I do not know whether the Stanislavsky Lech-story is true and if so, which part of it.
A short few years ago I set foot into a concentration camp. Our group is being lead by an elderly man. He comments on the place and events as if they are unfolding right before our eyes, and with great detail. As I walk through these iron gates of death, the environment excerts a traumatizing effect on me. My emotions are not these that lead to tears but those which lead everyone to throwing up.
He showed us the tables on which surgeries were performed for practice on living, conscious, and screaming creatures, with their eyes staring in pain at the man daring to pointedly hammer a chisel into their skull.
With the help of a historian, as a freeman, light reflects off the same walls into my eyes which the dying unlucky scratched with their fingers, expressing their last signs of life, rebelling against unjustness, fate, and death with all their might, to rage with fury and despair against the dying of the light.
An uneasy feeling prevails in my soul, and not even strong whisky that I drink on the ride home is capable of wettening my throat. The only passage, opening up to flee from this place, is talking to the girl I am secretly having a crush on.
Many jews in these camps have had similar thoughts that allowed them a pathway to flee to dear memories. Without the benefit of pysical evidence which makes these memories feel more real, this fleeing only leads to more anguish and a hotter corner in hell, sometimes reminding them of the fact, that their darlings are likely to be in an even much worse situation, and the feeling of loss, that comes from the likelyhood that these feelings will never be strengthened through any physical connection ever again.
The past unfortunately, they know, does not equal the future.
In such a situation, it is said, Stanislavsky Lech found himself.
His memories of his family likely only lead to a cul de sac, the last seeing of them getting killed, how these nameless men in uniforms quench the breath of life out of these innocent bodies, his children, the only people in this great planet whom he fathered – whether he remembers or imagines, his brain is incapable of distinguishing.
At last, he resolutes to escape. He believes, there is a way out of this super-maximum secured prison, he has to find it.
He looks beyond the razor wire, and his hopes are dashed into pieces of doubt when he finally has to admit that his oppressors have selected a strategically well-positioned place to trap all options of escape.
The poor creatures he is sharing his sleeping place with, are very persuasive in convincing him that nobody has ever escaped and how God will assuredly free them this Christmas.
He realized that there is one big door open for the dead. The Nazis have opened this door so wide, that everyone could go through it all at once. This is also encouraged as they kill everyone who talks others out of doing so.
Actually, he could outsmart them, posing dead, and it was his job to stack liveless bodies for being transported to a mass grave. He stipped himself bare, threw himself onto the pile and endured the rotten smell that comes from warm decasing flesh. A truck came and the portion of the pile he was laying on was thrown upon it, transported outside and ditched into a mass grave. After hours of waiting for every security guard to leave, he climbed out of the grave.
Then, he forced his weak legs to run 20 miles, reaching freedom.