Thoughts on Dachau
Written at 6:31 PM, 9-19-06
A gray morning washed over Munich, like some titanic tidal wave come to carry away the city’s inhabitants. Sheets of rain, heartened by the wind, swept the wide streets, challenging even those with umbrellas to brace the fury of the downpour. I was one such challenger. I would not be deterred from my plans, despite the torrential weather. As many of my fellow travelers huddled around the hostel’s common room and entryway, I bravely equipped my large but dysfunctional coat and headed out into the drenched streets.
I would not waste a day on account of rain, though almost from the onset this resolve promised to bring me misery. I made my way for the train station, for Dachau was my destination. Just southwest of Munich, this town is host to the first of the Nazi Concentration Camps. After seeing the battle sites in Normandy, I could hardly surpass the opportunity to see the other side of the war.
The weather did seem determinately set on testing my resolve, however. Each step toward the train station carried more and more water down my coat and onto my pants. Within a very short time, the front of my pants was utterly saturated. Still, the rain was relentless. And even as I approached the train station, matters worsened. If you’ve ever seen a movie in which a car whizzes by, splashing a puddle onto the pedestrian on the sidewalk, then you will understand what happened to me. Only I was not so foolish as to stand a few feet from the street. I was a good six or seven feet away when a truck zoomed by, splashing a puddle up and down my left side. The dry parts of my pants retreated into nothingness and I was left cold and wet.
However, I was not to let this spoil my mood. I laughed, smiled, and dwelled over the thought that it seemed appropriate I should visit a concentration camp in miserable conditions, when nothing that could happen to me on the way could truly compare to the misery and horror of the things the befell Dachau’s inhabitants.
The travel from Munich to Daschau and then from Daschau’s bus station to the concentration camp was seamless. It also afforded me the opportunity to begin the long process of drying off. A wide range of people sat and walked alongside me as I headed for the entrance to the concentration camp. People of all nationalities, though mostly American, seemed interested in visiting the place.
I’m not sure whether it was the weather or the place—probably some combination of the two—but as soon as I stepped into the grounds of Daschau, I was immediately overcome with a sense of somber sobriety. The crunch of the gravel, the hiss of the wind, the low hum of talk, all of it seemed to resonate with reality of Daschau.
I picked up an audio guide and headed for the gates of the Jourhaus, where over 206,000 people passed during the 12 years of terror that marked Hitler’s reign. The black, wrought iron gates read, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” or “Work Will Set You Free.” Concentrating hard enough, I could almost see the shadows of the thousands upon thousands of people who would pass through those gates—to become little more than shadows.
The long, expansive buildings of the Daschau concentration camp rose up from the ground, like some great beast arising from the grave. The gray sky seemed to melt into the stone, casting everything into a blurred, foggy mass. I followed my audio guide, glad for the solemn independence that it afforded me. In such places, one should have time to contemplate the meaning of a stone or the significance of picture; he or she should remain undisturbed by the schedule of a tour guide or the banter of a travel companion. I was glad to be alone.
Monuments and pictures, displayed and signs, all stood as a tribute to suffering and salvation. Although officially, roughly 30,000 people died in Daschau, the number is probably much more. Near the end of the war, the furnaces spewed a constant stream of smoke into the sky, a dark tribute to atrocity. Daschau had one gas chamber, though for some unknown reason, it was never employed. No one believes the reason had anything to do with mercy—or humanity.
The monuments stood in and around the buildings, reminding people—in the quiet way that monuments do—of what was lost, and also, perhaps, of what was achieved. Victory over evil. Insight into the true horror of which humanity was capable. Triumph of love over hate. The words:
Never Again.
They rang clearly, like a morning bell, rising above the dull rumble of terrible memories. The words were simple, though they achieved something far more than “simple.” They reminded. They inspired. “Never Again”—a mantra against hate, against racism and violence, against the disgusting atrocities of which humanity is capable.
Probably none of us—except the survivors of the concentration camps—can truly appreciate the grim torture that the captives faced with each and every day. But we can do them justice by remembering, and more importantly, by reminding. We can remind a friend, who makes light of the holocaust, that millions of people were brutally murdered. We can remind a friend, who thinks history isn’t worth studying, that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. We can remind a friend, who thinks such things aren’t possible in today’s world, that such things are happening in today’s world. We can remind and remember the horror in the hope of “Never Again.”
Tags: Dachau, Europe, Germany, Munich, Travel, world war II
gregbilsland
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