We have all seen photographs of lynchings of black men (and can’t un-see them). But maybe the ugliest representation of American racism is in the form of a child’s innocent-sounding rhyme:
Eeny, meeny miny moe
Catch a n****r by the toe
because it looks so childish, so innocent, so anodyne. The same is true of the materials Backer draws from to create his concrete poem, Transcript. It consists of lists, manifests, chronologies, medical experiment records, court testimony and the like, fragments of the day-to-day operations of the Nazi Holocaust. The look is matter-of-fact, quotidian. The reader leans in, trying momentarily to figure out the nature of a particular entry. When it becomes clear, it detonates.
One page was a list of at least a hundred public parks. Only when you reached the bottom did you realize that this comprised a list of venues forbidden to certain people. A few pages on it was made clear that restaurants, concert halls, bars, and cabarets were also off-limits. So was giving food to a Jewish family. So were many kinds of employment.
I didn’t know about this slow strangulation, this progressive assembly of humiliations, accruing probably long before the freight cars arrived.
This was first written, or assembled, in 1986. The English translation came in 2010. But when I chanced to hear about it last year I knew I had to find it, read it. A poem about the Holocaust? The most delicate, small-scaled art form sent to document the most hideous, industrial-scaled atrocity in history? It works. A masterpiece that captures the demented, depraved minds of the Nazis in their own words. And only fragments: you have to piece together the total horror for yourself.
Of course you probably know a lot of details ahead of time, through films, literature, diaries, museums. Backer counts on that. But using the Nazis’ own words, their record-keeping—not intended for anything else—is maybe the most damning. And you get the full scope. In 129 pages Backer presents the full arc, the epic of inhumanity.
The forced starvation in Gaza, the roving bands of ICE agents in the U.S., our own gestapo, makes this poem more relevant than we want it to be. The Nazi mind is alive and well.
This can be read in one afternoon, easily. But not easily forgotten, I'm sure.