewish State," which ignited a passion for Jewish independence. This newfound pride in his Jewish identity propelled him toward a career in the rabbinate, even in the face of his father's opposition. By the time he graduated from rabbinical school, Prinz had become a charismatic speaker, drawing crowds to Germany's largest synagogues and restoring pride in the Jewish community.

As Hitler rose to power, the situation for Jews in Germany rapidly deteriorated. Prinz saw the writing on the wall and began warning his community about the impending dangers of Nazi antisemitism. Speaking out against the Nazis was perilous; he was hunted by the Nazi Secret Police, enduring arrests until he was ultimately expelled from Germany. This expulsion, while traumatic, turned out to be a blessing, as the German Jewish community would soon face unimaginable horrors in concentration camps.

Upon arriving in the United States, Prinz was invited by prominent American rabbis to settle in. Although he had visited before and was initially unimpressed by the rampant racism and social inequalities, he soon became a passionate advocate for civil rights. Prinz was deeply disturbed to find that some American Jews had adopted attitudes towards Black Americans that mirrored the racism they themselves faced. This realization fueled his commitment to ally with the African American community, a connection forged through shared experiences of oppression.

Joining the battle for racial equality

Rabbi Prinz's kinship with African Americans was evident as he witnessed the discrimination they faced. Segregation laws forced Black individuals to the back of buses, denied them service in restaurants, and required them to attend segregated schools. This parallel to his own experiences in Nazi Germany galvanized Prinz to take action. He reached out to Black religious and civil rights leaders, forging alliances that would prove crucial in the fight for equality.

When Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. emerged as a key figure in the civil rights movement, Prinz was inspired by his vision and invited him to speak at Jewish gatherings. Prinz didn't merely lend his voice; he marched alongside civil rights activists, participated in protests, and even picketed against segregationist policies at Woolworth's department stores. His activism was not just a political stance; it was a personal mission to combat injustice wherever it appeared.

March on Washington

The culmination of decades of struggle came to a head during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom in 1963. With over 250,000 people gathered at the Lincoln Memorial, this event marked a significant moment in American history. Rabbi Prinz stood among the leaders, moments before Dr. King's iconic "I Have a Dream" speech, delivering his own powerful message.

"The most important thing that I learned in my life is that the most urgent, the most disgraceful, the most shameful, and the most tragic problem is silence." His words resonated with millions, emphasizing the importance of speaking out against injustice. The March on Washington sent shockwaves across the nation and played a pivotal role in the eventual passage of the Civil Rights Act, which outlawed segregation and discrimination.

Despite the achievements of the civil rights movement, the aftermath of the March on Washington was not a panacea for racial tensions in America. The assassination of key figures like John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Dr. King left a void that led to disillusionment and anger within the African American community. The initial unity between Jewish and Black activists began to fray as socio-economic conditions diverged.

Jewish-Black unity disintegrates

As Jews in the United States became more successful and assimilated, some activists began to view them through a lens of suspicion, painting them as oppressors. This shift strained the once-strong alliance that Prinz had worked so hard to build. The very racism he had fought against within Jewish communities became a flashpoint in Black-Jewish relations, complicating the fight for equality.

Rabbi Prinz faced increasing hostility as tensions escalated. His synagogue in Newark became a target for radical groups, and he, himself, was threatened. Yet, despite these challenges, Prinz maintained his belief in coexistence and solidarity. He continued to engage with the African American community, fostering relationships that transcended the growing divides.

Even as some factions within the Jewish community opposed his more universalist approach to Judaism, Prinz remained committed to his vision of equality. He understood that pursuing justice was a core tenet of Jewish values, and he refused to abandon that principle. His move to a safe suburb with his congregation did not diminish his commitment; he insisted that his new synagogue have no stained glass windows, symbolizing a desire for clarity and transparency in a world often clouded by prejudice.

Rabbi Joachim Prinz passed away in 1988, leaving behind a legacy that continues to inspire. Today, when the causes of marginalized communities can often feel at odds, Prinz's message of unity remains crucial. He believed that we are all each other's neighbors and that the greatest challenge we face is not hate itself, but the silence of the majority in the face of it.

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In a powerful display of Jewish pride and resilience, hundreds of Jewish youth from across Europe gathered at Berlin's Brandenburg Gate, once a symbol of Nazi power, to celebrate their identity, despite rising antisemitism throughout the continent. The December 2024 gathering, organized by Chabad's global CTeen movement, brought together young Jewish leaders for a three-day conference focused on community building and cultural preservation in challenging times.

