"How was Europe? Did you have fun?"
I answer with a hesitant "yeah," because of course I had fun. I rode the London Eye. I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. I ate bavarian cream in Bavaria. But how do I describe walking the beaches of Normandy or visiting Hitler's rally grounds or walking into Dachau?
It's been nearly a year since I walked the gravel trail leading into Dachau Concentration Camp. During World War II, Adolf Hitler's right-hand man, Heinrich Himmler, came up with "The Final Solution." In its simplest form, "The Final Solution" was an effort to kill as many "degenerates" as quickly possible and eliminate any trace of their existence.
The trail leading into the camp is the same trail the prisoners walked although our circumstances differ greatly. I walked in freely and left the same. They walked in against their will and many never left. I approached the gate reading "Arbeit macht Frei." Work makes you free. An iron-wrought, bold-faced lie.
The landscape is utterly gray as if I stepped out of the land of Oz and back into Kansas. There is a small museum, a bookstore, two replica barracks, and a large sculpture visible upon entry. The barracks smell like wood and I hate it. It makes me sick.
I look around trying to hold back tears because I know I'm walking where others died. I'm walking where lives were taken, futures shattered, pasts erased, potential pulverized.
As you walk to the back of the camp, there are various small chapels and memorials. There is a bell that rings intermittently. Further back is a small creek. You cross it and you are looking at the crematorium. I didn't want to go any further, but neither did the prisoners of this camp. I force myself onward because I have to. Ignoring these people 70 years ago killed them. Ignoring them 70 years later diminishes their life and opens the door to letting this happen again.
I'm standing in front of the ovens. I start sweating and lose my breath. I start crying, scared of being seen.
As I wander back toward the front of the camp, I stop at the bookstore. I bought "That Was Dachau" and a copy of "The Diary of Anne Frank." At the checkout counter, there are various pins for sale. One says "never again." I added the pin to my pile and checked out. The lady that rang me up was Jewish. Apparently, the camp, museum, and store were maintained by Jewish volunteers. I can't imagine walking into that place everyday for work.
I board the bus to return to Munich. I'm exhausted physically, emotionally, mentally. I want to go to the hotel and curl up in a ball. I want to forget this place while never forgetting this place.
When I return home, everyone wants to hear about my trip, but do they really? They want to hear about my shopping in Paris, the food I had in Germany, the people of London. How do I tell people about Dachau without chasing them off? It's unpleasant, it's emotional, it's difficult, but above all it is important.
