Tag: Eva Mozes Kor

By Jill Szoo Wilson

The story that follows is told in Holocaust survivor and Mengele Twin Eva Mozes Kor’s voice. This is a story she shared with me as we traveled together from Kraków to Oświęcim, the Polish town where Auschwitz was built. Along the way, I listened as she recounted her journey back to Auschwitz for the 50th anniversary of its liberation. It was a moment in history few people remember, yet one that reveals the depth of her courage, the radical nature of her forgiveness, and the unwavering strength with which she bore witness to the truth.

When Eva told me this story, I could hear in her voice the weight of the moment; the way history and memory collided as she stepped back into Auschwitz, not as a prisoner, but as a witness. She had spent decades making sure the world never forgot what happened there, but on that day, she had something different to say.

Marking 50 Years Since Liberation

On January 27, 1995, the world gathered at Auschwitz to mark the 50th anniversary of its liberation.

Leaders from across the globe stood in front of the infamous barbed wire fences and crumbling barracks, delivering solemn speeches about the horrors of the past in tones that varied from hushed to bellowing. A thread of solemnity wove through the crowd, pulling us into one another like a tightening rope around our waists. Once captive, now captured by the stories being retold.

Holocaust survivors—our numbers dwindling—listened as our memories were etched into the cold Oświęcim air. One man’s narrative is another man’s memory, which is to say that when I hear someone else recount what has been on endless replay in my mind for decades, I often feel as though I am watching my own past from the outside. Even as we stood shoulder to shoulder, bound by this shared history, our experiences were never the same. Auschwitz was a microcosm of the world. A place where suffering was universal, yet deeply individual.

There were ceremonies, memorials, and moments of silence. Each event lined up like dominoes, one after another, predictably falling in order. But what I had planned for the day was outside anyone’s expectations. I was the lone domino, waiting to begin a new movement altogether.

I had come back to Auschwitz this time not just as a survivor, but as a witness. I was standing beside a man who had once served the very system that tried to erase me. Dr. Hans Münch, a former Nazi doctor who had worked at the camp, had agreed to return with me, not to justify or deny, but to publicly confirm the existence and operation of the gas chambers.

It was a moment of historical significance; a Nazi doctor and a survivor standing together.

Not as enemies, but as two people willing to confront the truth.

And yet, as it would turn out, almost no one wanted to hear it.

A Historic Day at Auschwitz and Birkenau

On this anniversary, the official ceremonies took place at Auschwitz I, where German President Roman Herzog, Polish President Lech Wałęsa, and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel stood before the infamous “Arbeit Macht Frei” gate. They spoke of memory and responsibility, of the scars left on generations and the duty to remember. Their words did not merely recount the past—they pressed upon the present, urging the world to acknowledge its capacity for both devastation and conscience, and to ensure that such horrors never happen again.

Commemoration stretched beyond the main camp. Survivors also returned to Birkenau (Auschwitz II), the vast extermination site where nearly a million Jews were murdered. They walked the long, desolate paths between the barracks, stood before the ruins of the gas chambers, and faced the remnants of the crematoria—structures the Nazis had tried to destroy in an attempt to erase evidence of their crimes. Yet the absence of intact buildings did nothing to lessen the presence of those who had perished there.

For many survivors, this was more than a visit to a memorial; it was a return to the last place their parents, siblings, and children had drawn breath. They stood where their families had vanished into smoke, stepping into the hollowness of birthdays never celebrated, anniversaries never reached, and futures that had been stolen before they had a chance to unfold. Some whispered names into the air, speaking to their loved ones who had no graves, only this earth—this soil heavy with the petrified ash and unending goodbyes.

Birkenau is where I spent most of my time as a prisoner in the barracks set apart for Mengele Twins.

As I listened to the speeches, I respected the calls to remembrance and responsibility. But I was also remembering something else.

Fifty years earlier, I had sensed a shift in the camp. There weren’t as many Nazi soldiers around. Some of the guard towers stood empty for hours at a time. More planes flew overhead. The atmosphere felt different, and for the first time in years, I let myself wonder if something was about to change.

