Halpryn 1

Nicole Halpryn
Professor Kimball
ENC 1101- 28
31, July 2014
How
A question I have always asked myself is: How? How could something like this
happen?" I have tried to wrap my mind around the atrocities, the numbers.
For as long as I can remember, I have heard my grandpas first-hand and disturbing
stories of the Holocaust. He has told me about the truths of the death camps, his
starvation, the pain, and the torture he endured. Ultimately, I always knew I would never
be able to fully understand, until I became a witness. And so I travelled to Poland, to see
Treblinka, Majdanek, and Auschwitz- Birkenau, three of the many extermination camps
used to systematically kill the Jews during the Holocaust.
The trip was with a group called the Leo-Martin March of the Living, and I
traveled with 100 other Miami Jewish teenagers to Poland. The March of the Living is a
program where 10,000 Jewish people from all over the world come together to remember
the Holocaust and celebrate Jewish pride and strength. Together, on the day of National
Holocaust Remembrance, all 10,000 Jews march together in commemoration of those
who perished and survived, and to defy all evil against Jews. I met most of the people in
the Miami group a couple weeks prior to departure, and made life-long friends. But most
importantly, in our group of 100 was a Holocaust survivor named Ivan Gabor. Not only is
he one of the strongest people I have ever met, but without him I do not think I would
have been able to fully understand how real and brutal the camps were. He openly shared
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his experiences throughout the journey, and he bravely held my hand through the hardest
times as he revisited the camps where he was tortured.
The first camp we visited was Treblinka, which is just north of Warsaw. As I
approached the camp, I admired the chestnut trees and the quaint town, wooden churches
and log fences. But when I arrived at the camp, I was utterly shocked. I could not help
but feel I was entering a national forest, or a campsite. It was so beautiful, so tranquil.
The sun was shining over the camp, there was a cool winter breeze, and my jacket kept
me perfectly warm. The towering pine trees created a pristine shade, and an ornate
landscape. I could hear birds welcoming me in with chirps, and I swear there was not a
cloud in the sky. But then I stopped myself from mere admiration and asked myself:
How? How could this place be so beautiful and peaceful?
Treblinka used to be a labor camp where the Germans forced the Jews to cut
wood, build the appliances for the gas chambers, and bury bodies. But it was also an
extermination camp, where approximately 800,000 Jews were sent to suffocate to death.
Historically and morally, there was nothing beautiful or peaceful about Treblinka. The
camp used to be surrounded by barbed wire, and there used to be 13 gas chambers. The
chambers could kill a total of 2,000 people at once with carbon monoxide fumes, and it
would only take 2 hours total to suffocate, cremate, and then burry the ashes. This place
was build to systematically and efficiently kill. However, I was not able to see any of
these gas chambers or train tracks or fences, for the camp was invaded and then
destroyed. All that remains is a memorial site. I was only able to see massive memorial
stones placed along the field that mimic the structure of the camp; some symbolize
entranceways to railroad tracks and others symbolize chambers. I also saw a never-
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ending field of 17,000 stones. Each stone represents and labels a different family, town,
city, or village of people who perished in Treblinka. The immensity took my breath
away. There I was standing on a beautiful green field on a beautiful bright day, but under
me were the ashes of 800,000 Jews. And even more breathtaking, I realized that in front
of me standing strong and defiant, each of the 17,000 stones represented a family or
group of Jews that could have been alive today, and could have continued to grow and
spread Judaism.
I lay in bed that night more confused than ever. I had expected to see gas
chambers, barracks, and barbed wires, but instead all I saw was a luscious field and stone
garden. All I could think about was what had been there. I had walked on the lively soft
grass, but this was where Jews were dragged barefoot on dull dirt and sharp rocks. Under
the enormous stone garden, were the ashes of those Jews. I had stood comfortably with
the sun shining on my face and my jacket keeping me warm, but this was where my
ancestors stood freezing with nothing but the torn clothing they had on to protect them.
The irony kept me up all night. I reflected back on the question I had initially asked
myself: How could this place of death now penetrate such a serene ambiance?" It was so
strange to find beauty in the darkest place. There was no clear answer, no way to justify
this irony. All I could conclude is that the beauty was a disguise.
The next site I visited was Majdanek, which was placed in the center of a big city
also called Majdanek. My initial observation to arrival was that the camp is a neighbor to
houses, stores, banks, and a myriad of places that typically signify normal civilization.
