A few days after Holocaust Remembrance Day and while the diseased Democrats among us toy with nominating a Communist for president it’s good to remember who dies when these diseased minds take control. On the Holocaust – Martin van Creveld notes I want to present you with a long quote on the topic. A sort of catharsis, if you will. It was written by the Jewish-Soviet author Vassily Grossman (1905-64) and refers to the autumn of 1943. About two and a half years into the Russo-German war, at a time when the author was attached to the Red Army as it re-occupied the Ukraine. I came across it by accident not long ago, and it has been haunting me ever since.
“Killed were the old artisans and experienced craftsmen: tailors, haters, cobblers, tin-smiths, jewelers, painters, furriers, and bookbinders; killed were the workers, porters, mechanics, electricians, carpenters, stonemasons, and plumbers; killed were the wagoners, tractor operators, truck drivers, and cabinet-makers; killed were the water carriers, millers, bakers, and cooks; killed were the doctors; physicians, dentists, surgeons, and gynecologists; killed were the scientists: bacteriologists, biochemists, and directors of university clinics, killed were the history, algebra, and trigonometry teachers; killed were the lecturers, assistant professors, asters and PhD’s, killed were the civil engineers, architects, and engine designers; killed were the accountants, bookkeepers, salesmen, supply gents, secretaries, and night guards; killed were the grade school teachers and seamstresses; killed were the grandmothers who knew how to knit socks, bake tasty cookies, cook chicken soup, and make apple strudels with nuts, as well as the grandmothers who could not do any of those things but could only love their children and their children’s children; killed were the women who were faithful to their husbands and the loose women too; killed were the beautiful girls, serious students, and giggly schoolgirls; killed were the plain and the foolish; killed were the hunchbacks, killed were the singers, killed were the blind, killed were the deaf, killed were the violinists and pianists, killed were the two- and three year-olds; killed were the eighty-year old men with their eyes clouded by cataracts, their old transparent fingers and soft voices like rustling paper; and killed were the crying babies sucking at their mothers’ breasts to the very last moment.”