For Holocaust Remembrance Day – MY VISIT TO DACHAU

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.