Auschwitz

Human kindness is one of the most pure and beautiful things in the world. It demonstrates the point of life, what makes one hope for a perfected world. Human destruction is the worst.

I don’t know what I expected on my visit to Auschwitz. What can you possibly expect from one of the most horrendous places in the history of humanity? Especially when this history is younger than my grandparents. When I think of the Holocaust, I think of those survival stories. It all stems from my first exposure to the Holocaust, the children’s’ novel, Number the Stars. I remember reading it in fourth grade, having a vague idea of the mass murder of the Jewish. It was all just a story. A scary story at that. But more importantly, it was the story of survivals. Number the Stars was about a family hiding a little girl amongst them, before she was saved by fleeing in a boat. (Over a decade later, I see that this children’s story was based on the heroic efforts of the Danes, but, back when I was ten, it seemed logical that everyone would save who they could.) The stories I heard, the stories I associated with this horrendous history were those of survival. I guess ten is still too young to broach the subject of extermination. And, maybe, ten is when that foundation is built and twenty is when that foundation is shaken.

Extermination is a word associated with rats, termites, even dandelions. Not people. So, I guess it is no surprise that I needed to be older, more educated, more mature to understand how this word applied to people. And, even at twenty, I cannot wrap my head around the horrors, nor do I think I ever will be able to. My Rise of Hitler class is the first time I was really forced to come face to face with the realities of what my species had done. Normally, you can almost avoid this reality, hiding behind the survival stories, staying you would have done differently if you were there, being loss the heroics of some people. But visiting Auschwitz shows you that it happened. Those cattle cars were real. Those barracks were real. Those stolen possessions were real. Those family photographs were of real people. And those gas chambers killed those real people. It is a crushing realization, but a necessary one.

At Auschwitz, it was interesting to see what different things affected different people. Everyone had that one image that struck them and pulled on their heartstrings. Most of the time, it’s something real that they would never have thought they would see. For one of my friends, it was the room full of human hair. How could people steal someone’s hair? Another friend, it was the toothbrushes. These people did not know that even if they survived the selection process they would still not be thinking of their teeth. Another friend, it was the end of the train tracks. Auschwitz was a final destination, not one stop. Another friend, it was the pictures of a two year old after being liberated after use for medical experimentation. For my mom, I knew it would be the piles of baby shoes. None of these children would have made it; there was no hope from the minute they got aboard the transports.

For me, it was not something from the 1940’s. It was a modern exhibit. It was the replica of the gas chambers. The replica was about the size of a large dollhouse, demonstrating the crowded process of pushing people through the lines to their death. It showed the line of people above ground, waiting to descend a staircase. At the bottom of the staircase were little figurines shown undressing and folding their clothes. It was crowded with figurines of all different sizes. The next room showed the packed gas chamber, where people were pushed up one against one another, gasping for air before that air turned poisonous. Above them was the crematorium, where Jewish prisoners were forced to take away even these people’s right to a final resting ground. The model was behind a glass case and was made entirely of white. It was no taller than my hips and only showed the bare essentials of the process. When the Nazis fled the camp from invading Soviets, they attempted to destroy the evidence of the mass crime they committed, destroying the gas chambers and crematorium behind them. This model showed what it would have looked like, and showed the number of people it was to destroy in that frozen time. And in that model, one thing stuck with me. It was one little figurine in the undressing room. None of the figurines had especially distinct facial figures, but this one had the curve of a woman and in her arms was a small lump, resembling a baby. The figure could have been no larger than a few inches, but to me it just represented something entirely different. It was this mother walking to her death, holding a child who had barely experienced life. At this point, she must have known death was imminent. Or was she still unsure of what lay ahead? Soon, these figures, who were at one point real people, would be led to extermination. Looking at this I thought back to the movie Schindler’s List we had watched on our way to Poland. There is a scene in the movie when you see people lining up to go down the staircase. I thought of these people when I looked at this model. It was so real. These were not just figurines, these were people, with fears, hopes, and it was unearthing to see the model. It made the remains of the gas chambers that we were to view later in the day more real.

The thing with Auschwitz was that it did not feel real. Viewing the camp, just the enormity of it, you feel as if you are on a stage set, reenacting a horror movie. The camps was much larger than I had anticipated, but beyond that, it was the epitome of horror that I had expected. I could place the survival stories I had heard, from movies to books to lectures, into this horrific camp. The bunks, built to hold 40 horses but would eventually hold up to a thousand people, were just as horrifying as they had been described. Even while we were visiting in April we could feel the cold wind that lashed at you on the flat fields. But how could such a place be real? How you could you even fathom the amount of people whose lives were destroyed here? We were walking on the same ground that millions before us had treaded, being led obliviously to their systematic death. We were walking on a mass grave.

It was hard to remember that this was a mass grave. When the Nazi’s attempted to destroy the Jewish people, they did not stop at just murder. As explained during our tour, the Jewish religion deems human remains a sacred part of the religion, and states that they should not be touched after death. The Nazi’s defaced even this sacred belief, depriving millions of Jews the right to a burial and billions of people places to mourn their loved ones. It was at Auschwitz that these people’s remains were forced into ash that would disappear into the clouds or ponds around the camp. This death camp was the final resting place for millions of people. And the Nazi’s not only killed them, but destroyed parts of their identity. Never before had I thought on the fact that each body had been burned and identity destroyed. The extermination was not only an attempt to destroy the lives of the Jewish people, but also their individuality and respect. These were concepts that before I did not understand before visiting Auschwitz.

As I lagged behind on the tour I began to talk with Professor Backes, one of the teachers accompanying us on the trip. As we strolled behind the tour group, Professor Backes said, “Auschwitz is somewhere everyone should go. It’s important each person understand.” I let the thought sink it, still not agreeing or disagreeing. Auschwitz was definitely educational. It was at this place that women, men, children, elderly, babies, were led to their quiet death or to years of suffering. This was the actual land they walked on and the shacks they were forced to live in. But, at the same time, it was almost too much to really comprehend. It was huge. It was scary. It looked fake. The shoes, hair, clothing, combs, suitcases piled up in showcases reminded me of museum exhibits. The manicured lawns in the first part of the camp reminded me of the front yards of government buildings. The tour groups taking photos in matching tee-shirts reminded me of a surreal experience. It just didn’t seem to be the place of nightmares. However, when I stepped back, when I let all the other people there go from my mind, and concentrated on one thing, on that one bunk bed in that one cabin, or that one stair to the gas chambers, or to that small white model holding the baby in its arms, I remembered and mourned the reality of such a place.