Remember the last time I was speechless, at a complete loss for words? Yeah, me neither. But this took me about two hours to even start. I didn't even write about everything I saw because it just didn't seem possible, but this is what came:
As I stand just outside the gates of Dachau, the only coherent thought I can grasp is: How could a place of such beauty be home to such unspeakable atrocities? I immediately recognize that
beauty is not the right word, but I can't come up with a better one. The buildings aren't particularly beautiful--in fact, most are barren and small--but the grounds themselves are quite something. The trees, for example, tower over the pathways; the pathways slither every which way, creating a maze effect. Beautiful, maybe, but it shouldn't be. Over 200,000 unfortunate souls once stood where I stand now; starving, screaming, crying, dying, wasting away. Their pain, over sixty-five years later, still echoes through the grounds.
Many of the original structures remain standing. Pictures cannot capture the feel of the air; words cannot capture the weight of our knowledge of what happened in this place.
When I first walk through the gates of Dachau Concentration Camp, I hold the audio-guide to my ear and walk quickly through the groups and families, weaving my way through the throng and into the giant compound.
Once I reach the inside of the walls, I stand stock-still and let the audio-guide fall to my side. My God, I think, it's massive. The sheer size of the compound is overwhelming; gravel covers the ground, and the buildings in the distance look like Monopoly hotels.
But the fact that I can see those buildings at all--the crematorium, for example, which is on the very far side of the grounds--makes me realize that the compound is completely flat. It was either flattened by man or by God, but either way the effect is chilling. Imagine standing in a space three football-fields-long but knowing that you can't escape. It seems crueler, somehow, giving so much space but absolutely nowhere to go. Also, the size of the place meant that they could simultaneously ship more prisoners in while putting others into the ground or letting them blow away with the wind.
I don't believe, as some reported, that the citizens of the city of Dachau knew nothing of what was happening within these walls, but I can certainly believe that they didn't know the extent. How could they? I'm looking at photographs, the ultimate proof, and I can hardly understand the extent.
I've never been the most people-loving person, but even I have a hard time answering the question: how can human cruelty stretch this far? How could this have been justified in anyone's mind, much less the collective mind of an entire group of people?
"We just did as we were told," they said in Nuremberg. "We were following orders." That's all well and good on paper--at least it seemed to pacify some, or help them sleep--but in practice, how is it possible? I'm a cynic of the highest order but even I cannot grasp how one could numb himself to that extreme, covering all crimes and more human suffering than should be possible. I almost understand--theoretically, anyway--those who believed and/or took pleasure in what they were doing. They were psychopathic, power-hungry sadists. Easy enough to explain although still not easy to swallow.
But what about the rest? They were weak-willed, obviously, but this goes a bit beyond peer pressure. I suppose it could be called that, but I much prefer the sociological term 'mob mentality.' Even that doesn't cover it, but it's the best I can do.
After recovering from my initial shock--after standing like that, completely still, for at least a minute or two--I being to walk again. As I make my way across the compound, I stop and look at the boards marking important places within the camp. On these boards are photographs, which is to be expected, but in these photos I find something entirely unexpected.
The dark photos move me, certainly, but the pictures of suffering, emaciated prisoners have been in every single History book I've had since I was a kid.
It is the other photos which strike much harder; they are photos I've never seen. In them the prisoners are smiling, or hugging, or even laughing. These pictures are not the majority, they are few and far between, but I find myself looking at their faces in a completely new light.
These images don't only depict history or dates or numbers or statistics; they depict people.
In these shots you can see their personalities shine. Do a favor for me: call into mind your group of friends. You all have titles in your group, even though they're not the type of title you put on your business card. But everyone knows subconsciously that they exist: The Smart One, The Pretty One, The Funny One, The Creative One, The Jock, ect.
I begin to think of these people like this--a group of friends helping each other survive an impossible situation. The Funny One makes them laugh when they all want to cry. The Creative One does some interesting woodwork and gives it to a little girl who lost her parents. The Jock helps an old man get his work done in time so the guards won't execute him for being useless. The Smart One devises a way to make paper out of cloth and helps people write letters to loved ones that no one will ever see.
For some reason the pictures of suffering don't have that effect, possibly because--as much as we don't want to admit it--we've all become a bit numb to human suffering. You've only need look at the world to realize this. But these photographs of people change something for me.
They put faces to the dates and numbers and statistics.
Hitler is famous for, among many other things, perpetuating the idea that Jews are not people. I've always known this to be a piece of particularly outrageous and dangerous propaganda from a hateful little man, but these photos really bring it home.
Tragedies become easier to live with when we describe them with numbers. But we shouldn't. Numbers aren't personal. Numbers can't cry or smile. Numbers can't die. Numbers can't laugh.
The numbers: Dachau was built in 1933; over 200,000 prisoners were brought to the camp between 1933 and the year it was liberated by the Allies; tens of thousands died; tens of thousands were outright murdered by the SS.
The reality: In 1933 people started disappearing. Over 200,000 people--families, children, grandparents, friends, lovers--were tortured for years because they had the nerve to exist. Tens of thousands were left to die without food and/or water because they had the nerve to worship or love or think. Tens of thousands were murdered because they had the outright gall to try and live their lives.
They weren't numbers then, and we shouldn't see them as numbers now. They were human beings; they cried, they screamed, they talked, they hugged, they wasted away, and too many died.
But they smiled, too. And somehow--with a type of strength and courage I can't begin to comprehend--they laughed.
