Munich: A Third Generation Grudge (cont.)

My convoluted, self-righteous litany becomes more insincere as it progresses; I allude to the millions lost as if they were my immediate family.  My mouth feels driven by nothing more than obligation and the inertia of pity.  So I pause under the guise of seething and look at Elizabeth's face; she hasn't bought a word of it.

"My ancestors suffered too," she said.  "My father's brothers were killed in the war—there was resistance, you know, a lot of us helped the Jews, you asshole."

And she walks away livid.

I give chase; and after a couple minutes apologizing, she decides to resume acknowledging my existence.

I look at the balcony and make a joke, "I bet the rent's cheap."

Incidentally, No one lives in Hitler's apartment anymore; the entire building has been converted into a police station. Like most parts of Munich with Third Reich historical significance, it is unmarked.

"What could a plaque possibly say?" Elizabeth asks with a dismissive shrug.

The next day I find myself alone on the S-Bahn heading to Dachau. I have heard stories about visiting the camps, most of which are reverent and sobering. In a moment of existential crisis I question why I am doing this. 

You can't visit Germany without seeing a concentration camp, I tell myself.

I swell with emotion as I remind myself that I have come to put a stone on the Jewish memorial. The gesture signifies that I remember.

"Remember what?" I think. 

And in the grand scheme of things what does it matter that I remember?  Admittedly, I'm in a low risk demographic for committing future genocides against Jews. I can think of many people for whom visiting a concentration camp memorial would be a far more meaningful gesture.

The camp memorial provides a numbingly informative context and presents information unapologetically. It is eerie standing in the shower-disguised gas chambers and walking by execution walls and crematoriums, but you already know that.  What strikes me is how indiscriminating the tragedy was.  While the Jews were often subject to especially inhumane treatment, we often brush over the five million or more gypsies, Christians, homosexuals, communists, political dissidents and criminals who were also exterminated. 

In some ways Dachau is underwhelming, but in the way hell might be underwhelming.  It might be a physical manifestation of evil, but it's still just a place. On the way to the Jewish memorial I pass the ashes of the unknown concentration camp victim. It is marked with the inscription 'Never Again' in five different languages.  And it's poignant, but notably absent are the Swahili, Khmer, Kinyarwanda, Arabic, Somali and Serbian translations, or anywhere else for that matter where people are being slaughtered and an economic superpower doesn’t have a vested interest. 

The path to the Jewish memorial is slushy and lined with barren poplar trees. With deliberate steps I walk past where barracks once stood and look for a suitable rock. The Jewish memorial is a six-foot underground, tomb-like grotto accessed by a gently slopping incline encased in barbed railing. The interior, stone walls are punctuated with metal platforms the width of a grapefruit, all covered in small stones.  The memorial is lit by a modest opening in the ceiling that invokes the divine.

There is an inscription in German and Hebrew that has been frosted over.  Only three words are legible; they have been scratched clean by fingernails.

They read this: "Six Million Jews."

Page 2 of 2   Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.