Standing where Hitler's forces once marched, they joined together in declaring "Shema Israel," followed by an uplifting performance of the beloved Israeli song "Od Yoter Tov" that has resonated throughout the Jewish world.

Over the three days, the youth engaged in a comprehensive program addressing their pressing concerns, including forthright discussions about the challenges facing Jewish communities and strategies for addressing them. The landmark gathering was led by Berlin's Chief Rabbi Yehuda Teichtal and attended by notable figures, including Israeli Ambassador to Germany Ron Prosor.

My message is clear: if there is one thing the October 7 massacre taught us, it is that terror is closer than we want to believe and that its violence knows no boundaries.

We, as Israelis, learned on that day that our enemies mean exactly what they say and will execute their… pic.twitter.com/4QQijkjkAD

— Ambassador Ron Prosor (@Ron_Prosor) December 13, 2024

 Founded fifteen years ago by Rabbi Moshe Kotlarsky, who heads Chabad's global emissary network, the organization aims to unite Jewish youth worldwide. "This distinctive youth movement represents the most effective path toward building the Jewish future globally," said his son and successor, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Kotlarsky.

The conference proceeded under heightened security measures, reflecting a particularly difficult year for Jewish communities worldwide, especially in Europe, where antisemitism metrics continue their concerning upward trend. Current data reveals that 44% of Jewish youth have faced antisemitic harassment, while 41% contemplate emigration due to safety concerns, and 45% avoid visible Jewish symbols.

"During these turbulent times across Europe, this seminar stands as compelling evidence that the Jewish people endure," Rabbi Teichtal reflected. "These challenging circumstances have actually strengthened the bonds among Jewish youth, who now share a deeper sense of family connection."

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In the darkest days of history, amidst the horrors of Auschwitz, one young Jewish prisoner accomplished the unimaginable. Walter Rosenberg, later known as Rudolf Vrba, not only survived the Nazis' infamous death camp but also escaped with vital evidence of their atrocities. His story is one of resilience, courage, and the fierce determination to save others.

Life before Auschwitz

Walter Rosenberg was just a teenager when his life took a harrowing turn. At 17, he was living in Slovakia when the government ordered the Jewish community to prepare for deportation. Instead of complying with what he deemed a "stupid instruction," Walter stripped off his yellow star and attempted to flee to England. His goal was not just safety; he wanted to join the fight against the Nazis.

Unfortunately, his escape was short-lived. Hungarian guards captured him at the border, subjected him to brutal beatings, and sent him back to a labor camp in Slovakia. This was merely the beginning of his suffering. Walter tried to escape again, only to find himself at the Majdanek Concentration Camp, where conditions were even worse. Starvation, disease, and violence reigned supreme, with the Nazis instilling fear through gruesome displays of power.

Arrival at Auschwitz

After enduring the horrors of Majdanek, Walter found himself crammed into a cattle car heading to Auschwitz. Upon arrival, he witnessed the horrific process that separated men from women and boys from girls. Most of the newcomers were led to what they believed were showers, only to be gassed to death. Walter's job soon became grim; he was tasked with removing the bodies of those who had perished and sorting through their belongings, which revealed the victims' false hopes of relocation.

The Nazis viewed their victims not as humans but as resources to be exploited. Wedding rings, gold teeth, and even hair were repurposed to fund the war effort. Walter recognized that the key to the Nazis' operation was keeping the victims unaware of their fate. He understood that if the prisoners realized the truth, they could resist and potentially disrupt the entire system.

The seed of resistance

Determined to warn the remaining Jews of Europe, Walter began to formulate a plan. His mission became clear: he needed to escape Auschwitz and tell the world about the genocide happening within its walls. While confined in the camp's hospital due to illness, he encountered a member of the resistance who provided him with medicine and hope.

Walter secured a position as a registrar, meticulously recording the names and details of fellow prisoners. His keen observational skills allowed him to gather crucial information about the camp's operations, including the construction of a new railway line intended for transporting more Jews to their deaths. As he learned about the impending deportation of Hungarian Jews, he knew he had to act quickly.

Planning the escape

Walter and fellow inmate Alfred Wetzler began to strategize their escape. They analyzed previous attempts, learning from the mistakes of others. They determined that the outer perimeter of the camp was less guarded during the day, providing a potential opportunity for escape. On April 7, 1944, unbeknownst to them, they would begin a journey on the same Hebrew date of the ancient Israelites' flight from Egyptian slavery.

They hollowed out a space in a woodpile, hiding there for three days while the guards searched for them. Finally, the search ceased, and they emerged, weak but free from the confines of Auschwitz.

