Wilhelm Brasse risked his life so the Nazis couldn't hide their atrocities

Photographer Wilhelm Brasse in 1938, before his imprisonment in Auschwitz

Photographer Wilhelm Brasse in 1938, before his imprisonment in Auschwitz

There was no reason to suppose that January 15, 1945, would be a different day from any other. Morning roll-call took place as usual. The Auschwitz guards were still weeding out the weakest and dragging them off to their deaths.

That evening, after yet another roll call, Wilhelm Brasse was walking back to the photographic studio where he worked when his boss came roaring up on a motorbike. Skidding to a halt on the frozen ground, SS Oberscharführer Walter shouted over the sound of the engine: ‘The Russians are coming! Burn all the photographs, everything. Do it now!’

Before speeding off, he bellowed: ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning to make sure everything’s gone. Do you understand?’

For four grim years, Brasse had been taking photographs of inmates and new arrivals at the concentration camp. Always three standard poses: profile, three-quarters view and looking straight at the camera. He calculated he must have taken 50,000 sets — and nearly all were now dead.

He knew what he had to do. Racing back to the studio, he started pulling out packets of negatives and piling them on a table. Memories assailed him — of defiant gypsies; of starving Jews destined immediately for the gas chamber; of men, women and children tortured in diabolical experiments.

They were all there, and he could tell the story behind so many of them — though he’d probably be dead himself by tomorrow. ‘But these people won’t die,’ he told himself. Not if he could help it.

Working with a colleague, he quickly scattered negatives, rolls of film and printed pictures all over the floor to make it less likely the SS could take everything with them, should they decide to leave Auschwitz in a hurry. When they’d finished, his colleague said bleakly: ‘Tomorrow morning, Walter will put a bullet through our heads.’

For four grim years, Brasse had been taking photographs of inmates and new arrivals at the concentration camp. Always three standard poses: profile, three-quarters view and looking straight at the camera. He calculated he must have taken 50,000 sets ¿ and nearly all were now dead (file image)

For four grim years, Brasse had been taking photographs of inmates and new arrivals at the concentration camp. Always three standard poses: profile, three-quarters view and looking straight at the camera. He calculated he must have taken 50,000 sets — and nearly all were now dead (file image)

Brasse felt calm, even serene. Before locking up the studio, he heaped all the furniture against the door. The SS would get in eventually, of course, but this might at least delay them.

That night, in his barracks, Brasse couldn’t sleep. In the morning he attended roll-call, then sat on the front steps of the studio and waited for death …

Polish by birth, Brasse had been deported as a political prisoner to Auschwitz in August 1940 for refusing to join the German army.

On arrival the deputy commandant had addressed them: ‘Here, a Jew lives for two weeks, a priest for three. An ordinary prisoner might live three months. But all must die. If you remember that, you will suffer less.’

Of the 438 people who arrived with Brasse, then aged 23, most died within weeks. He himself endured terrible suffering during his first months in Auschwitz.

Polish by birth, Brasse had been deported as a political prisoner to Auschwitz in August 1940 for refusing to join the German army. Pictured: Stefania Stiebler who was imprisoned in Auschwitz in June 1942

Polish by birth, Brasse had been deported as a political prisoner to Auschwitz in August 1940 for refusing to join the German army. Pictured: Stefania Stiebler who was imprisoned in Auschwitz in June 1942

Forced to carry out extremely hard labour in inhumane conditions, he helped to construct the road between the railway station and the crematorium and transported corpses for incineration.

He was saved from imminent death when the SS decided they needed proper records of those they exterminated.

Picked out because he had once been a photographer, Brasse was set to work for the Auschwitz Identification Service. The job was simple enough: men and women would line up outside the studio each morning, accompanied by a kapo — inmates who were often just as brutal as their Nazi masters. Anyone talking was beaten.

Prisoners would sit on a revolving chair, fixed to the floor, while Brasse took their pictures. A colleague would later label the prints with camp numbers, nationalities and reasons for being there. Sometimes Brasse felt guilty: he had double the bread ration of ordinary prisoners and a job that had, so far, kept him alive. But what could he do for those about to die?

