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There are two journeys that we made which are strongly linked, although they took place almost 30 years apart. One was to Munich and the other to Israel. And they were, indirectly, triggered by those horrific newsreels I saw as a 7 year old showing the liberation of the Nazi concentration camps. I can still remember as clearly as if it was last week the stunned, horrified silence in which the audience sat through these scenes. Propagandists sometimes maintain that the Allied governments knew what was going in places like Auschwitz and Belsen, but the people in the street certainly didn’t.
My parents came to visit us in Germany each summer and one year I suggested for a change that we could take a trip to Munich. Just outside Munich is Dachau which is now a memorial to the thousands who died there, and my father was interested in seeing it. He never said as much but I suspected he wanted to see one of the glaring reasons why his life was put on the line. In my turn, I thought my sons were old enough to understand what had happened there. I wanted them to learn when they were being fooled by political charlatans and I wanted them to understand why I would be prepared to die fighting against evil of this nature.
We drove down to Bavaria and found a B&B in Furstenfeldbruck, which is close to the Dachau site. Our first day in Munich we spent sightseeing and visiting the Deutsches Museum. This is situated on an island in the Yser River, which runs through the centre of Munich. The museum is outstanding in its range and the quality of its exhibits. At the time we visited there was a genuine U-boat in the basement. The conning tower was much taller than the chamber which housed it, so a hole had been cut in the ceiling to accommodate it. What made this so arresting was that a visitor entering the entrance lobby was faced with the conning tower of a genuine U-boat apparently floating just above the floor. There were panels cut out of the hull so that visitors could walk the length of the vessel and get a clear picture of the interior. It struck me that life in a WW2 submarine must have been as close to hell as it’s possible to get. The rest of the museum was absolutely fascinating and to my mind ranks as one of the best in Europe.
The next day we went to Dachau. Most of the huts where the prisoners were quartered have been demolished, only the first row being still in existence. The headquarters building is now a museum, housing photos, and camp records. Dachau was not an extermination camp so the crematorium was not on the industrial scale of Auschwitz, but nevertheless the half-dozen or so ovens were a moving sight. The inmates were literally worked to death. There is a chapel built next to the crematorium and the chapel’s priest was once an inmate of the concentration camp. He was talking to a group of teenagers when we passed and we stopped to listen.
One photo in the museum is particularly heartrending. It shows a little old lady, her head covered by a scarf, walking down a street in the Warsaw ghetto while holding the hands of two little children. Behind them stands a sneering member of the SS, holding a submachine gun. I defy anyone not to be moved to tears at this image, knowing what fate awaited this little group.
The whole experience was moving beyond words. My father was almost in tears and I could only imagine the emotions he was experiencing.
In the mid 1990s my wife and I took a trip to Israel, a visit I had been anticipating for a considerable number of years. I‘ll talk about this trip more fully later, but now I’ll concentrate on one day when we were in Jerusalem. Our guide took us to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Memorial on Mount Herzl. To visit this memorial in the heart of the country whose foundation was based on the horror the world felt at the cruelty the Jewish people were subjected to during the Nazi years was an emotional experience almost beyond imagination.
Our guide then suggested we visit the Children’s Memorial. I almost balked at this; if the Holocaust Memorial had played havoc with my feelings, what would a memorial to the children killed in those terrible times do? As it transpired my wife and I found it to be ethereally beautiful. The visitor enters a darkened chamber. All around candles burn against a black background, like stars in space. Two voices read out the names of the dead children in quiet voices. We felt that we were no longer on Earth, but floating in space. There was such a feeling of peace and tranquillity that the revulsion we felt at the coldblooded murder of hundreds of thousands of children was transmuted into wonder that such beauty could be created out of horror.
My parents came to visit us in Germany each summer and one year I suggested for a change that we could take a trip to Munich. Just outside Munich is Dachau which is now a memorial to the thousands who died there, and my father was interested in seeing it. He never said as much but I suspected he wanted to see one of the glaring reasons why his life was put on the line. In my turn, I thought my sons were old enough to understand what had happened there. I wanted them to learn when they were being fooled by political charlatans and I wanted them to understand why I would be prepared to die fighting against evil of this nature.
We drove down to Bavaria and found a B&B in Furstenfeldbruck, which is close to the Dachau site. Our first day in Munich we spent sightseeing and visiting the Deutsches Museum. This is situated on an island in the Yser River, which runs through the centre of Munich. The museum is outstanding in its range and the quality of its exhibits. At the time we visited there was a genuine U-boat in the basement. The conning tower was much taller than the chamber which housed it, so a hole had been cut in the ceiling to accommodate it. What made this so arresting was that a visitor entering the entrance lobby was faced with the conning tower of a genuine U-boat apparently floating just above the floor. There were panels cut out of the hull so that visitors could walk the length of the vessel and get a clear picture of the interior. It struck me that life in a WW2 submarine must have been as close to hell as it’s possible to get. The rest of the museum was absolutely fascinating and to my mind ranks as one of the best in Europe.
The next day we went to Dachau. Most of the huts where the prisoners were quartered have been demolished, only the first row being still in existence. The headquarters building is now a museum, housing photos, and camp records. Dachau was not an extermination camp so the crematorium was not on the industrial scale of Auschwitz, but nevertheless the half-dozen or so ovens were a moving sight. The inmates were literally worked to death. There is a chapel built next to the crematorium and the chapel’s priest was once an inmate of the concentration camp. He was talking to a group of teenagers when we passed and we stopped to listen.
One photo in the museum is particularly heartrending. It shows a little old lady, her head covered by a scarf, walking down a street in the Warsaw ghetto while holding the hands of two little children. Behind them stands a sneering member of the SS, holding a submachine gun. I defy anyone not to be moved to tears at this image, knowing what fate awaited this little group.
The whole experience was moving beyond words. My father was almost in tears and I could only imagine the emotions he was experiencing.
In the mid 1990s my wife and I took a trip to Israel, a visit I had been anticipating for a considerable number of years. I‘ll talk about this trip more fully later, but now I’ll concentrate on one day when we were in Jerusalem. Our guide took us to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Memorial on Mount Herzl. To visit this memorial in the heart of the country whose foundation was based on the horror the world felt at the cruelty the Jewish people were subjected to during the Nazi years was an emotional experience almost beyond imagination.
Our guide then suggested we visit the Children’s Memorial. I almost balked at this; if the Holocaust Memorial had played havoc with my feelings, what would a memorial to the children killed in those terrible times do? As it transpired my wife and I found it to be ethereally beautiful. The visitor enters a darkened chamber. All around candles burn against a black background, like stars in space. Two voices read out the names of the dead children in quiet voices. We felt that we were no longer on Earth, but floating in space. There was such a feeling of peace and tranquillity that the revulsion we felt at the coldblooded murder of hundreds of thousands of children was transmuted into wonder that such beauty could be created out of horror.
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