By Laura Rena Murray
NEW YORK — The steps of Auschwitz are disappearing. Millions of footsteps degrade the stone every year. The camps seems to be disintegrating, falling into the void of history. And by struggling so hard to retain the memories of the Holocaust, by making the journey to walk the same halls and wince at the barbed wire, the physical reality of Nazi horror slowly disappears.
At Birkenau, there’s a glass case with a peaked roof located between the third gas chamber and the building where Jews and other prisoners were herded for registration upon arrival. The case sits under the sun, protecting spoons, forks and other remnants that continue to be found on the grounds, tools that were used by victims of the Holocaust before they were slaughtered. Tools that were prized and irreplaceable. Perhaps possessing a spoon reminded someone of their humanity as they hurried to the mass toilets for the allotted five seconds. Flowers sprout under the glass. Visitors marvel at them, ignoring most other flowers that scatter the grounds. These buds are extraordinary because of their location, because they shade the utensils we cannot touch. When someone in the group remarks on them, our guide responds, “Nature always wins.”
This was an enormously intense trip. The word “pain” feels too weighted now. I don’t know that I can use it again. Now that I’m back in New York, I am left grasping for words. I can’t explain the haunted spirit that returns to view the photographs my friends and colleagues took while we visited Auschwitz. I read and reread our articles when I cannot sleep. It feels like a precarious tether to a shared experience that I cannot relinquish just yet.
At the end of our trip, I found out my middle name means “joy” in Hebrew. I revel in delight and am constantly seeking joy. Although the construction of Auschwitz and the process of envisioning what truly occurred there seemed too stark to imagine moments of joy, I noticed we all paused with upturned faces to enjoy to the sunlight and marveled at the flowers when we stumbled out of the barracks. I hope there might have been similar small private moments for the people who lived and died at Auschwitz.
No matter the context or the circumstances of my future assignments, I will always carry the memory of Auschwitz with me. Silence on the part of journalists in the face of such atrocity is complicity. I will not remain silent.
Beautiful, Laura. Thank you for posting this.
I too am re-reading what people wrote, looking back at the photos, and holding on to the experience.