For eleven nights, Walter and Alfred traversed enemy territory, using their wits to survive. They relied on stolen food and fresh water from streams, pushing through exhaustion and fear. Upon reaching the Slovakian border, they contacted the Slovak Jewish Council, ready to share the truth about Auschwitz.

However, their reception was not what they had hoped for. The council members, unaware of the full scope of the horrors, asked naive questions that frustrated Walter. He had just escaped a hell on earth and was met with skepticism. Nevertheless, he and Alfred recounted their harrowing experiences, detailing the genocide they had witnessed.

The Vrba-Wetzler Report

In the days that followed, Walter and Alfred dictated their findings to a typist, creating what would become known as the Vrba-Wetzler Report. This 40-page document contained chilling details about the camp, including the layout, the number of victims, and the methodology of the Nazis. They estimated that 1.75 million Jews had been murdered at Auschwitz since June 1942.

Despite the urgency of their message, the Slovak Jewish Council delayed action, leading Walter to despair. His mission to save lives seemed thwarted by indecision. Nevertheless, the report was eventually disseminated, reaching influential figures in Europe and beyond.

The Vrba-Wetzler Report garnered media attention and raised alarm bells internationally. Although it provided critical insight into the atrocities at Auschwitz, the response from Jewish leaders was mixed. Many were hesitant to act, fearing panic might worsen the situation. In Hungary, the situation grew dire as deportations continued despite the warnings.

Rudolf Kasztner, a prominent figure in the Hungarian Jewish community, was given the report. He delayed the publishing of the report in order to maintain his negotiations with the Nazis to save Hungarian Jews. In the end, he only managed to save 1,600 Jews, including himself and his family. Walter's resentment toward Kastner would linger for the rest of his life as he grappled with the consequences of delayed action.

Legacy of resistance

Despite the challenges, Walter's escape and the subsequent report eventually led to significant political pressure on Hungary to halt the deportations. World powers, including the British and American governments, intervened, and by July 9, 1944, the deportations ceased. Walter's efforts had not been in vain; his courage had saved lives.

After the war, Walter, now Rudolf Vrba, rebuilt his life. He became a biochemist, married, and had two daughters. He testified at the Nuremberg Trials, ensuring that the perpetrators of the Holocaust faced justice. His memoirs and continued advocacy against Holocaust denial kept the memory of the atrocities alive, serving as a reminder of the dangers of ignorance and indifference. In a world where the lessons of history can be forgotten or denied, Walter's story remains a powerful reminder of the importance of bearing witness and taking action in the face of injustice.

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As Europe grapples with a surge in antisemitism, one of Germany's most prominent Jewish leaders draws haunting parallels between current events and the infamous Night of Broken Glass. Dr. Charlotte Knobloch, who witnessed Kristallnacht as a six-year-old child, warns that public indifference today echoes the silence that preceded one of history's darkest chapters.

"I can still see the crowds, smell the burning synagogue, feel the heat of the flames," recalls Dr. Knobloch, her voice steady despite the weight of the memory. "We crept through back alleys and forests, desperately trying to hide my father – a well-known Munich attorney and senator. The next day's destruction is seared into my memory. The Nazis, I believe, orchestrated this chaos to gauge public reaction. The German people's silence spoke volumes."

Dr. Knobloch, who last week celebrated her 92nd birthday, serves as president of Munich's Jewish Community and stands as one of Germany's most influential Jewish voices. On that fateful night in 1938, her father, Fritz Neuland, received an anonymous phone call warning of imminent danger. He quickly gathered his family – all except his mother, who refused to leave – and attempted to reach his law office nearby, which he shared with the later Bavarian Prime Minister Wilhelm Hoegner.

A cautionary call to his office revealed the gravity of their situation. When an unfamiliar voice answered, Neuland, disguising his identity, inquired about his own whereabouts. The response – "We're also searching for Fritz Neuland" – confirmed his worst fears. That night, the Neuland family wandered Munich's darkened streets seeking sanctuary. Their attempt to warn a family friend ended in horror as they witnessed him being dragged from his home, bloodied, and beaten. This friend would later perish in Dachau after a brief release from an initial concentration camp internment.

"For a child, the terror was incomprehensible," Dr. Knobloch reflects, her gaze distant. "I couldn't understand why firefighters ignored the burning buildings. SS troops smashed windows and kicked down doors, dragging people into the street. Though I already knew Jews were unwelcome in Germany, watching this violence unfold – feeling the cold, sensing the panic – overwhelmed me. When I began to cry, my father held me close, warning that my tears could betray us. The mob didn't yet know we were Jewish, but discovery meant certain death in that atmosphere of hatred."

