Reflections on a trip away

I had to deliver leaflets in the rain today. It was miserable. I could feel my clothes getting steadily more wet, my skin recoiling from the cold dampness of the material as it clung. I endured it. There was a job to be done, a deadline to be met.

It wasn't really the way that I wanted to spend my Friday. Only the day before, I had been wandering around Krakow, marvelling at the Old Town, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Rightly so as it was a beautiful city. The architecture was an eclectic mix of style and colour: tall, narrow, pillared frontages and soaring spires. It was impressive, and navigating the cobbled streets, I contemplated how good it was to get away and experience something different. I ate an enormous croissant for breakfast, fruit-covered with custard filling and a light meringue adornment. I slept in a comfortable bed in a hotel positioned centrally in the Old Town, in a room with tall double doors, like I was entering a suite. I tried a selection of pierogis until I was full, in a restaurant which felt like something designed to entice the unsuspecting, like the witch's house in Hansel and Gretel, with its twee decoration and fairytale vibe.

And now, here I was, back in Britain, cold and wet with aching feet, my glasses dripping with water, so much that I could not see, my hair saturated.

And yet...

I couldn't help but feel lucky.

You see, on Wednesday, I had a similar day of wandering, although it was a plane flight away and the sun was shining.

On Wednesday, I visited Auschwitz-Birkenau.

***

I only have two photos of my trip, both taken outside. They are similar to the ones in this article. I didn't feel it was appropriate to document it - it was hardly Wish You Were Here? postcard material. Lots of other people took photos. Personally, I felt it was disrespectful. I felt guilty taking the two I did. In fact, part of me felt like I shouldn't be there at all. It felt voyeuristic. It's a memorial but there's no denying that it's a tourist attraction, judging by the amount of coaches there and the international nature of the tours, the guides having to speak in a variety of different languages. This didn't sit easily with me, these organised tours of a death camp, especially as my presence there was a contributing factor.

But would it be better that Auschwitz be forgotten with all that happened there? Or is there an argument for Auschwitz being preserved as a means to educate and remind us of the depravity that man can wreak on man?

***

It was a strange day. It started early in Krakow-Glowny train station with a quick breakfast before catching a train to Oswiecim. After an hour and a half, we arrived and disembarked, following the signs to Auschwitz. I had contemplated a walk along a busy road, accompanied by other travellers as we trudged to our destination but it was a stroll in sunshine through suburban life, past shops, businesses and residential flats, graffiti sometimes marking walls. One house had an old toilet in its garden and there were dogs barking territorially as we passed.

We were early and had to wait for our slot. The entry way is austere, all metal and concrete and plain. We sat, had a coffee, the benches bright silver and cold, as we waited for our guide to lift his sign marked "English" and we could begin our tour.

Lots of groups went through turnstiles, the beep of their ticket being scanned punctuating the air.

Soon, it was our turn. A tall, thin, bearded man with a thick Polish accent was our guide. He had wide, sensitive eyes. He spoke softly and thoughtfully. He told us a little of what to expect. I knew that it was going to be a difficult experience. I had already expressed to my husband that I suspected that I was going to find it harrowing.

And it was.

***

It wasn't the place. It felt like a barracks, a place to organise and regiment. Red brickwork buildings, positioned in an orderly manner to maximise the site. German effficiency. I got no chill from walking around. I felt sombre but not unsettled.

It was the displays that moved me. Mountains of hair, a kaleidoscope of plaits and ponytails. A disembodiment of artificial limbs, wooden feet and crutches. Canvases of photos taken of people arriving, unsure, but not aware that it would soon end for them. Some photos had been taken surreptitiously by a disturbed German soldier. These wall pictures showed bodies, piled; they showed scared women, naked, the blurriness of the hurried exposure not disguising the fact that they were terrified and facing their death. Shoes, suitcases with names on them, pictures of shaved men and women lining the corridor, staring out at you.

Dead people. Murdered people.

I'm not ashamed to say that I cried. I followed my son and my husband as they walked ahead of me and I hung my head and sobbed.

The clinical nature of it...the detachment...the lack of regard for another human's life...it was almost too much for me to bear. But bear it I did because compared to what was endured in this "camp", my emotional discomfort was nothing.

***

I'm still reeling from it now. I stood on the area at Auschwitz-Birkenau where "selection" took place. Such a misnomer. I imagined standing there, tired, hungry, dirty. I imagined being separated from my children and my heart tightened in response and my stomach filled with bile. I thought of being escorted away from my husband and the uncertainty of whether I would hold him again. I wondered who these men were that shout in their uniforms and why they brought us here. I imagined it smelt bad here.

***

What did I bring away from there? No souvenirs. A lot of deep thinking and the need to understand why. I don't think I'll ever understand that level of hate, hate that drives one set of people to organise the systematic extermination of another set of people, albeit those they perceive as different, inferior to them.

And one more thing left with me, although it was there when I arrived but this experience aroused it further:

Fear.

Fear for what we were.

Fear for what we are.

Fear for what we can become.

If we don't stop it.

***

And so, I was glad to be wet and cold. I was glad to be walking the streets of the town where I lived. I was glad my feet ached with the effort. I was glad to lift my face up to the sky and swallow the rain.

You see, I knew that it would end with a hot shower, clean clothes, a warm drink with some lunch and an afternoon of knitting.

My discomfort would end and by my choice.

But for those people who were sent to Auschwitz, this was denied.

***