Auschwitz

“I haven’t seen a single person of color here, man.”

 

 Jared’s voice sounded from over my shoulder, and I couldn’t help but laugh at his comment despite the morbid agenda of our day. It was true: everyone was white.

 

We stood at a bus station in Krakow, Poland. We were waiting to be brought over to the infamous Nazi concentration camp of Auschwitz at the cheap price of 12 Zloty. All seven of us knew what we were going to see. School had taught us about the horrors of the Holocaust; we had all read the books written by Anne Frank and Elie Wiesel, both of whom ended up in Auschwitz. Despite this, we weren’t expecting leave feeling as despondent as we did.

 

Upon arrival, we were surprised at the vastness of the camp. It was at least 20 football fields long and 10 football fields wide. It was clear that a great degree of labor, by the Nazis, must have gone into it. A lot of sadistic thought in designing it, a lot of work and effort in building it, a lot of resources in committing the genocide itself, and a large amount of dynamite in trying to make it seem like the camp never even happened. Never once along the line did a Nazi realize the project they took up was super fucked up. They thought they were right in doing so, as if it was what Germany needed. Much like a Trump Supporter might feel that building the Wall is the solution America needs. I'd bet they were motivated enough to feel accomplished in building such a "magnificent" concentration camp when it was all done.

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Auschwitz proved emotionally overwhelming: seeing the ditches that were dug for bodies to be burnt in, seeing the ruins of the gas chamber, seeing the size of the camp, seeing pictures of children who were gassed to death; Auschwitz made me want to cry... But I couldn’t.

 

Instead, I wondered.

 

I wondered; does a German veteran of WWII have any pride? Doesn't his hand in the atrocities of the Third Reich weigh on him from day to day? What traumatizes him more: living with horrific memories of combat, or living with the knowledge of the purpose of all that combat? War alone can’t be an easy experience to cope with for any good man’s conscious but, as a Nazi, to be left with no other option than to excuse your killing with the shameful, pitiful, confounding claim of mere ignorance and desperation as a man belonging to a manipulated mess of masses must gnaw at the very fibers of your soul. Nothing you did could be justified: you can only claim mercy as a pawn, a fool. There is no dignity in saying you have fought for your nation. Could you even forgive yourself? You were fighting for genocide, murdering fellow Germans like livestock, risking your life for one of history's greatest villains; you were the bad guy. Either you live with this guilt for the rest of your days or you take pride in being a monster. Where many soldiers may wear their uniform after the war—as an attire that represents bravery and sacrifice—a Nazi would be better off burning his uniform in respect to all of the Jews that suffered such a fate.

 

 Jared and I wondered, together, as we wandered the ruins of Auschwitz: how different are Hitler and Trump? Is there much hope left for humans? Is hate integrally a part of us?

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Later that night, I would cry upon my knees in a makeshift bed on the wooden floor of the hostel, surrounded by my friends in the room. The night before I agreed to be the one to sleep in the room with strangers because there were only six beds available in each dorm at the hostel. Tonight, however, I could not sleep alone.