I went with my host-father's 6th grade class to the two sites in Belgium on the six-month anniversary of my exchange. It should have been, by all rights, a happy day for me. I had made it through some tough times, I felt, and had done well. I didn't realize this, though, and jumped at the chance to travel. I would not grow to regret it. Breendonck was not a concentration camp, but a work camp. There were no crematoriums, but the place was a living testament to prisoner of war abuses. Much of the camp was built by the prisoners, many times at the expense of the prisoners' lives. A wall lists all the names that died there. There were no pictures of the dead, and I seemed to be the only one there that was struck by this fact. The men who died here, most of them younger than myself, were nothing more than statistics. Their human existence is recorded in a birth-date, the name of a town, and their respective names. Every one of the men there died for nothing, and left behind countless wives, sisters, mothers, and fathers behind. Breendonck left a profound effect on me that was only to be heightened by our side trip to nearby Mechelen.
Mechelen served as a transport depot for the Belgian Jews and prisoners of war who were to be transported to various camps to the east. A museum has been built in memoriam of the city's former purpose in the Nazi killing machine. There I was, the only one in the class who could truly understand what was being shown to me. Or, at least, the only one who believed he could understand it. The truth is, I could not. I could not understand any more than the smallest child, despite all the research I had independently done on the subject. The museum showed newspapers, photos, and other artifacts of the time to display the state of affairs in the small country of Belgium during the occupation. The exhibits made my blood boil, as I had grown to love the little, often abused nation. Our tour of the museum ended with something that would calm my anger into quiet shock. In one room, there was a glass memorial to each train that left Mechelen, how many passengers were on it, how many lived through the ride, and how many were killed on arrival. One of the last trains had over one thousand passengers. That number was cut significantly during the ride. All the survivors, though, were killed upon arrival. My heart sank, and that will be forever burned in my mind the fact they were killed for surviving.
Over the months, my shock was diminished from that day as I pushed it further and further away. All those emotions came back to me, though, when I arrived in a true concentration camp in Dachau, Germany. It was the first leg of my tour of Europe taken with the Rotary club. We were 70 in one dual level bus, generally having a good time despite the long drive. We stopped in Munich the night before, and I went with some friends to see the main square. All in all, we were enjoying ourselves. Once we arrived in Dachau, however, that jubilant mood was gone. Don't get me wrong we were in full excitement for a few minutes. Then it began to hit us, one by one, where we were and the responsibility we held to never forget, no matter how hard it would be. All of us Americans, Canadians, Australians, Africans, South Americans, and a few other nationalities were deathly silent as we walked through. There were churches of Judaism, Christianity, and Russian Orthodox there to pray. Though I did not go into any of those churches, I kept silent vigil while I watched, open-mouthed. The bunkers were gone, save one, which was now a museum. As we walked through, I noticed a giant phrase written out in German. It was by a German poet, and translated to: "Where books are burned, people will be burned in the end." Later in the hour, I saw a stone memorial that had the same phrase in four languages (Hebrew, French, Russian, and English) inscribed boldly on it in stone "Never again." All this was a sort of precursor to the crematorium, which was marked by a simple wooden sign twenty feet in front of it.
The crematorium was in a small building off to the side and sort of hidden by the trees. There was no one that missed it, though. An odd desire to see it for ourselves prevailed. Signs told us, once we entered the building, that the facility was never used. Did it matter, though? Not in my mind. The very fact that it was there struck me because the people who built it intended to use it. It had potential killing force potential evil engrained in it. Though no souls were locked in it, it left a profound effect on my soul and everyone else's.
World War II is characterized as a long series of sacrifices the sacrifices of countless soldiers, innocents, and great cities like Stalingrad and Rotterdam. Was the holocaust in that category, though? I think not. A sacrifice is when something is given up in return for something greater. Nothing was given by the holocaust to those who suffered and all the others who felt its effects. Generations that followed it have not felt any benefits. These thoughts are perhaps what will stick with me the most. Confusion marks the holocaust more than anything. Confusion, for all of us are still confused about what exactly its purpose was.
We cannot give up this discussion, though, any more than I can give up the memories in my own mind. It is dangerous and irresponsible to do so. Therefore, keep arguing the history in your own mind. You will never understand it, that is assured, for it was innately senseless. But maybe that self-arguing and self-reflection will be enough to prevent it from happening again.