The sisters of Auschwitz – a liberation with a tearful face
In January 1945, as frost gnawed at the ground and the sky over Auschwitz was heavy with smoke and silence, two women, as thin as shadows, found themselves amidst the ruins of what had once been a world. Their names echoed like an old song: Helena and Sara Weiss . For three years, they remained in the same place, separated by fences, barracks, and experiments that stripped them of their humanity. They were reunited only when Red Army soldiers opened the gates of Auschwitz-Birkenau , and the first cry of freedom pierced the camp’s silence.
Helena saw them first—rows of people who were no longer human, just memories of what they had been. Standing in the snow, leaning against the wooden wall of the barracks, she heard a name in the distance, one she hadn’t heard in months: “Sarah!” The voice was faint, hoarse, but real. She froze. Then she ran, stumbling on the ice until their arms collided in an embrace that was both painful and cathartic.
They were both crying. Not with joy – that came later, silently, when the tears ceased – but with relief at the thought that something still remained in them: a heart, a breath, a memory.
By January 1945, Auschwitz no longer resembled a fully operational death camp, but rather the ruins of hell. Fleeing the approaching Soviet army, the Germans destroyed documents and evacuated thousands of prisoners on what were known as “death marches.” Those who remained were too weak to walk. Helena was one of them. Sara, the other. Both survived by a stroke of luck that many would call a miracle.
During the war, they were twins , but not genetically – that’s what they were called from childhood, because they always did everything together. Born in Krakow, daughters of a shoemaker and a schoolteacher, they were deported to Auschwitz at seventeen. From the very first day, they were separated: Helena was sent to the women’s barracks, Sara to the laboratory where the cold-eyed German doctor Josef Mengele conducted his experiments.
For Sara, each day was an attempt to understand why someone claiming to be a scientist was inflicting pain in the name of “progress.” Injections, measurements, tests—everything was carried out with serene precision. Over time, she learned to stop questioning. Survival was enough.
Helena worked in the camp kitchen. She watched the transports arrive and depart, the smoke rising from the chimneys. Every morning, she counted the days; every evening, she repeated her sister’s name. That name was her prayer, the ultimate proof that there was something more than fear.
As they approached the Auschwitz front, the Germans began to erase the traces of their crimes. Gunfire, explosions, and screams could be heard. On the night of January 17, the evacuation began: thousands of prisoners were led west through the snow. Helena stayed behind, suffering from fever and pneumonia. Sara too: after an experiment by Mengele, she was too weak to walk. Little did they know that this weakness would keep them alive.
When the Soviet soldiers entered the camp, an indescribable silence greeted them. Bodies lay along the barbed wire, dogs roamed among the ruins, and people sat in the barracks, afraid to get up. They didn’t know they were free.
Helena first heard a shout, then footsteps. The barracks door burst open and the light blinded her. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she saw a soldier wearing a snow-covered coat. “Freedom,” he said in Russian. The word echoed like a sound from another world.
Sara was in the nearby barracks. Soldiers were bringing food and covering the prisoners with blankets. Then she saw a familiar figure through the window. At first, she didn’t believe it. It wasn’t until the figure turned its head and a ray of light touched its face that Sara realized it was Helena .
Reuniting after years of captivity was like breathing again after a long dive. The world was still cold, starving, and alien, but something had blossomed between them. They embraced, oblivious to the soldiers, the snow, the stench of death hanging in the air. Tears welled up in their eyes. Then Helena spoke the words later recorded in a nurse’s diary:
“I don’t know if we’re living or dreaming, but you’re here. That’s enough.”
In that single embrace, everything they had lost was contained: their family, their childhood, their names, their faith. And yet, amidst all of this, there was something no one could take from them: brotherly love , stronger than death.
After liberation, they were taken to a field hospital in Krakow. The doctors didn’t believe they would survive. Yet they did. Helena began writing letters to the Red Cross seeking information about her parents. Sara remained silent. She never spoke of what she had endured in the laboratory. It wasn’t until years later, in 1978, that she agreed to tell her story at the trial of an SS doctor. Her testimony helped prove the guilt of those who had evaded responsibility for years.
In the United States, where the sisters eventually emigrated, Sara opened a small sewing shop. She hung a sign above the entrance:
“Repair, don’t throw away.”
Helena taught Holocaust history to young people in Chicago. She often told her students, “Don’t think that history is the past. It still breathes, within us, in what we remember.”
Over time, their story has become a symbol: that of women’s survival at Auschwitz , the strength of family ties, and the importance of memory. For historians, it was the story of the camp’s liberation, but for people, it was a love story that survived the darkest night of the 20th century.
A photograph taken on January 29, 1945, showing two women in striped concentration camp uniforms embracing in the snow, went viral. No one knew who they were at the time. It wasn’t until years later, in the archives of the Auschwitz Museum, that someone recognized their faces. The inscription on the back of the photograph read: “Weiss Sisters. Saved.”
This photo has become one of the most moving symbols of the liberation of Auschwitz – proof that even amidst destruction, something indestructible exists.
Today, by visiting the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum , you can discover their story told in one of the exhibits: two yellowed pages containing Helena’s notes, a fragment of a song they sang in the barracks, and a tiny mirror that Sara kept with her throughout her captivity. Its cracked surface reflects more than a face: it reflects a past that continues to teach us how thin the line is between hatred and hope.
Because Auschwitz is not just a place of death. It is a place where the resilience of the human spirit was born . It is the story of women, children, and twins who survived not to forget, but to speak on behalf of those who are already silent.
Helena and Sara never returned to Poland. But in the letters they wrote until the end of their lives, they repeated one phrase:
“There were two of us – and that’s why we survived.”
For contemporary Holocaust scholars, the story of the Weiss sisters is not only a tale of suffering, but also one of these women’s perseverance in the face of a system designed to destroy them. In an era of increasingly fragmented memory, these testimonies are invaluable. They remind us that every number in a statistic represents a person’s name, every barracks someone’s heart.
The liberation of Auschwitz in January 1945 marked not only the end of the camp, but also the beginning of a new struggle – for dignity, memory, and truth. And while the world has changed, the echo of that embrace in the snow remains one of humanity’s purest symbols.
Note: Some content was generated using AI tools (ChatGPT) and edited by the author for creative reasons and suitability for historical illustration purposes.
