rootless

Again, not far from Krakow lies an area so full of sorrow and shame one can hardly believe it exists.

We start our visit at Birkenau, a facility built by the Nazis to more efficiently handle the large influx of prisoners.  The sign at the gate reads -

This compound functioned as a quarantine camp for men (Jew and non-Jews) from different countries during the period from August 1943 to November 1944.  The purpose of quarantining, apart from identifying those who might have infectious diseases, was to terrorize newly arrived concentration camp prisoners and to teach absolute submission to camp discipline.  From April to November 1944, sick prisoners from other parts of the camp both men and women, lived in some of the barracks of this compound

Then just a short ride over a charming brook, we arrive at Auschwitz

On the outskirts of the Polish town of Oswiecim, the termination camp was established in 1940.  It was expanded into three main camps as the Nazis’ plan to destroy the entire Jewish population was put into operation.

Today, inside these buildings, are the remnants of this horrific time.

There are display cases with record books, and lists of prisoners

There are rooms with a small fraction of the clothing and personal items left behind by the executed.   It is an immense amount even still.

But no photos are allowed in the interior of these buildings and the best I can do is to tell you what is was like to walk through these buildings.

Tight on the heels of the man in front of me, I follow, single file into the long, narrow room.  On the left we all turn to face the thick plate window.  Behind the window they are all just thrown haphazard into an uneven warped and surrealistic mound.  Their stark angles jab into each other.  They teeter one upon the other hiding those that lie beneath; lucky to not be on the bottom but unlucky to be so exposed.  What are the names?  Josef Galka 8-11-1906, Lilly Frange 13-10-1909, Michael Fidyk 12-10-1896…..

These suitcases held the last hope in what any fool knew to be a hopeless world.  They held spoons and buttons and jewelry and scarves.   They served as homes to photos and those sentimental bits that cannot be replaced.  They sheltered the items too precious to leave behind.

The baggage of the damned.  Their names, birth dates and previous addresses neatly written on them so if separated from its owner, a joyous reunion could be made. 

But these valises belonged to those sentenced to early death without their knowledge, but perhaps, not without their suspicions and certainly not without their fear.  The baggage of their lives full of worldly treasures and memories; some good and most likely, some bad.  And just like the baggage of those of us who are privileged to live a full life, it is eventually shed.  But where as we, by choice, say good-bye to the things that burden us with unwanted parts of the past; this baggage was slyly stolen.  Stripped from its owner with a lie as were their clothes and their breath.

The group shuffles on slowly, people watching their shoes with grim faces as they take small steps forward; others of us unable to take our eyes off the baggage.  And just as I turn to step into the next room I realize I am looking at the tombstones of the damned.  Squares and rectangles, some tipped some standing with their names, birth dates and previous addresses neatly written on them.   I want to stop and turn back.  I want to read every name.  I want to take a picture so I can look at it again and again to read the names over and over to give them back even a tiny hint of life in my acknowledgement of their existence.  To say their names again; to give them some respect.

But pictures are forbidden and I am probably being overly dramatic; so I move on into the next room and the next and the next.  Then I see it. 

I have seen it before in books, magazines; on T.V.  The photograph; you know the one.  Perhaps it is already in your mind as you read these words.  The photograph of the emaciated, naked, rigid bodies stacked after being gassed, waiting to be burned to dust.  They are all just thrown haphazard into an uneven warped and surrealistic mound.  Their stark angles jab into each other.  They teeter one upon the other hiding those that lie beneath; lucky to not be on the bottom but unlucky to be so exposed.  What are the names?  Josef Galka 8-11-1906, Lilly Frange 13-10-1909, Michael Fidyk 12-10-1896…..

Posted on August 23rd, 2009 by dianagene
Filed under: Europe Trip