The day has come for us to wash the train carriages, as ordered by the Kommandant. I look along the side of the train, which is now empty of Jews. They are all now standing on the Rampe, waiting for the order to move into the Camp. I know what lies ahead for them. The separation. The humiliation. The death.

I am standing near the last boxcar. I am holding a bucket of cold soapy water and a cloth. I am waiting for the order to start cleaning. I am watching a Nazi guard further down towards the front. He is swinging a baby against the side of the train, smashing its head against the riveted steel. I recognise the guard as Erich Bauer, the guard who snatched my wife's necklace. Beside him, a thin young woman lies curled up in a ball on the ground. Another guard is kicking her. I don't know what she has done to insense them. Often it seems like they barely need an excuse to do what they do.

One of the guards near the entrance to the camp bellows the order to move, and, with shouts of encouragement from the other guards stationed along the line, the Jews march into the camp. As I look at them I am reminded of the day I arrived at Sobibor. I know that many of the people I am watching now will not be alive tomorrow.