Taking a Tour of Auschwitz.

I was not prepared to visit the Auschwitz concentration camp.

I bought tickets in advance, saved the address, and arrived early.  I asked others about their visit and educated myself about the history.  Still, I didn’t fully understand what I was getting myself into.

I was unprepared for the shock of human depravity – for confronting a site where mass human extermination occurred.  But I was also unprepared for, and unexpectedly shocked by, my encounters with the people taking the tour of Auschwitz with me.  They moved me to anger as I observed their callous behavior and apparent exploitation of such a sad piece of history.

I try very hard not to judge others, but I’m afraid that in this instance I was not very successful in my attempts.

The purpose of my trip was to acknowledge the truth of what happened at Auschwitz, show respect to the victims, and honor the memory of those that died.  In telling this story about my visit, I have decided to include the insensitive interruptions just as they occurred – in the midst of an otherwise devastating journey.  I feel that to do otherwise would misrepresent this place and potentially paint a false image of what it is really like to visit.  I want you to know what it was like and how I felt during the tour, especially if you have a similar purpose for visiting.

Perhaps you’ll understand what I mean as I share this story of touring Auschwitz.

Taking a Tour of Auschwitz.

We arrive early enough to take advantage of the free parking on a nearby street.   The almost chilly morning air welcomes us as we make our way over to the museum.  Lacking clear instruction, we stand in two different lines before realizing neither was where we should be.  Women in blue shirts give us misleading information about how to join our tour.  As Mr. Meena holds our place in line, I watch the family behind him laugh and joke copiously at the expense of their tired daughter, who is sitting unhappily on the bench next to me, as they snap photos of her with their cell phones.

Their actions mock the solemn respect that the victims of this site deserve.

We pass through the metal detectors and pick up our headphones, receivers, and stickers that say “English 10:00”.  We walk to the area behind the museum to wait for our guide.

 

Tour guides hold up wooden signs with their designated language as they flow out of the building; ours arrives last, holding only a sheet of paper with “English” scrawled across it.  After a brief introduction and equipment check, we follow Yuric to the entrance.  Various tour groups crowd around the iconic entrance gate and their push to take photos becomes a spectacle.  I stand apart from the main group, conflicted about if I even want to take photos in this place.

 

Yuric’s voice floats through my headphones to tell me that the phrase we’re looking up at, “Arbeit macht frei”, which means “Work sets you free”, was a symbol of the entire Nazi system.

History floods through my awareness as I listen to Yuric while navigating around the puddles of muddy water in the street.  I fall behind as I soak in my surroundings.  The tour groups overlap, mixing together as we walk to our destination.

The first building we enter is Block 4.  A man on the stairs in front of me has the word “freedom” written across the back of his shirt.  Ambient noise comes through my headphones as I wait in line.  Inside the first room there is a map of Europe that shows the routes used to transport so many people to this central camp.  A cool breeze from the window blows across my face.

 

Yuric leads us to a wall filled with numbers, which represent each nationality that died here.  The figures add up to 1.1 million people.  But that total only includes the minimum amount that can be proven – the real number will never be known and is likely much higher.

Feet shuffle across the floor as we move to the next room.  I see disinterest.  I feel it, from teenagers who were promised a European vacation and somehow ended up here.  An older woman in our group uses two cameras to photograph everything she sees.

The next exhibit states that only 200,000 of the people who arrived here became prisoners.  Only a fraction of arrivals had their name recorded, were handed uniforms, and received numerical tattoos.  Large photos show people being arrested, forced out of their homes, and deported to make room for German settlers.  Intellectuals, gypsies, families – no one was spared.  I have to filter the rest of the information in the room because we pass through too quickly to read it all.

The third room we enter is called the road of death.  My group is unable to form a line through the doorway.

More photos show the selection platform, where the trains arrived and the passengers unloaded.  Nazi soldiers would evaluate the newcomers ruthlessly; anyone who did not appear fit to work was unnecessary.  The rejects were told to go to the showers.  I look at a young boy and his mother who thought they were simply following orders.  There is no fear or panic on their faces.  They did not know they were walking towards the building where they would die painfully.

Outside, the bright blue sky seems to echo the now forbidden Nazi sentiment that this did not happen.

 

We head upstairs.

Different photos adorn the wall in the next room.  These photos were taken in secret by prisoners.  They should not exist.  One of the blurry images shows a woman undressing before heading into the gas chamber.

She didn’t notice the soldiers standing on the roof.

Another illegal photo shows soldiers dealing with the aftermath.  A young boy, around ten years old, pushes me aside so he can get closer, taking multiple photos with his cell phone.  I remember that this tour is not recommended for those under 14 years of age.

We enter the next room, which is one of two places throughout the tour that you are not allowed to take photos.  I watch a man in my group blatantly snap photos regardless.

His actions mock the solemn respect that the victims of this site deserve.

I stand in front of huge piles of human hair, hearing for the first time that the Nazis used the hair, either selling or repurposing it.  They would receive half a German Mark for each kilogram of hair.  Nothing was wasted at Auschwitz, instead the most personal and private belongings were taken from the victims and used for profit.

Yuric is not aggressive like some of the other tour guides, often instructing us to wait a moment for another group to pass through.  He finally loses his patience in this room and I hear him firmly instruct a group leader to stop monopolizing the space.

We finish touring the building and head down the steps into bright sunshine.  Children are laughing in the street and stopping to give each other piggyback rides.  Their laughter is grating to my ears, a harsh transition after hearing so many wretched facts about the concentration camp.