That flickering hope had finally ignited the moment I saw the Soviet soldiers come through the gates.

They were big men with kind faces, their shock evident as they took in the horrors around them. For so long, every uniform had meant danger, every stranger had been a threat. But then—of all things—they handed us chocolate, cookies, and hugs. They treated us not as prisoners but as children. Like human beings. And in that moment, for the first time in years, I let myself believe that I was safe. Or at least rescued.

Fifty years later, I was back. Of my own choosing. With a Nazi doctor.

Life certainly is surprising.

Who Was Dr. Hans Münch?

Dr. Hans Münch was one of the very few Nazi doctors at Auschwitz who refused to participate in mass murder, which is a distinction that set him apart but did not absolve him from the system he served.

Unlike Dr. Josef Mengele, who conducted horrific experiments on children—including myself and my twin sister, Miriam—Münch refused to take part in selections at the gas chambers. Instead, he focused on medical research and was known to falsify documents to help prisoners avoid execution.

After the war, he stood among other SS doctors at the Dachau Trials in 1947, facing accusations of war crimes. He was the only Nazi physician acquitted. Survivors had testified on his behalf, describing how he had, in small but deliberate ways, tried to save lives.

When I first met Dr. Münch, I did not know what to expect. I knew the facts, including his acquittal, and the testimonies in his defense. But I also knew this: he had still worn the uniform. He had still walked free while so many had perished.

I asked him a single question.

“Do you remember what happened in the gas chambers at Auschwitz?”

He did not hesitate.

“It’s the nightmare I live with every day of my life.”

In that moment, something shifted.

Until then, I had never imagined that a Nazi doctor could carry the weight of Auschwitz. That one of them could feel remorse—not performative, not evasive, but real. And, most importantly, he did not deny it.

He was not rewriting history.
He was not justifying his actions.
He was acknowledging the truth.

And that was why I asked him to sign a statement confirming the existence of the gas chambers.

He agreed.

A Story No One Wanted to Hear

I spent the day walking through the camp with my group, handing out leaflets about our press conference.

A survivor of Auschwitz had forgiven a Nazi. A Nazi was speaking openly about the crimes of his own regime. This should have been important.

And yet, as I passed out the leaflets, people turned away.

Some refused to meet my eyes. Others shook their heads, waved me off, hurried past. A few took the paper from my hands but crumpled it before they had even read the words. It was as if they couldn’t bear to hold it, as if touching the idea itself was too much.

They didn’t want to hear about forgiveness.

I turned to my group and said, “If I had shot or killed a Nazi, the entire world press would want to talk to me.”

And I knew I was right.

The world is far more comfortable with stories of revenge and punishment than it is with stories of forgiveness and reconciliation.

The Press Didn’t Show Up

That evening, we held our press conference–a once-in-a-lifetime event.

There were hundreds of journalists at Auschwitz for the 50th anniversary. Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled into their notepads. They had spent the day capturing solemn reflections, moments of silence, and speeches delivered from podiums draped in flags. They had written their headlines before they even arrived.

But what we were about to share didn’t fit the story they had come to tell.

Only six showed up.

A reporter from an Israeli newspaper. A German magazine journalist. TV reporters from France, Sweden, Israel, and the Netherlands.

That was it.

I wasn’t expecting a standing ovation. I wasn’t expecting a Nobel Peace Prize. But I had hoped for a fair discussion.

Instead, the questions felt like tiny knives.

They didn’t ask Dr. Münch about what he had witnessed.
They didn’t ask about his knowledge of the gas chambers.
They didn’t ask why he had agreed to stand beside me and bear witness.

Instead, they turned on me.

They questioned my decision to meet with him. They asked how he had avoided prosecution, ignoring the fact that he had been tried three times and saved by the testimony of thirty Auschwitz inmates.

I had expected the press to be interested in his testimony.

I had hoped they would want to document the facts he had come to share.

Instead, all they wanted to know was how he had escaped punishment.

I left feeling drained, disappointed, and frustrated.

But what I didn’t know was that the next day, the moment that mattered most was still waiting for me.

