08 November 2016
I spent this morning in the Salt Mines at Wieliczka, 12 km south-east of Kraków. These mines have produced table and commercial salt since the 12th century, and although commercial mining stopped in 1996 because of low salt prices and flooding in the mines, this remains one of the oldest salt mines in the world. It is also one of Poland’s most popular tourist attractions, with about 1.2 million visitors each year.
The Wieliczka mine is known to many as ‘the Underground Salt Cathedral of Poland.’ In 1978, the mine was placed on the original UNESCO list of the World Heritage Sites and it is one of Poland’s official national Historic Monuments.
The Wieliczka salt mine reaches a depth of 327 metres and is over 287 km long. My visit began by climbing down the deep wooden staircase with 378 steps that leads to a level 64 metres below the ground. From here, a 3.5 km touring route winds through the mines, although this amounts to less than 2% of the full length of the passages in the mines.
Along the tour there are vast networks of corridors and galleries, with dozens of statues of Polish heroes, mythical figures and elves. Four chapels are carved into the rock salt, including one the size of a basilica that is still used for early Sunday masses. There are exhibits of salt-mining techniques and technology, and an underground lake135 metres underground.
The older sculptures have been supplemented with new carvings by contemporary artists. Even the crystals of the chandeliers are made from rock salt that has been dissolved and reconstituted to achieve a clear, glass-like appearance.
The mines also include a café, restaurant, banqueting hall, souvenir shops and a spa and health complex.
For centuries, the rock salt in Wieliczka was regarded as one of Poland’s major natural assets. It is naturally grey in various shades, resembling unpolished granite, unlike the white or crystalline look we expect because of the colour of table salt.
One display tells the legend that the salt in Wieliczka came as the dowry of Saint Kinga or Cunegunda. The Hungarian princess was engaged to Prince Bolesław V ‘the Chaste’ of Kraków. As part of her dowry, she asked her father, King Béla, for a lump of salt, as salt was highly valued in Poland. King Béla brought her to a salt mine in Máramaros, where she threw her engagement ring into a mineshaft before leaving for Poland.
When the princess arrived in Kraków, she asked the miners to dig a deep pit, and when they hit rock they found a lump of salt. When they split the rock in two, they discovered the princess’s ring. And so, Saint Kinga become the patron saint of salt miners in Poland.
Myths apart, the rock salt was first discovered in Wieliczka in the 11th century, and the first shafts were dug in the 13th century. The head office of the mining company is at the Saltworks Castle in Wieliczka, which was built in the late 13th and early 14th centuries.
Enriched by the deposits of salt, Wieliczka received its own town charter in 1290. Over the centuries, more shafts were opened and at each phase new technology was introduced as it developed. The displays illustrate these methods, including the Hungarian-type horse treadmill and Saxon treadmills, used to haul the salt to the top of the surface.
The miners were both religious and superstitious. They believed there work was continued by elves in the night, but also built chapels to pray for protection in their dangerous work.
During the Nazi occupation of Poland, the shafts were used by the occupying Germans as an ad hoc facility for war-time industries. Several thousand Jews were transported from the forced labour camps in Plaszow and Mielec to the Wieliczka mine to work in an underground arms factory set up by the Germans.
However, manufacturing never began as the Nazis planned as the Soviet troops were advancing through this part of southern Poland. Some of the machines and equipment was taken apart and moved to Liebenau in the Sudetes mountains, and the Jews here were forcibly moved on to factories in the Czech Republic and Austria.
Jacob Bronowski filmed parts of The Ascent of Man in the mine and notable visitors over time have included Copernicus, Goethe, Humboldt, Chopin, Pope John Paul II and Bill Clinton. Some of these visitors have been honoured with figures carved and sculpted into the rock salt.
Eventually I had reached a depth of 135 metres. Four cages, each holding nine people, brought us back to ground level and out into the open autumn skies above.
I think it is going to take me some time before I feel comfortable enough to write about my visit to Auschwitz and Birkenau yesterday [7 November 2016]. Already it is challenging my thoughts for my sermon next Sunday to mark Remembrance Sunday [13 November 2016] in Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin. But I may reserve further reflections for my monthly columns in two diocesan magazines, the Church Review (Dublin and Glendalough) and the Diocesan Magazine (Cashel, Ferns and Ossory) in advance of Holocaust Day in January.
So many of those images from Auschwitz and Birkenau are familiar to all of us, yet none of them prepared me for the ghastly reality of what we are capable of doing to each other in war, in the outworking of racism and religious hatred, in our demeaning of any part of humanity, in allowing political extremism to go unchallenged.
I walked into Auschwitz under one of those familiar images, the sign above the gate that proclaims with cynicism and sick satire: Arbeit macht frei.
The German phrase, meaning ‘work sets you free,’ is derived from the title of a novel by a 19th century German pastor, philologist and extreme nationalist, Lorenz Diefenbach, Arbeit macht frei: Erzählung von Lorenz Diefenbach (1873), in which gamblers and fraudsters find the path to virtue through labour.
The phrase was also used in French (le travail rend libre!) by Auguste Forel, a Swiss writer in his book Fourmis de la Suisse (Ants of Switzerland, (1920). In 1922, the Deutsche Schulverein of Vienna, an extreme right-wing group of Germans in Austria, used the slogan on their membership cards.
The slogan Arbeit macht frei was erected above the entrances to a number of Nazi concentration camps on the orders of an SS general Theodor Eicke, inspector of concentration camps and second commandant at Dachau.
The slogan was first used over the gate of a camp set up in an abandoned brewery in Oranienburg in 1933. This camp was later rebuilt in 1936 as Sachsenhausen. It was then used in other camps, although the slogan at Buchenwald was Jedem das Seine (‘to each his own,’ or ‘everyone gets what he deserves’).
The BBC historian Laurence Rees, in Auschwitz: a New History, which I bought at Auschwitz yesterday, says the sign at the entrance to Auschwitz was erected on the orders of the camp commandant Rudolf Höss. This particular sign was made by slave labourers in the camp.
Rudolf Höss regarded his decision to erect the motto so prominently at Auschwitz not as a gesture of mockery, nor did he even to intended to have it interpreted literally. Not was it a false promise that those who worked to exhaustion would eventually be released. Instead, he thought of it as some type of mystical declaration that self-sacrifice in the form of endless labour in itself brings a kind of spiritual freedom.
As I walked under that sign, I noticed how the lettering on the sign includes an upside-down letter ‘B.’ It is said that this was an act of defiance by the prisoners who made the sign.
The slogan can still be seen at the sites of several concentration camps as well as Auschwitz. However, the original sign at Auschwitz was stolen in December 2009, and when it was later recovered it had been broken into three pieces. Anders Högström, a Swedish neo-Nazi , and two Poles were jailed for the theft, and the original sign is now in storage at the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and a replica is now in its place over the gate.