Berlin, Germany.
Berlin, Germany.
When I visited Berlin two years ago, this was probably one of the highlights of the trip. Very informative, there are parts of the museum which are absolutely haunting.
Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum, Berlin, Germany
ooc;; I died.
The first time I was in Germany it December. It was cold and hard and the sky was heavy.
We had a busy schedule of meetings, but on our one free day a German university student offered to drive us to Buchenwald.
Two of the three of us on the trip went.
Buchenwald is a concentration camp just outside Weimar. It was classified as a prison, not a death camp, but all concentration camps were death camps.
I’ve written about that trip before. And am deciding whether, when I’m in Weimar again in July, I will revisit Buchenwald.
The first time I was there it tore me to pieces.
I took from the camp three things.
The first two were small pieces of gravel from one of the walkways. It felt important to have a piece of that place with me. I still have those two little rocks. They sit in a box on my bookshelf at home.
I also bought a book. It was not about Buchenwald. Instead, it was a series of drawings by a young Jewish girl who lived in the ghetto in Terezin, in what is now the Czech Republic. The drawings showed life in the ghetto.
And then life in Auschwitz, where she was eventually sent with the rest of her family.
As you move through Helga Weissova-Hoskova’s book, the drawings go from brightly colored, childish renderings of everyday life to dark charcoal images of gaunt concentration camp inmates killing themselves on electrified fences.
It is a hard, hard book to look at. But I felt like those drawings were among some of the most honest images I’d ever seen of the Holocaust.
Today, as I was hauling my suitcase down the sidewalk to my hotel, I passed by this yellow brick ruin.
Ruins are not unusual in Berlin. You can find them throughout the city, left as reminders of Germany’s Nazi past.
As I was coming back from the day’s wanderings I saw the ruin again and walked over to it.
It is all that is left of the Anhalter Bahnhof — the train station through which elderly Jews traveled to the ghetto in Terezin.
Through which they traveled to their deaths.
Behind this ruin is a large green soccer pitch.
As I was reading the sign that explained the significance of the yellow heap of rubble, children were running, laughing and screaming as they played soccer with friends.
It is so strange sometimes, when you’re in Germany, to see how life and death dance together.
How closely interwoven memory is with day-to-day life.
It’s just so strange. To be standing there, next to flowers, next to benches where cab drives wait to fill their empty taxis, next to the field where children play and realize just what happened. To understand the enormity of it.
And to realize that life somehow does go one. It needs to.
You stand there and hope that the ruin means something. That it does serve as a reminder.
But, as generations age and move on I wonder if these markers will keep their meaning.
And, if they don’t, what happens then?
The first time I was in Germany it December. It was cold and hard and the sky was heavy. We had a busy schedule of meetings, but on our one free day a German university student offered to drive us to Buchenwald. Two of the three of us on the trip went. Buchenwald is a concentration camp just outside Weimar. It was classified as a prison, not a death camp, but all concentration camps were death camps. I’ve written about that trip before. And am deciding whether, when I’m in Weimar again in July, I will revisit Buchenwald. The first time I was there it tore me to pieces. I took from the camp three things. The first two were small pieces of gravel from one of the walkways. It felt important to have a piece of that place with me. I still have those two little rocks. They sit in a box on my bookshelf at home. I also bought a book. It was not about Buchenwald. Instead, it was a series of drawings by a young Jewish girl who lived in the ghetto in Terezin, in what is now the Czech Republic. The drawings showed life in the ghetto. And then life in Auschwitz, where she was eventually sent with the rest of her family. As you move through Helga Weissova-Hoskova’s book, the drawings go from brightly colored, childish renderings of everyday life to dark charcoal images of gaunt concentration camp inmates killing themselves on electrified fences. It is a hard, hard book to look at. But I felt like those drawings were among some of the most honest images I’d ever seen of the Holocaust. Today, as I was hauling my suitcase down the sidewalk to my hotel, I passed by this yellow brick ruin. Ruins are not unusual in Berlin. You can find them throughout the city, left as reminders of Germany’s Nazi past. As I was coming back from the day’s wanderings I saw the ruin again and walked over to it. It is all that is left of the Anhalter Bahnhof — the train station through which elderly Jews traveled to the ghetto in Terezin. Through which they traveled to their deaths. Behind this ruin is a large green soccer pitch. As I was reading the sign that explained the significance of the yellow heap of rubble, children were running, laughing and screaming as they played soccer with friends. It is so strange sometimes, when you’re in Germany, to see how life and death dance together. How closely interwoven memory is with day-to-day life. It’s just so strange. To be standing there, next to flowers, next to benches where cab drives wait to fill their empty taxis, next to the field where children play and realize just what happened. To understand the enormity of it. And to realize that life somehow does go one. It needs to. You stand there and hope that the ruin means something. That it does serve as a reminder. But, as generations age and move on I wonder if these markers will keep their meaning. And, if they don’t, what happens then?
Berlin, Germany.
~