 

We enter Block 5.  There is a massive crate filled with brightly colored dishware.  These items are what people chose to include in their slim luggage allotment as they were being forced out of their homes and communities.  Each piece represents a hope that they could start over and build a new life for themselves.  I think about how lovingly these items must have been packed and how hatefully they were taken away.  They weren’t used for the purpose that they were brought here for; instead they are still sitting on display all these years later.

As we tour the next room I pause near the glass to observe some of the victims’ suitcases.  A woman from our group steps directly in front of me to take photos.

Block 7 is our next stop.  There are photos of prisoners lining a hallway, each one including a date of arrival and death.  Some only have a timespan of a few days.  I pause again to peer into a room full of furniture used by prisoners and the same woman sees this as an opportunity to step in front of me, blocking my view a second time in order to take a photo.  I nearly lose my temper with her, as does Mr. Meena.

Instead of making a scene, which would be inappropriate in this place, we decide to step around her, breathe deeply, and move on.  It’s not easy.

I notice that in one of the black and white framed photos a man appears to have tears in his eyes.  He looks afraid.

We walk outside, past more buildings where terrible things happened.  One building was used to attempt sterilization techniques on women; another was a place where prisoners were sent to starve to death.  From the outside the buildings look like any other administrative building.

 

We wait in a long line to enter Block 11.  There is a road to my right that stretches along the edge of the camp.  It is strange to see it so crowded with groups of tourists as they peer in windows and stop to listen to their guides.  Were the streets ever this full with prisoners?

An Italian tour group pushes forward and I lose sight of Yuric, his voice becoming patchy in my headphones.  We descend into the basement.  It is chaos.  Some cells have peepholes and small windows to the outside.  Others don’t, such as the suffocation cells and the standing cells.  The small, crowded basement makes me feel a bit overwhelmed even though I’m not claustrophobic.

We pass the room where people were forced to strip naked before being executed at the death wall.  Fading clothing rests inside, folded neatly.

We head to the crematory next, where we are asked not to speak but to instead reflect on those that died here.  Sunlight filters in through the square holes in the ceiling which were used to introduce Zyklon B into the chamber.  I am surprised at how small the main chamber is.  I feel the weight of this space, where so many were brutally murdered.  My intense emotions and thoughts are interrupted by the artificial light of multiple cell phones as they are extended past the barrier to take photos.  In the furnace room I stand aghast as I confront the ovens, while next to me a member of my group snaps more photos with his phone.  I can’t help but wonder what he plans to do with the gruesome photos he now has.

I am disappointed as we exit the chambers, because I allowed myself to be so distracted by and angry with others at this place that I’ve wanted to visit for so long.

I see several signs placed near the guard towers that warn prisoners to stop.  I am struck by the fact that the signs have both the German and Polish word for “stop” on them.

 

Prisoners were brought here from all over Europe – there must have been many that didn’t speak or understand German.  Were there translators in the camp?  How many people lost their lives because of a miscommunication, or spent their short time here hopelessly confused?

After a short break we board the shuttle to Auschwitz II-Birkenau for the second part of the tour.  This area of the camp is huge by comparison.  I look out over the expansive landscape as the sun heats my back.  The goal of this location was to accelerate the extermination process; I am tremendously thankful that its construction was never completed.

 

My feet crunch along the gravel as we approach a train car sitting on the arrival platform.  We stand where the Nazi soldiers and doctors did as they made selections, telling people which way to go and deciding their fate.

Nearly all of the buildings where prisoners and their belongings were processed are only ruins.

As we walk to the back of the camp I see mountains in the distance to my left.  It’s hard to reconcile the natural beauty of this place with its terrible purpose.  You can enter this part of Auschwitz without a guide, and visitors dot the landscape.  We gather around the International Monument, located near the tree line in the rear of the camp, while members of another group sit on it, smiling and taking silly photos with their hands in the air.

Their actions mock the solemn respect that the victims of this site deserve.

A short distance away we are able to look down into the underground chambers and see the ruins of one of the crematories.  Yuric tells us that sometimes people would survive being gassed and had to be shot by the soldiers afterwards.

 

As the Nazis were fleeing Auschwitz upon its liberation they made many efforts to destroy the evidence of what happened there, including blowing up this crematorium.

 

A woman stops to tie her shoe, propping it up on one of the fallen columns.

I wonder which fate would be worse – dying immediately or living as a prisoner and having to watch people die often or even be forced to help kill them or dispose of their bodies.

We walk for a long time, looking out over the ruins and the few remaining buildings.  There are memorials along the path.  Yellow and purple wildflowers flourish in the overgrowth as butterflies flutter past us.

 

Our guide pauses to let us look around inside one of the dormitories.  But he pauses for only a moment, and we continue our tour missing several members of the group.

 

The last part of our tour takes us through a narrow building.  It has long troughs that would have been filled with water for the thousands of prisoners who were sent through this building and others like it.  They had only seconds to attempt to bathe or use the bathroom.  No privacy was given.

We gather around Yuric to hear his parting words.  He tells us how 7,500 people were found when this camp was liberated, and only 10% of the Nazis responsible were later captured.  Even fewer were convicted, imprisoned, or sentenced to die for their crimes.

Rounds of applause nearby signal the end of other tours.  But when our guide is finished he simply walks away with a sad, tired expression.  Our group dissipates, some following Yuric to the shuttle and others looking around forlornly.

 

The sadness of this site stands in stark contrast to the behavior of the some of the people still flooding through the entrance gate.  As much was I wanted to stay longer and see more of it, quietly, on my own, we had already been there for over four hours and had to leave.

Despite being discouraged during my tour of Auschwitz, I will continue to honor the victims of this site and others like it.  They deserved so much more than what they received and they certainly deserve to be remembered by others.

I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

– Elie Wiesel

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