Nothing, he reasoned, but out of respect for the prisoners he secretly retouched many of the photographs. One day, somebody would see these images, and he wanted that person to understand that these were men and women, not animals.

Of the 438 people who arrived with Brasse, then aged 23, most died within weeks. He himself endured terrible suffering during his first months in Auschwitz. Pictured: Krystyna Trzesniewska who arrived at the concentration camp in 1942

Of the 438 people who arrived with Brasse, then aged 23, most died within weeks. He himself endured terrible suffering during his first months in Auschwitz. Pictured: Krystyna Trzesniewska who arrived at the concentration camp in 1942

But he also protected himself, unwilling to witness their suffering. When he walked to the studio each day, he kept his head down. He didn’t want to see a prisoner being beaten; a deportee standing for hours in the snow; a sick person dragging himself along, waiting for the final blow. The less he saw, the less he’d be forced to remember.

He relished his long hours in the darkroom: at Auschwitz, having access to a place with no view was a piece of great good fortune.

Meanwhile, the fear that he could be killed at any moment never left him.

One day, Brasse recognised three Jews in the queue at the studio. A chemist, a clothes-shop owner and an inn-keeper from his Polish home town of Zywiec.

The number of times he or his mother had greeted them in the street! The times he’d gone into the chemist’s shop on some errand or other, or his mother had bought offcuts of cloth from Schwarz!

He was saved from imminent death when the SS decided they needed proper records of those they exterminated. Picked out because he had once been a photographer, Brasse was set to work for the Auschwitz Identification Service. Pictured: Gottlieb Wagner who was given prisoner number 17850

He was saved from imminent death when the SS decided they needed proper records of those they exterminated. Picked out because he had once been a photographer, Brasse was set to work for the Auschwitz Identification Service. Pictured: Gottlieb Wagner who was given prisoner number 17850

Brasse’s legs were trembling, but he smiled warmly at the men and gave each a cigarette.

Wachsberger, the innkeeper, winked at him. ‘When all this is over,’ he whispered, ‘you can come and have a meal on the house.’

The photographer wanted to cry. The men had been brought in by the worst kapo of them all, a Pole who enjoyed murdering prisoners. Wacek Ruski’s favourite method was to knock them to the ground, throw a shovel handle across their necks and then stand on it — not with all his weight, just enough to suffocate them slowly.

After they’d left, Brasse turned to Ruski. ‘Wacek, please, if you have to murder those three Jews, kill them so that they don’t suffer,’ he pleaded. The kapo was unmoved: ‘Are you mad? I’ll kill them however I like!’

It was only later that Brasse reflected on what he’d done. He’d effectively asked a murderer to kill three people he knew. To kill kindly, but to kill nonetheless. One week on, he found out all three were dead: shot with a pistol up against a wall.

The job was simple enough: men and women would line up outside the studio each morning, accompanied by a kapo ¿ inmates who were often just as brutal as their Nazi masters. Anyone talking was beaten. Pictured: Rozalia Kowalczyk who was registered as prisoner number 39845

The job was simple enough: men and women would line up outside the studio each morning, accompanied by a kapo — inmates who were often just as brutal as their Nazi masters. Anyone talking was beaten. Pictured: Rozalia Kowalczyk who was registered as prisoner number 39845

On a spring day in 1941, Brasse photographed an unusual new arrival: a Polish Franciscan monk, still in his habit. His name was Father Kolbe. His face radiated goodness, and Brasse wished he’d been able to speak to him.

Then, one morning in August, he saw Father Kolbe again.

A prisoner had escaped two days earlier, and Karl Fritzsch, the Auschwitz deputy commandant, had ordered reprisals. During roll-call that morning, while everyone stood to attention, he selected ten men at random to be starved. None of those picked out said a word — until Fritzsch came to a man who suddenly started screaming hysterically about having a wife and children.

