Our next destination
was Prague, but on the way there we stopped off somewhere that
changed all of us..
As we drove from
Vienna and into Northern Austria, we stopped at Mauthausen-Gusen.
Mauthausen-Gusen was a concentration camp used in World War II from 1938
through to May 1945 when the camp was liberated.
We all know about
the camps and the horrors that happened there, but walking around it
seriously played with your emotions. Kiki, Matty and Scotty all
stayed in the bus once they had sorted out our entry into the camp,
and once I had walked around the place I completely understood why
they wouldn't want to see it more than once.
We had watched a
documentary about the camp on the way in, which gave you a horrible
feeling when you recognised a building from the film while walking
around the place. It make it so much more real.
Before I visited
Mauthausen I had always though World War II was so long ago, as I was
born 51 years after it finished, and I had grown up on the other side
of the world from there it had all taken place. But then you find
something that brings it home, the fact that my grandparents were
alive during it, makes it so much more real.
In the camp we
walked through the bunkers, now just large empty wooden rooms, that
in a different setting would seem so plain and innocent. We walked
down the stairs of death, that lead down to a small field and a pond
with dragonflies and flowers. Even the beauty of that small and
silent area couldn't be appreciated, and a countless number of people
had been murdered there. Walking the stairs was hard in the heat of
summer for us, who were young and healthy with nothing to carry but
our small bags. The prisoners had to haul huge rocks from the quarry
up those stairs that made us breathless. I couldn't even lift one of
the rocks at the bottom for more than a second before dropping it
back down because of its weight.
The most shocking
place was the crematorium. There were small signs that explained
thing, of which I cannot remember, or have just chosen to forget.
Everywhere you looked you knew that horrific things had happened
there, and there was no way to fully understand just how many lives
were taken, as the numbers were so big that you couldn't compare it
to anything that you knew.
In the museum there
were stories of survivors, people who were there on the day of the
camps liberation who were too exhausted and malnourished at the time
to celebrate their survival of the most horrifying time in history.
There were item that had belonged to prisoners who had died, along
with a small paragraph about the person, if anything was known about
them. Nearly all of them had no documentation of the date of their
death, only a month and the year.
Throughout the
grounds there were memorials to different groups, and this is what
truly shocked me. I had always only heard about the Jewish people
going to the camps, but there were so many other people who were sent
there because of their race or religion or profession. The Polish and
citizens of the Soviet Union were sent on mass, as were Italians,
opposing politicians, Yugoslavians, Austrians, Spaniards and so many
others. In total it is thought that over 40,000 people were murdered
there, although we will never know for certain as on the day of
liberation the SS destroyed as many records as they could.
I took no photos in
the camp. I wasn't sure I really wanted to remember it, and taking
photos of a place with such a terrible history just felt wrong. I
spent the whole time there on the verge of tears, yet I didn't cry
because the shock of it stopped me. I didn't talk to anyone the whole
time, yet no one seemed to be able to talk. The only words I uttered
were of shock, in a whisper so quiet what anywhere else it would have
been missed, but the deathly silence caught it every time.
Walking out of the
camp was the strangest feeling. You were glad to be out, to be away
from the knowledge that death hadn't occurred everywhere you looked,
but then you felt guilty that leaving was so easy for you.
Sadly this wasn't
our last reminder of World War II, as we would be going to Berlin
where it's reminder was everywhere, and also Amsterdam where the Anne
Frank house is.
I'm sorry this is
such a photo-less and depressing post, but I thought it needed its
own one. Its something that while I want to forget what happened, I
don' want the victims to be forgotten.
It'll all be back to
normal next time I promise!
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