The Com­man­dant of Lubizec is a har­row­ing account of a death camp that nev­er actu­al­ly exist­ed but eas­i­ly could have in the Nazi state. It is a sen­si­tive, accu­rate retelling of a place that went about the busi­ness of geno­cide, told as a his­tor­i­cal account in a doc­u­men­tary style. This is not only an unflinch­ing por­tray­al of the machin­ery of the gas cham­bers, it is also the sto­ry of how pris­on­ers burned the camp to the ground and fled into the woods. It is a sto­ry of rebel­lion and sur­vival. It is a sto­ry of life amid death. With a strong eye towards the his­to­ry of the Holo­caust, The Com­man­dant of Lubizec com­pels us to look at these exter­mi­na­tion cen­ters anew. It dis­qui­ets us with the knowl­edge that sim­i­lar events actu­al­ly took place. The his­to­ry of Lubizec, although a work of fic­tion, is a chill­ing­ly blunt dis­til­la­tion of real life events. It asks that we look again at ​“Oper­a­tion Rein­hard.” It brings voice to the silenced. It demands that we bear witness.