Brasse expected the man to be shot then and there. Instead, everyone’s attention suddenly switched to Father Kolbe, now in ragged clothes, who walked right up to the commandant and said loudly: ‘Let me take this prisoner’s place. I’m old and I have no family.’

The sobbing prisoner was allowed to live a little longer, and Kolbe was marched away with the other nine men. He died after ten days of starvation. It was, thought Brasse, a heroic but senseless death that achieved nothing.

A prisoner had escaped two days earlier, and Karl Fritzsch, the Auschwitz deputy commandant, had ordered reprisals. During roll-call that morning, while everyone stood to attention, he selected ten men at random to be starved

A prisoner had escaped two days earlier, and Karl Fritzsch, the Auschwitz deputy commandant, had ordered reprisals. During roll-call that morning, while everyone stood to attention, he selected ten men at random to be starved

By his third year as the Auschwitz photographer, the work began to ease up because Walter had told him he no longer needed to photograph Jews. ‘It’s completely pointless,’ said the SS officer. ‘Their fate is sealed — they’ll die. We only waste film and paper by registering them.’

Not long afterwards, a man came in to be photographed, wearing a sports jacket, with a shock of unruly dark hair and a ready smile — he was the first SS officer Brasse had seen out of uniform.

Walter introduced him as Captain Josef Mengele, ‘one of the best doctors in the camp and one of the most promising scientists in the whole of the Reich’.

The doctor was so pleased with the picture Brasse took that he asked him to document his medical research.

A few days later, Mengele’s secretary and a female kapo brought round some of Mengele’s research subjects: four Jewish girls, all shaking and unsteady on their legs.

By his third year as the Auschwitz photographer, the work began to ease up because Walter had told him he no longer needed to photograph Jews. ¿It¿s completely pointless,¿ said the SS officer. ¿Their fate is sealed ¿ they¿ll die. We only waste film and paper by registering them.¿ Pictured: Czesawa Kwoka who had been assaulted by Kapo Wacek Ruski before her portrait had been taken

By his third year as the Auschwitz photographer, the work began to ease up because Walter had told him he no longer needed to photograph Jews. ‘It’s completely pointless,’ said the SS officer. ‘Their fate is sealed — they’ll die. We only waste film and paper by registering them.’ Pictured: Czesawa Kwoka who had been assaulted by Kapo Wacek Ruski before her portrait had been taken

They were two sets of twins, aged about 12 and 15, and so thin that their uniforms hung off their bodies. They gazed around like baby sparrows begging for compassion. Mengele wanted full-lengths of them naked. Once the girls understood they had to undress, they began to cry silently.

Brasse had an idea. Grabbing a large screen used as a backdrop for portraits of the SS, he told them to undress behind it.

After they’d done so, they came out, taking small steps and holding hands. Their eyes expressed their shame.

Peering through the viewfinder, Brasse realised they were actually starving. Their ribs were sticking out, and their stomachs and thighs so sunken that he could have encircled them with his hands. He had to wipe away his tears.

Whispering, he asked the secretary — herself a Polish prisoner —what Mengele did to the girls. All she knew, she said, was that he measured and weighed them.

By his fourth year, the pace of killing had increased. To keep up, the Germans had resorted to burning hundreds of corpses on pyres. A few brave prisoners risked their lives to take pictures of these with an illicit camera ¿ and asked Brasse to develop the film so it could be smuggled out. Pictured: Jozef Pysz who had been imprisoned in July 1940

By his fourth year, the pace of killing had increased. To keep up, the Germans had resorted to burning hundreds of corpses on pyres. A few brave prisoners risked their lives to take pictures of these with an illicit camera — and asked Brasse to develop the film so it could be smuggled out. Pictured: Jozef Pysz who had been imprisoned in July 1940

Dr Mengele’s criminal experiments on twins, which inevitably ended with their deaths, were not yet known even to his secretary.

Before the girls left, Brasse leapt into his darkroom to collect some bread and asked her to give it to them secretly. She nodded.

Later, he was suddenly filled with unbearable anguish. Keep on forgetting, Brasse told himself. Every day, delete what you saw the day before. Live only in the moment.

