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After the second operation, the witness was discharged from the hospital on October 6, 1942, although “her leg was swollen, causing severe pain, and pus was draining from the wound.” She was unable to walk and remained bedridden in the barracks for weeks (Testimony of Leo Miechalowski, NMT Case 1, pp. 871–886 of transcript (December 21, 1946); National Archives Record Group 238, M887)
My temperature rises very frequently, and sometimes the pain in my leg is so severe that I am unable to walk (Testimony of Vladislava Karolewska, NMT Case 1, pp. 815–832 of transcript (December 20, 1946); National Archives Record Group 238, M887)
In response to a direct question from the prosecutor — “Did you receive any treatment for your legs after your release?” — the answer was: “No.” The consequences of the operations remained irreversible (Testimony of Vladislava Karolewska, NMT Case 1, pp. 815–832 of transcript (December 20, 1946); National Archives Record Group 238, M887)
Lately I have tried to keep my personal cases out of the public eye as much as possible, unless they carry some broader national significance — such as judgments of the European Court of Human Rights. But today, after a long hesitation, I have decided to speak. And to speak in a way that becomes public and reaches a wider audience — because keeping silent about what I have to say would be a crime. A crime against humanity. And that is not an exaggeration.
So — everyone knows a certain well-known regiment. Everyone has heard the scandals about how often people die there. And it so happened that my client — a person with very serious, genuinely life-threatening conditions — was taken precisely to that regiment. Suffice it to say that his condition (officially confirmed by medical documentation, thanks to the Office of the Military Ombudsman) requires medication at least twice a day simply to survive. I want to be clear — this is not about demobilization. But it is about preserving a human life. It is simply about giving a person the medication without which he will die at any moment.
The unit commander confiscated my client’s mobile phone and prohibited him from communicating with me as his lawyer, noting that the client is a complete orphan with no relatives whatsoever. The standard scheme: police arrived, picked up the client near his place of residence and sent him to this regiment. Before his phone was finally taken away, he managed to write to me: “My legs hurt badly, they might give out.” To speak plainly — this is life-threatening, requires daily therapy, and I am very afraid of one particular word. Gangrene.
I contacted various institutions. The Military Ombudsman proved to be the most effective, though the problem was not resolved. I, as his lawyer, filed a claim with the administrative court. Given the client’s condition and the real threat to his life, I filed a motion for interim relief — requesting that the client be provided, for the duration of the proceedings, with the medication he needs at least twice a day so that he does not die from gangrene, medication which the military unit is refusing to give him.
Today I received a ruling denying the motion for interim relief. The court’s logic: the merits of the case must first be examined, and only then can it be decided whether to provide medication or not. In other words, for the next two months, the question of medical treatment for a person whom the military unit is categorically denying medical assistance is deferred “for later.”
What was particularly remarkable was this: when in a motion for interim relief you raise the question of saving the life of a person who is dying right here and right now, the judge responds by writing that certain provisions of the motion were formulated with insufficient clarity, as required by law — speaking, that is, of the formal criteria of the application.
The unit commander has already sent me a good two dozen letters stating that he cannot provide information about the client’s health — even though the legal assistance agreement clearly states, in black and white, the client’s consent to the collection and use of his personal data, including medical data.
Then came a thought I had not invited. One I pushed away as long as I could. The Nuremberg case of 1946–1948 — USA v. Karl Brandt et al. (The Medical Case). Twenty physicians from various concentration camps, one lawyer, two officials. The main charges: forced medical experiments, forced euthanasia, killing of prisoners for anatomical collections. Of the 23 defendants, seven were sentenced to death, five to life imprisonment, four to terms of 10 to 20 years, and seven were acquitted.
As a lawyer, I am compelled to draw this analogy — however much I would prefer not to. On one side: Nazi doctors, concentration camps, the deliberate denial of medical care. On the other: a military unit, a man who is dying, and a lawyer who asks the court for nothing extraordinary — only to compel the provision of medication officially prescribed to keep him alive. And receives a refusal.
Where was the moment when we began to approach Nuremberg? Where is the threshold of tolerance for torture, the prohibition of which is enshrined in Article 3 of the Convention for the Protection of Human Rights? Where did we take the wrong turn?
