In 1975 I was travelling in Germany, and I went
to visit Dachau Concentration Camp. Back
in those days no one said stupid things about the Holocaust having been a media
invention. We knew it had been
shockingly real – our parents had fought a war not only to protect our nation
but to liberate peoples being conquered and exterminated by the Nazis.
So, I went out of curiosity, but the type of curiosity
mingled with deep reverence and even dread.
It’s somewhat near the feeling you have when you attend a funeral. Unpleasant, but important.
There was still barbed wire around the
compound, and the heavy iron-grilled gate was still in place, although of
course it was open and we could enter and leave at will. Still, there was a slightly creepy sense upon
entering – knowing the stories of horror told by many of the survivors of this
and similar camps. One building had been
made into a museum, and there were long hallways of pictures, and they included
the entire history of the rise of Nazism, Hitler, the camps, the war, and
finally the liberation. People filed
silently and somberly along these hallways, reading, staring, riveted by an
invisible force that wouldn’t let them look away, drawn like moths toward a
dangerous flame. Disturbing. It’s the kind of experience where you ask
yourself: “Why am I doing this to myself?”
But you already know the answer.
The pictures were all within arm’s reach – this
was no ordinary museum. The most unexpected – shocking – part of this for me
was that in every picture where Hitler was depicted, his face had been gouged
out, smudged and spit upon. You could
feel the hatred, disgust and despair emanating from those eviscerated photos.
Outside this building we could enter one other
building that was still standing. This
was one of the many barracks. It was a
long rather thin wooden structure, unadorned with any decoration or color that
would lift the mind or spirit. Inside
were row upon row of plain wooden bunks, hundreds of them. There was no privacy, no personal space, no
comfort, no hint of individuality. It
was depressing just to stand there. I
quickly left.
The last part of the experience was the only
redemption. At the back of the lot,
three small open-air chapels had been built, one each for Protestant, Catholic,
and Jew. This was a place to stand and
reflect that this evil era had come to an end, and that good had
triumphed. It was a place to be grateful
to God.
