Marek Edelman, a cardiologist who was the last surviving
commander of the 1943 Warsaw ghetto uprising against the
Germans, died Friday in Warsaw. He was 90.
A friend, Paula Sawicka, told The Associated Press that Dr.
Edelman had died “among friends, among his close people,” at her
home, where he had lived for the past two years. For many years he
lived in Lodz, Poland’s second largest city.
Dr. Edelman was one of a handful of young leaders who in April
1943 led a force of 220 poorly armed young Jewish men and women
in a desperate and hopeless struggle against the Germans.
He was 20 when the Germans overran Poland in 1939, and in the
months that followed he watched as they turned his Warsaw neighborhood into a ghetto, cutting
it off from the rest of the city with brick walls, barbed wire and armed sentries. By early 1942, as
many as 500,000 Jews had been herded into the area.
In worsening conditions of hunger and brutality, the ghetto residents, wearing the obligatory Star
of David armbands, were forced to sew military uniforms and produce other war materials.
Then, starting on July 22, 1942, the ghetto population began to shrink ominously. Each day,
armed Germans and the Ukrainians serving with them prodded and wedged 5,000 to 6,000 Jews
into long trains, which departed from the Umschlagplatz, a square at the southern end of the
ghetto. At times they lured people onto the trains with loaves of brown bread. The Germans said
the trains were going to factories where work conditions were better.
Marek Edelman and the young people with whom he had forged clandestine links knew that such
claims were lies and that the human cargos were in fact being taken to camps near Lublin, where
they were shot, put into boxcars with quicklime or forced into gas chambers. He and his
colleagues talked about armed resistance but had no weapons at the time.
He spent every day at the Umschlagplatz watching as trains were loaded and sent off. He was
there ostensibly in his official capacity as a messenger for the ghetto hospital, carrying
documents in his pocket that enabled him to pull people off the trains by designating them too ill
to travel. Since the Germans held to the fiction that the passengers were being sent to better
surroundings, they made a show of holding back the sick. In fact, young Marek used the passes
to save people who would be useful to the Jewish Combat Organization, then being formed.
“I was merciless,” he recalled many years later. “One woman begged me to pull out her 14-yearold
daughter, but I was only able to take one more person, and I took Zosia, who was our best
courier.”
On Sept. 8, when according to German records 310,322 Jews had been put on the trains and sent
to the death camps and 5,961 more had been murdered inside the ghetto, the liquidation was
suspended. There were some 60,000 Jews still in the ghetto. The leaders of the Jewish Combat
Organization were certain that the Germans would try to finish the liquidation, and for the next
six months the organization planned for armed resistance.
At 4 o’clock on the morning of April 19, 1943, as German soldiers and their Ukrainian, Latvian
and Polish henchmen marched through the ghetto to round up people, they came, for the first
time, under sustained fire. By midafternoon they were forced to withdraw without having taken a
single person.
The fighting continued for three weeks. On one side were 220 ghetto fighters, hungry and
relatively untrained youths deployed in 22 units. Each unit had a pistol, five grenades and five
homemade bottle bombs. They also had two mines and one submachine gun.
Ranged against them, on a daily average, were 36 German officers and 2,054 others with an
arsenal that included 82 machine guns, 135 submachine guns and 1,358 rifles along with
armored vehicles, artillery and air power used to set the ghetto ablaze.
Dr. Edelman buried his fallen comrades and used his knowledge of the neighborhood, where he
had grown up, to find escape routes for units that were pinned down. Many years later he would
say that no one ever established how many Germans they had killed: “Some say 200, some say
30. Does it make a difference?”
“After three weeks,” he recalled, “most of us were dead.”
At the end he found a way out of an encircled position, leading 50 others with him.
Eventually, he took part in the Warsaw uprising of 1944, when for 63 days Poles fought
valorously but unsuccessfully to liberate their capital from the Germans.
Once the war ended, he threw himself into his medical studies and became a doctor in Lodz. For
30 years he kept his memories and thoughts about what happened to himself, concentrating on
his medical work and becoming one of Poland’s leading heart specialists and the author of a
much-used textbook on the treatment of heart attacks.
Even after Poland’s anti-Semitic campaign of 1968, when he was demoted at the hospital and
most of the remaining Jews in Poland, including his wife and two children, emigrated, Dr.
Edelman stayed. He was unwilling, and perhaps unable, to tear himself away from the place
where East European Jewry had once thrived and then perished as he watched.
Then, in 1976, he suddenly spoke out, telling Hanna Krall, a Polish writer of Jewish origin, what
he had so carefully remembered. The recollections were stark and surprising. He challenged
those who claimed that there had been many more than 220 ghetto fighters. Most provocatively,
he insisted that it was not more meaningful or heroic to die with a gun in one’s hands than to
perish in apparent submission to an overwhelming and invincible evil.
“These people went quietly and with dignity,” he told Mrs. Krall, speaking of the millions killed
in the Nazi gas chambers. “It is an awesome thing, when one is going so quietly to one’s death. It
is definitely more difficult than to go out shooting.”
After the book appeared, Dr. Edelman was often sought out by visitors from around the world,
whose questions he would sometimes wave aside gruffly, saying that people who had not been
there could never understand the choices made in the ghetto.
He would cite the example of a nurse in the ghetto hospital who he said was greatly admired, and
deservedly so, for smothering newborn children to save their mothers the inevitable pain that
would come when the babies starved to death.
He would dispute the use of the word “uprising,” saying that it normally implied some slight
prospect of victory. In the ghetto, he said, there was no such prospect.
“It was a defensive action,” he would say, or, “We fought simply not to allow the Germans alone
to pick the time and place of our deaths.”
Marek Edelman was born on Sept. 19, 1919, the only son of a family that spoke Yiddish at home
and Polish at work. His father died when he was very young; his mother, who worked as a
secretary at a hospital, died when he was 14. While going to high school he was looked after by
his mother’s friends from the hospital.
Dr. Edelman was an early member of the Solidarity free labor union and was among those
interned when Gen.
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