By nightfall, the family found refuge with a non-Jewish friend in Munich's outskirts. The violence of November 9-10, 1938, left hundreds of Jews dead, thousands arrested, and countless more deported to concentration camps. Synagogues across Germany burned while Jewish-owned businesses and property faced wholesale destruction. The Nazi-sanctioned "popular uprising" raged unchecked by law enforcement until dawn.

After the Holocaust claimed several family members, Dr. Knobloch married and contemplated leaving Munich. Circumstances kept her in Germany, where her father joined approximately 60 Jewish survivors in rebuilding Munich's devastated Jewish community.

Decades of relative calm followed, but recent years have brought disturbing changes. The rise of populist parties, particularly the far-right Alternative for Germany – some of whose members express Nazi sympathies – along with anti-Israel demonstrations at universities and growing fear among German Jews about wearing religious symbols in public, deeply trouble Dr. Knobloch.

"Today's Germany eerily echoes the 1920s," she observes. "Hitler's rise wasn't supernatural – he was democratically elected. While Jewish life here has evolved significantly since the 1930s and 40s, and antisemitism plagues the entire world, not just Germany, the crucial question remains: How does the public respond? Will people remain indifferent? Education and accurate historical information are our strongest weapons against hate."

In response to these concerns, Dr. Knobloch has partnered with the Claims Conference to launch an innovative virtual reality experience. The project, "Inside View of Kristallnacht," developed in collaboration with Meta, UNESCO, and USC Shoah, allows young people to witness the events through a child's eyes – her eyes. This educational initiative, designed for schools and institutions, harnesses cutting-edge technology to illustrate the dangers of antisemitism and xenophobia while highlighting hate speech's devastating consequences.

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A new report has uncovered disturbing findings in one of Switzerland's most prestigious art collections, suggesting that dozens of works may have been looted from Jewish owners during the Holocaust. The investigation into the Bührle Collection has reignited debates about the ethical responsibilities of museums and collectors in addressing the complex legacy of Nazi-era art theft.

A report led by German historian Raphael Gross has found that dozens of artworks displayed as part of the Bührle Collection, one of Switzerland's most esteemed art collections, likely originated from Jewish art collections plundered by the Nazis during the Holocaust.

Swiss Museum Removes Nazi-Looted Art

Kunsthaus Zurich is removing five paintings amid suspicions they were looted by Nazis. The works, part of the Emil Bührle Collection, include pieces by Monet, Van Gogh, Courbet, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Gauguin. Emil Bührle, an arms dealer… pic.twitter.com/POglGKuYbq

— Global (@globevids) June 15, 2024

 The report concluded that the collection's curators did not do enough to investigate the origins of the works. Gross stated that while the Bührle Family Foundation, responsible for the collection, conducted extensive research, it did not meet the standards set by Swiss authorities and the Kunsthaus Zurich, where the collection is exhibited. Gross determined that the foundation did not take adequate measures to ensure that works with indications of having been owned by "people persecuted by Nazi Germany" were excluded from display.

The investigation led by Gross's committee identified 62 works out of 205 that may have been stolen from Jews during World War II. This report not only confirms accusations against the Bührle Foundation that emerged three years ago but also significantly expands the scope of suspicions.

The Swiss newspaper Neue Zürcher Zeitung alleges that the collection's creator, local tycoon Emil Bührle, was notorious for his unscrupulous methods of acquiring artworks, including purchasing entire collections from German citizens during World War II. Gross emphatically stated, "Without the Jewish collections, or to phrase it differently, without the persecution of Jews, this collection would never have been created."

An independent report finds the Bührle Foundation's provenance research on its collection on show at the Zurich Kunsthaus is "inadequate" and that the former Jewish owners of many works are omitted from its published findings. https://t.co/nW3yMRh99t

— Catherine Hickley (@CathyHickley) June 28, 2024

 The report reveals that industrialist Emil Bührle amassed his fortune by selling weapons to Nazi Germany and profited from the forced labor of women in concentration camps. Between 1936 and 1956, Bührle built his exceptional art collection, comprising about 600 works by renowned artists. This period coincided with a time when the art market was flooded with paintings stolen from Jewish collectors or sold far below their value under duress.

Gideon Taylor, President of the World Jewish Restitution Organization (WJRO), which spearheads international efforts on this issue, called for action: "We urge other institutions to follow Zurich's example and adopt the working methods on looted art that we published in March in collaboration with the US State Department." Taylor emphasized, "The importance of the struggle to return looted art lies in restoring cultural heritage and honoring those affected by the Holocaust, while ensuring that these valuable items are returned to their rightful owners. This report further underscores the need for ongoing examination and the establishment of a dedicated committee to ensure justice is served."

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