Again I asked myself: "How? How could all of these people live in a town right next to
an extermination camp? How could they have breathed in the air of burning ashes, every
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day? How could they still mail letters with the address Majdanek? Majdanek, a place of
evil, where 120,000 Jews were killed.
I toured Majdanek and it was hard to contain myself. I finally was able to see the
scary truth. I saw the barracks where the Jews miserably and inhumanely slept. There
were hundreds of rows of wooden twin beds that were each shared between eight people.
There was not an inch separating each bed. I felt claustrophobic just standing there. I saw
the barbed wires, it was a tremendous cage surrounding the camp. But most impacting, I
saw the crematory. I was utterly horrified. The inside looked like dozens and dozens of
pizza ovens. But instead, bodies were placed inside these ovens, and the fumes were
released out of a chimney. I couldnt breathe. Inside the crematory, was this disgusting
room of ovens that burned Jews, and I just couldnt breathe. There was this paralyzing
stench. I almost vomited. I ran out, desperate for fresh air. Only when I ran out of the
crematory doors, I found myself still standing in contaminated air. All of Majdanek was
contaminated. The place was disgusting.
Again that night I reflected back to my questions of how: How could normal
people live in the city of Majdanek and still breathe this foul air? Yes, Majdanek is a big
city and resembles normal civilization. But nevertheless, I came to the conclusion that it
was not a normal city. This was not normal; there was nothing normal about the
Holocaust.
On the last day, all 10,000 Jews from all over the world came together to march.
Auschwitz was a labor camp and Birkenau was an extermination camp, and the two sites
were separated by railroad tracks. On these very train tracks the Jews rode to their deaths
from Auschwitz to Birkenau. So all 10,000 of us marched from the labor camp to the
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death camp, to show that we are still here and we cannot be destroyed. This was a path
taken by many, but only the ones I walked with that day got to leave. Us 10,000 Jews
might have been back in this horrible place, but being there, all united, was our greatest
revenge. We proudly waved our Israeli flags, and we marched in remembrance of those
who perished and those who survived.
After the march we toured Birkenau, the extermination camp. This was the day I
stepped foot into a gas chamber, and stepped foot out of a gas chamber. I saw scratches
on the concrete walls, which evoked images in my head I wish I never pictured: men and
women, boys and girls, clawing the walls, gasping for air. I noticed a Jewish star carved
into one of the corner walls. This profoundly resonated with me. I could not believe that
in a last fleeting moment of life, while suffocating to death, somebody had the strength to
dig his or her nails into the wall and draw out a Jewish star. A symbol that represents who
we are: a symbol of pride.
Every single person in the gas chamber was crying, except Ivan. Ivan stood there,
standing valiantly, like the bravest person I had ever seen. He passionately chanted, with
his voice shaking: Stop crying. We are still here. I am still here. I want everybody to
hold hands and stop crying. We are still here. We must never forget. We must remember
and this will never happen again. Everybody stop crying so we can sing the Hatikva
together.
I do not think I will ever experience a more powerful moment than when we all
sang the national anthem of Israel inside the gas chamber. The Hatikva means hope, and
in that moment I finally understood its true meaning. I finally felt like there was hope. If
a holocaust survivor could find the strength in himself to enter a gas chamber, than there
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has to be enough internal strength for the Jews to stay united. Every single one of us
sang, not whispering and not shouting. We sang at a perfect melody that probably echoed
throughout the whole camp. There were goose bumps crawling down my body, my heart
was palpitating, and tears were flowing, but my voice and pride was stronger than ever.
I think the most important lesson I got from this trip is to share what I saw. I am
now a witness and it is my duty to ensure that nobody ever forgets what happened in the
Holocaust. Treblinka is now an exquisite stone garden and placid forest. How will people
remember the atrocities of Treblinka if people do not share what happened there.
Treblinka should not be remembered as a place of beauty, but as a place of death.
Majdanek is still a major city, where people are living unaware of what happened just
down the street. How will these neighbors know about the atrocities of Majdanek if
people do not continue to share what happened there. And lastly, Auschwitz-Birkenau:
what better way to prove Jewish strength, unity, and pride then to annually march in
commemoration, and to prove we are still here. It is my duty to ensure we never forget.