Over the next few weeks, there were more sets of young twins to photograph.

Mengele was delighted with the photographer’s work: clearly Brasse had passed some sort of test. The subjects sent to him now included very sick prisoners on whom the doctor inflicted absurd and pitiless treatments. Once, Mengele even sent over eight of their corpses to be photographed.

Brasse never did forget the horrors he¿d tried so hard at first to blank out. He helped create the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and spent many years educating young people, especially Germans, about the Holocaust

Brasse never did forget the horrors he’d tried so hard at first to blank out. He helped create the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and spent many years educating young people, especially Germans, about the Holocaust

By his fourth year, the pace of killing had increased. To keep up, the Germans had resorted to burning hundreds of corpses on pyres.

A few brave prisoners risked their lives to take pictures of these with an illicit camera — and asked Brasse to develop the film so it could be smuggled out.

He’d done it. And that had prompted him to start thinking more deeply about his years of complicity with his SS bosses. Could he do more?

He recalled with shame how he’d once viewed Father Kolbe’s sacrifice as senseless. Three years on, he was tormented by the memory of the monk who’d given up his life to save a man who was now almost certainly dead himself.

Finally, Brasse came to a decision: he wanted to achieve something good. And that meant being ready to risk death.

He passed medicine, hidden in a tripod case, to the women’s section, then began falsifying documents for prisoners trying to escape. And in September 1944, he smuggled out photographs he’d taken of prisoners being tortured.

Brasse (pictured) was taken to a concentration camp in Austria, and liberated from there by American soldiers at the beginning of May 1945. Still only 27, he returned to his home town and was reunited with his parents and five brothers

Brasse (pictured) was taken to a concentration camp in Austria, and liberated from there by American soldiers at the beginning of May 1945. Still only 27, he returned to his home town and was reunited with his parents and five brothers

Photography had been his salvation so far. Perhaps it could now become his weapon.

On January 16, 1945, the day after Brasse had strewn his work all over the studio and jammed the door, he was sitting on the steps, waiting for his SS boss to arrive, and pull out his pistol and shoot him for disobeying orders.

But hours went by and Walter didn’t come. Although the Russian army would not arrive at Auschwitz for another 11 days, the SS officers who ran the Identification Service had already fled.

Brasse never went back into the studio. Over the next few days, amid shouts and confusion, contradictory orders and terrible threats, the evacuation operation began.

On the morning of January 21, 1945, Brasse was lined up with all prisoners in a fit state to walk. As they filed out through the main gates, they wondered if they were marching to their deaths.

The camp photographer managed one last glance back at the studio block, still securely closed. One day soon, he hoped, the Russians would make good use of the memorial that he’d risked his life to entrust to them and to the world.

Brasse was taken to a concentration camp in Austria, and liberated from there by American soldiers at the beginning of May 1945. Still only 27, he returned to his home town and was reunited with his parents and five brothers.

Needing to rebuild a life for himself, he thought of pursuing his profession as a photographer, but quickly realised that he couldn’t do it. Every time he looked through the viewfinder, he saw the victims of Auschwitz. He never picked up a camera again.

The rest of his life was peaceful: he married, and had two children and five grandchildren.

But Brasse never did forget the horrors he’d tried so hard at first to blank out. He helped create the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and spent many years educating young people, especially Germans, about the Holocaust.

It was his fervent wish that those ‘thousands of photographs will speak for ever’. They were indeed found by the Soviets liberating the camp and it’s thought they were used in testimony at the Nuremberg trials. We owe to him the survival of these vital reminders of the horrors of Auschwitz.

Wilhelm Brasse died in his home town of Zywiec in 2012.

Adapted by Corinna Honan from The Auschwitz Photographer by Luca Crippa and Maurizio Onnis, published by Doubleday on March 11 at £14.99. © Luca Crippa and Maurizio Onnis 2021. To order a copy for £13.19 (offer valid to March 20, 2021; UK P&P free on orders over £20), visit www.mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3308 9193.

source: dailymail.co.uk