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It was not the appearance in the buildings, per se, which made them sinister. Their plain simplistic design wouldn’t misplace them from any other camp or summer lakeside retreat. The clock above the gate could be from an episode to some show like “Hey Dude” and the forest in which this place was situated was no different than the other charming woods through which Heidi and I have gone running.
What made this place sinister was the memory of what took place some 60 years ago.
We walked “Karakho” in silence, but my mind was full of sounds – the groaning and whimpering, the shouting, the angry tongues of Nazis and their monstrous use of the German language – the occasional gunshot, the whipping, the savagery, the barking and beating, thrashing with sticks of brier. I imagined the SS as foaming at the mouth, like beasts, red in the face, coming down on hopeless prey. I imagined the terror one might feel when approaching that simple clock tower above the gate, and to see the cast iron inscription wrought from the bars: “to each his own” – a theme to the most hellish place.
We walked “Karakho” in silence, but my mind was full of sounds – the groaning and whimpering, the shouting, the angry tongues of Nazis and their monstrous use of the German language – the occasional gunshot, the whipping, the savagery, the barking and beating, thrashing with sticks of brier. I imagined the SS as foaming at the mouth, like beasts, red in the face, coming down on hopeless prey. I imagined the terror one might feel when approaching that simple clock tower above the gate, and to see the cast iron inscription wrought from the bars: “to each his own” – a theme to the most hellish place.
And when we entered and looked out across the flattened field of ashen rubble (where the lines of prison barracks stood at one time) I could see the scores of prisoners assembling and working, disintegrating into the emaciated husks of what should have been a human being. (Maybe that worsened the problem, they no longer looked like humans – “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?”)
To the right was a smokestack, simple, basic, like a chimney one might find in the hills of a small, old fashioned mining town in Cornwall. But what made this one turn my stomach sick was the idea of black smoke belching into the sky, stinking up the camp with the barbecue of human flesh.
A crematorium. A dainty, though effective, little cottage of a building standing as one of the only remaining structures on the flattened field. We went in through its little gate and followed the path to the only room open for admittance.
A crematorium. A dainty, though effective, little cottage of a building standing as one of the only remaining structures on the flattened field. We went in through its little gate and followed the path to the only room open for admittance.
Inside.
The white tiles were so clean. They climbed up the walls and shinned with sanitation. They grew up in the center of the room into a man-sized table – all of it made in the same white tile look of hygiene. A single red carnation lay at rest on the slant of this tiled operation table, and a greening copper faucet reached up at the head. In the far corner there stood a display of menacing instruments. O God, why are there knives that look like this. Are they a sick pleasure? The engineering of torturous fascination.
The white tiles were so clean. They climbed up the walls and shinned with sanitation. They grew up in the center of the room into a man-sized table – all of it made in the same white tile look of hygiene. A single red carnation lay at rest on the slant of this tiled operation table, and a greening copper faucet reached up at the head. In the far corner there stood a display of menacing instruments. O God, why are there knives that look like this. Are they a sick pleasure? The engineering of torturous fascination.
I tried to imagine what drove the SS to do such things. What makes one so indifferent they can participate in that monstrosity and return to their family for dinner and wine and play time with the kids. I felt their anger as I walked through. I felt my self trying to enter into their minds and the horrific hatred made my heart pump sharp, made my cheeks burn red.
Outside I felt the fear and lack of hope, the hollow faithless. What was it like to be a prisoner in this place? Looking out at the tall slender trees of the woods. Weimar is not far away. The most sophisticated city of Germany, home of Bach, Goethe, and Schiller. It’s just over the hill, and rampant barbarity here in the trees. Not a single prisoner escaped though I am sure plenty tried. Their demise would always be marked with a gunshot in the middle of the night. If I were one of them I might ask “why?” – At least until I just didn’t care any more, until the routine of dying had ground down my senses so far that I was no longer concerned with explanations or understanding but only consumed with the hunger in my stomach. Food. The testimonies printed on plaques on the walls always spoke of food. Images of bread would replace my philosophies.
A Jewish Proverb came to mind and continued to resound as I walked through the camp.
“Deliver those who are being taken away to death, And those who are staggering to slaughter, Oh hold them back.” (Prov 24:11)
“Deliver those who are being taken away to death, And those who are staggering to slaughter, Oh hold them back.” (Prov 24:11)
I kept asking, “Where were the Christians in all of this?” Why is there a steeple in the cute village just over the hill.
I guess it’d be better to think about today. “Where are the Christians now?”
