The Holocaust survivor writer who can help us through this ominous era

The Czech Jewish writer Arnošt Lustig. Photo by Jiří Nedorost/Wikimedia Commons

Contributing Columnist Emily Tamkin December 27, 2025

This fall, I read a story set in Prague during World War II in which three boys, two of whom escaped from a concentration camp, watch as armed Czechs consider forcing two Germans to jump out an apartment window to certain death — but decide to hand them over to authorities instead.

One of the three boys then “had an unquestionable feeling that what he had just experienced had been justice.” At first, this perhaps reads as a bit strange. Why would a Czech boy think letting Germans go, after they occupied his city and took over his life — not to mention imprisoned and tortured members of his community in concentration camps — constitutes justice? Yet all the same, the boy “felt satisfaction that those two people, whom he’d seen for the first time in his life, and probably for the last, hadn’t jumped. That they didn’t have to jump.”

Justice, in this story, isn’t doing to your enemy what he’d done to you. It’s having the opportunity to do so, and instead choosing not to become your enemy.

That story, “Black Lion,” was written by the Czech Jewish writer and Holocaust survivor Arnošt Lustig, who would have been 99 this December. (He passed away in 2011). Lustig drew on the unthinkable series of events he was forced to endure — being forced into the Nazi ghetto of Theresienstadt at the age of 15 and then sent to Auschwitz and Buchenwald — and made it into art. And while his novels, short stories and films look unflinchingly at the worst of humanity, they always treat their characters humanely.

This year, we have lurched from crisis to crisis, at home and abroad, while many in power around the world demonstrate a capacity for cruelty matched only by their cynicism. So, as we come to 2025’s end, I have found myself thinking of “Black Lion,” and Lustig’s work more generally. What does it mean, I’ve wondered, to stare into the darkest void of inhumanity and pronounce, as Lustig did, that life is still a miracle?

As Lustig’s daughter, Eva Lustigová, told me, “The leitmotif in all of his work is: what can we do in a world where people kill one another? That was the thematic question.”

‘That darkness never breaks him’

Lustig’s works are largely set during or immediately after the Holocaust. His protagonists are often Czech or other Central Eastern European Jews; and the stories and books often feature children and teenagers.

The short story “The Last Day of the Fire” zooms in on one old man and his grandson during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising; the novel Dita Saxová is about an 18-year-old concentration camp survivor making her way in postwar Prague, balancing the hell from which she just emerged with considerations like which boy to date; The Unloved: From the Diary of Perla S., is about a 17-year-old in Theresienstadt working as a prostitute; Darkness Casts No Shadow, the novella that became the (beautiful and wrenching) film Diamonds of the Night, is about two boys trying to escape a train carrying them to a camp.

The choice to so often focus on the very young does two things.

First, it makes the juxtaposition between darkness and light that much starker. The worst things imaginable are happening to people who should be out playing or daydreaming or shuffling their schoolbooks. Yet they still, in Lustig’s works, hold onto their humanity, even as their innocence is stolen from them.

As Dalibor Rohac, a senior fellow focused on European affairs at the American Enterprise Institute, wrote me in an email: “Lustig writes about a lot of very dark stuff…but somehow that darkness never breaks him.”

But second, Lustig’s focus on the young gives his work, as specific as it is, a kind of universal urgency. Read a novel about teenagers running from transports in Central Europe and how their neighbors treat them — and then go and read the news about ICE raids and schoolchildren here in the United States. The point isn’t that the situations are one to one — they never are — but that, as people, we all grapple with similar challenges: What it means to be human; what we owe to our own and other people’s children; how to refuse cynicism when it seems like moral depravity is a prerequisite for holding actual power.

“I write about people under pressure, I write about tests that people are not ready for and which they did not expect,” Lustig said in 2002.

We are in an era of such tests. It sometimes feels like I spent the past year talking about crises: of liberal democracy, of American and Jewish identities, of human rights. So many are in so much pain; so many worry that 2026 will represent a continuation, or worsening, of tests we have no idea how to meet.

Perhaps fittingly, 2026 is also the centenary of Lustig’s birth. The Arnošt Lustig Foundation is preparing a year-long festival in 10 countries over four continents. One goal, Lustigová said, is to promote the idea, which so often appears in Lustig’s work, that humanism “doesn’t need to be imported or exported. It just needs to be cultivated.”

“The answer is, yes, we can keep our humanity,” she added. “We decide that ourselves, even under the harshest of circumstances. It’s a choice to be able to live with our conscience and keep our human dignity.”

“You can put that into Gaza, Israel, Sudan, Tanzania. You can put it anywhere.”

Listening to her, I thought again of what it means to live in pursuit of dignity and justice at a moment when that can feel at best foolish and at worst impossible — and of “Black Lion,” and the stories that can help to show us how.