A Candle No One Expected

The next day, on January 28, we gathered at the Auschwitz I crematorium to light candles in memory of those who were killed there. If you’ve never been to this place, there are some intangible details that defy anything photography or video could capture. And I don’t think that’s only because walking through the small entry roughly cut out of the cement brings to mind everything you already know about what happened here. The crematorium isn’t heavy with memories alone. It isn’t a place where our minds lead the way with well established ideas and theories on how to process tragedy. Instead, it’s a place where the atmosphere takes over and your mind bows itself in reverance to that which already exists there.

Speaking as Jill now: the first time I laid eyes on the crematorium at Auschwitz I hestitated. This moment occurred right after the docent giving us a tour of the camp stood below the gallows at which Rudolph Hoess was hanged for his crimes against humanity. Looking up at where a noose was once tied, I squinted into the sun, shielded my eyes with my hands, and I imagined the moment. Oddly enough, it wasn’t satisfying at all. Almost as if the docent heard my thoughts, he said, “Though he was killed here, we have to ask ourselves if justice has been achieved. What is justice? Does it exist in this world? One man’s life for 6 million lives? What exactly happened at this gallow?” Exactly. What happened here? Whatever it was, it wasn’t justice. This was the moment I began to learn that justice doesn’t really exist in this world. Though I fully believe justice comes in the next.

It was with those thoughts tumbling through my brain that I saw the crematorium. And hesitated. Moments later, I was standing on the very ground from which an army of souls traded their earthly comfort, dreams, relationships, trust, and breath for a new existence that flew them far above the screams and into a reality void of the suffocating presence in this place.

Now back to Eva’s re-telling.

The air was sharp, the kind of cold that tightened in your chest. Each of us had been given a candle. One by one, we stepped forward, shielding the small flames from the wind as we placed them near the ovens.

I was standing in silence, watching the flickering light, when I heard Dr. Münch’s voice behind me.

“Eva,” he said, his tone almost hesitant. “Everyone has received a candle to light. How come I did not receive one?”

I turned to face him, surprised.

“I didn’t know you wanted one,” I said honestly. “But if you do, I will be glad to give you one.”

I handed him a candle.

And then, without hesitation, he walked to the ovens and lit it.

The moment was already heavy, but then, in a voice that stopped us all in our tracks, he said:

“I light this candle in the memory of all the people I watched die in the gas chambers.”

The air shifted.

For a moment, no one spoke.

There was no script for this. No press cameras rolling. No speeches prepared. No audience waiting for a perfectly crafted moment.

Just a former Nazi doctor standing before the ruins of the crematorium, bearing witness to the truth—openly, voluntarily, without hesitation.

And in that instant, something happened that could never be undone.

In that simple act, he had spoken the words that history demanded to be heard.

Bearing Witness

For fifty years, survivors had pleaded for the world to believe what had happened within these barbed-wire fences.

For decades, deniers had attempted to rewrite history, erasing the voices of the murdered.

But here stood a man who had once been inside the system, admitting it for all the world to hear.

And yet, what moved me most was not just that he had spoken the truth.

It was that he had done it there.

On that soil.

The very ground where I had once stood as a child, stripped of everything—my home, my parents, my dignity, my name.

The same ground where I had fought to stay alive, where the ashes of those who did not survive still clung to the earth beneath our feet.

I had come back to Auschwitz to prove something.

To prove that the Nazis had not won.

To prove that despite everything—despite the unimaginable suffering—I was still here.

I had reclaimed my life.

I had reclaimed my power.

And in that moment, I saw that Dr. Münch had done something similar.

He had stepped forward—not as a prisoner, but as a man once protected by the very system that had tried to destroy me.

He had been part of it, shielded by its power.

And yet, standing before the crematorium, he did not hide.

He did not justify.

He did not excuse.

He acknowledged.

He bore witness.

He stood in the place where so many had perished, and instead of cowering behind silence, he chose to speak.

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Above is a photo of Gas Chamber #2 that I took when I was at Birkenau in 2015 for the 70th anniversary of the liberation of the death camp.

Featured Image photo credit: I took that photo during my first visit to Birkenau with Eva in the summer of 2013.

To read more by Jill Szoo Wilson visit my Substack.