We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses.
We are shoes from grandchildren, and grandfathers,
From Prague, Paris, and Amsterdam,
And because we are only made of fabric and leather
And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire.
(Moses Schulstein, 1911-1981, Yiddish poet)
Our summer vacation took us back to a city that I love for its elegance and illusive serenity: Washington. On this (second) trip to the American capital my main point of interest was the Holocaust Museum. Long before it happened, this much anticipated visit filled my spirit with awestruck wonder: a humbling experience, essential empathy plunge.
As you walk in, the whirlwind of images is overwhelming. The light in the entrance is in formidable contrast with the steel doors and beams omnipresent in the museum. The first sign that caught my attention reads: Daniel’s Story. Forthwith, the well known image of the little boy with hands up in the air and frightened look on his face from the Warsaw Ghetto flashed before my eyes.
As we step in the elevator, we are told, “We will not show you six million victims, but we will tell you the stories of real people that lived and died during the Holocaust.” At first, the horror is somewhat abstract, but with every step that you take in the museum and with every new display it becomes more and more tangible.
The part of the exhibition dedicated to the incredible Nazi propaganda machine is trying to offer some explanation to why people got subjugated by the ideals of national socialism. A renewed realization of the (sometimes destructive) power of words sets in. Granted, the work of Joseph Goebbels and his acolytes was compelling. In different circumstances and serving a less atrocious cause, what they managed to accomplish would have been quite impressive but can that explain it all? Having been exposed to the Communist propaganda as a child, I know propaganda was not enough to poison our souls.
In my search for answers, I read the economic, ideological and religious explanations, and I realize that none of them help advance my understanding of how and why this tragedy was allowed to happen. I guess despite all the explanations, the numbers, the mechanics of crime, what I am trying to comprehend is what happened to the human spirit, to everything that defines us as human beings, to the very fabric of humanity, during that period of time to allow such horrors to take place. What are the circumstances that will force the evil to surface? When do we become inhuman? When and why do we let ourselves go?
Which one is stronger (and which one will serve us better): our courage or our conscience? I always said that I would rather perish than harm a child, but then pictures and tales of horror showed me the means of constraint that the Nazis had at their disposal, so could the reign of fear explain the cruelty of the acts that were inflicted by human beings to other human beings? As much as want to reject this hypothesis entirely and believe that integrity and compassion are stronger than coercion, I realize that as frightening as the thought of the pain and agony that could have been inflicted on my person is, the thought of such violence and hurt unleashed on my children or other people I love is unbearable.
My hands were trembling before the uniforms worn by prisoners in Dachau; my eyes filled with tears as I was reading Daniel’s story, one of the Holocaust children; I was gasping for air in front of the model of the Auschwitz gas chamber, and the dry cries became sobbing when I touched the wooden beds where the camp prisoners slept and one of the train cars that were used to transport Jews to the concentration camps. As we stopped in front of the shoes, I just wanted to kneel down and pray. I can only imagine how they lived their last months, their last days, their last moments, running through darkness in grim despair.
The Holocaust probably remains the period of time the most studied in history: why are we so interested, so intrigued; what are we afraid of? Are we seeking reassurance? Are we trying to understand the circumstances so we could, consequently, dismiss (“Oh, that could never happen again”) even the unsettling thought of a possible repeat? Was it just a fluke? Was it just a random gathering of evil forces, from a rare (unfortunately, not rare enough) and ghastly corner of history, that will never be repeated?
(…) windows ablaze, almost every window in almost every house, and, in the brightly lit rooms, fully clothed people, even entire families, who had sat the whole night wide awake, watchful, listening. Of what were they frightened? It might happen again.” (In Cold Blood by Truman Capote)
Tags: Daniel's Story, Holocaust, Holocaust Museum, The Shoes, Washington
