Remembering Auschwitz

St. Maximilian Kolbe's Cell at Auschwitz -- this was the only photo I could bring myself to take

Remembering Auschwitz – Today is the 70^th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by Soviet military forces in 1945, so I thought it appropriate to take a few moments to reflect on genocide, history, human cost, and moral obligation. 

Auschwitz was the physical manifestation of the Third Reich’s so-called final solution, and it wasn't just one installation.  It was actually a network of concentration and extermination camps, established in Poland in 1940, that the Nazis kept building almost until the end of the war.  It’s pretty incredible when you think about it.  With everything else that was going on in the Reich, the Germans continued to pour their own blood and treasure into improving Auschwitz’s efficiency and expanding its reach.  The level of deliberation, calculation, and commitment to the horrific mission of the camps by so many otherwise rational, cultured, educated people is mind-boggling -- and a frightening testimony to the power of evil over the human heart.

I visited Auschwitz in 2003, not really knowing what to expect.  I knew its history.  But when you visit a concentration camp, or any other location where unspeakable horror has been perpetrated by or upon other human beings, you find yourself wondering what’s appropriate.  For example, I pulled my camera out to take a picture in front of the notorious “Arbeit Macht Frei” sign at the entrance to the camp.  Then I hastily put the camera back.  There were tours taking group photos and I was offended.  It just seemed disrespectful, even if it was intended to memorialize respectfully, so I ended up taking only two pictures during my entire visit.  Both were of the cell where the German Priest, Maximilian Kolbe starved to death in order to save a fellow prisoner.  I took the pictures because my church in Germany where I was living at the time, was the Parish of Saint Maximilian Kolbe.  It had been a bold move to name a German church after a modern saint who had died as a result of German atrocities.  My fellow parishioners (all German) wanted to see, from a pilgrim's perspective, the place where he died.      

The second thing that struck me was that Auschwitz was not just a crime against the Jews.  Yes, more than 1.1 million Jews are estimated to have died there.  But lost in that catastrophic quantity is that fact that tens of thousands of Slavs, Gypsies, homosexuals, Communists, Russian POW’s, and other Nazi-perceived sub-humans and enemies of the state perished there as well.  Their tragedy, however, is often reduced to a footnote.  I guess it’s a matter of scope and scale, but how is it that we get to the point where we process the murder of tens of thousands of people as being less significant?   

And then there were the shoes.  They really got to me, those buildings full of shoes.  The hair, teeth, and personal effects were moving too, but I couldn't tear myself away from the shoes.  In photos, it’s the high heels and baby shoes that stand out – familiar artifacts from “civilized” lives interrupted.  In real life, however, what I noticed was that the piles of shoes were full of rough-hewn wooden clogs, tattered scraps of old leather, and felt slippers designed to be tied on with pieces of rope and string.  These were not the footwear of city dwellers, shopkeepers, doctors, schoolteachers, housewives, and their children.  They were the shoes of the most poor and the most vulnerable.  The people who left clogs and foot-rags behind were not the ones who kept journals, wrote memoirs (if they survived) or had portraits and certificates to memorialize lives and accomplishments.  Instead, they were likely illiterate, anonymous, and without resources or champions.  I remember thinking, as I looked at the shoes, about the stories that hadn't been written.  How many holocaust accounts are out there that document the experience of peasant farmers, beggars, and gypsies?  I couldn't recall any, and it saddened me that while we maintain that all human life has equal value, the narrative of genocide is still influenced by caste and education. 

These are only a few of my reflections, but what it all comes down to is this: We tell ourselves that we will never forget and that those of us in "civilized" nations will not allow it to happen again.  Yet it does, all the time.  Evil manifests itself in atrocities and we turn a blind eye.  We try to find ways to justify non-intervention.  We question sources.  We over-analyze.  We over-think.  We get distracted.  We get busy.  We become numb.  But for today at least, on the 70^th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, I ask you to take a moment and reflect on man’s inhumanity to man and our moral obligation to counter the same.  At least 1.1 million individuals were murdered on the outskirts of a small Polish town.  We owe it to them to remember; we owe it to them to protect.