It was a sunny yet cold spring day. The bus had come to a gentle halt in front of a non-assuming building. All around was farmland; the only sounds heard were leaves swirling in the gentle wind and an occasional bird call. Quietness. At 15 years old, it was an odd place to be, as there was no activity or movement other than schoolmates grabbing their backpacks and filing off the bus; the rustling and creaking of fabric was rather unsettling.
The teacher extended his hands out and waved us to gather around. Feet shuffled, backpacks were set down, a few students started whispering to one another, and one giggled and elbowed another mate. The teacher said, “Quiet, please. This is a place of remembrance, a memorial park – a graveyard. Be respectful.” We all knew where we were, yet somehow, only at that moment, with those words, it became real, tangible, no longer a place mentioned in a book or on a map.
The 1980 school field trip was part of the mandatory teaching curriculum in Germany about the Holocaust and the Nazi era in history and civics classes (and still is 45 years later). Learning about genocide and other atrocity crimes was and is meant to provide an understanding of the past. It raises awareness about the dangers of antisemitism, racism, prejudice, hatred, and all forms of discrimination and dehumanization.
He continued, “You stand at the entrance to what remains of concentration camp Bergen-Belsen, the largest Jewish cemetery in Western Europe. It was a prisoner of war camp, an exchange camp, a transit camp, and an overflow camp. It was not an extermination camp like other well-known places. Today, we will walk its grounds and learn about its function during the Nazi regime. I want you to listen, take notes, and reflect.” The sense of unease had grown as he spoke. Most students stared at the ground; others drew coats closer to their bodies – however, all were quiet. The teacher repeated, “Take notes. You should take notes.” And we did.
We learned that out of the estimated 120,000 prisoners who were transferred in or out of Bergen-Belsen, around 70,000 prisoners died in the camp run by the SS. The camp was but one of more than 1,000 concentration camps in Germany alone (an estimated 15,000, when including occupied countries). Those who were not summarily murdered died from starvation or disease. Twenty thousand victims were buried in mass graves at the camp shortly after the liberation by the British (thousands of bodies had been found in piles or lining fences, in the open air, victims of a typhus epidemic, starvation, and other infectious diseases).
As we wrote this information down in our school notebooks, many of us visibly shivered at the spine-chilling realization that under our feet, as we walked, were likely the remains of countless people not buried in the visible and demarcated mass grave mounds; how their lives had horribly and inconceivably ended. Many of us instinctively walked faster, only to slow down quickly again so as not to be disrespectful. The sense of enormity, heaviness, and sorrow was overwhelming.
We were taught that the overall majority of those interned and murdered by the Nazi regime were Jews (in the ethnic group). Yet, they represented 35% of the estimated 17 million victims of the Nazis’ concentration camps. 65% were (in no particular order) Russians, Belarusians, Poles, Romani, Serbs, Ukrainians, homosexuals, mentally or physically disabled people, Roman Catholics, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Spanish Republicans, Freemasons, people of color, leftists, communists, trade unionists, social democrats, anarchists, dissidents, and many more groups defined as contrary to Nazi ideology.
Many of those in the latter targeted groups were German citizens ousted by their German neighbors, family, and friends to the Gestapo (an acronym for the [Ge]heime [Sta]ats[po]lizei, or the Secret State Police). The “informers” had various reasons to do so, from their hatred for Jews, racism, and belief in Nazi ideology to fear, personal and professional gain, or simply because they had a personal dislike for this or that person or had had an argument with someone and did not like how it turned out. Informers were aware of the consequences of their actions, but it did not deter them; their reporting was rarely based on fact but on rumor or suspicion, many looking to gain favor with the Nazi regime – and perhaps to avoid being targeted themselves for disloyalty.
On March 21, 1933, the Nazis issued a decree that required Germans to turn in anyone who spoke against the party, its leaders, or the government; that law was known as the “Malicious Practices Act.” That law made expressions of dissent (however minor, from mere gossiping to mocking the government) a crime punishable by internment in a concentration camp. Three days later, on March 24, the Reichstag (then the national parliament of Nazi Germany) passed the “Enabling Act,” empowering the chancellor of Germany (i.e., Adolf Hitler) to punish anyone he considered an enemy of the state. This act meant that laws passed by the government would override the Constitution. On the same day, the opening of the Dachau concentration camp was announced.
“That was fast,” one schoolmate said, aghast. “Didn’t they have to think about that?” asked another. A third one chimed in, “How was that possible? Why didn’t they object?” The teacher looked up from his notes, said nothing, and resumed reading from his notes, “The Enabling Act essentially removed civil rights, imprisoned political opponents, censored the press, controlled the economy, culture, and media, and banned all other parties except the National Socialist German Workers’ (aka as Nazi) Party.” A long silence followed. No one said anything.
The teacher cleared his throat and said, “In six months, Germany went from a democratic republic to a totalitarian dictatorship.” Then, everyone raised their eyebrows, expressing confusion, surprise, and disbelief. Amidst the sudden whispered, frantic chatter among the students, he kept walking, pointing to markers, memorials, and information posts—photographs, personal belongings, cups, bottles, barbed wire, tools, and written notes collected after the liberation in 1945.
Finally, he stopped and made a sweeping pointing gesture over the dozen mass grave mounds. “In one of these are the remains of Margot (age 19) and her younger sister Anne Frank (age 15), the diarist. They were transferred here from Auschwitz and selected for forced labor in November 1944. By the end of February 1945, they both died of malnutrition and typhoid fever within days of one another, a few weeks before the liberation. We will read Anne’s ‘Het Achterhuis’ this semester.”
The school group was Anne’s age at death. By then, I remember feeling light-headed, uncomfortable, and nauseated. A tremendous amount of chilling historical, factual, and inferred information had been imparted, and the sensory feedback took over my entire body—a surreal experience.
We knew that a few of our family’s far-removed relatives (non-Jewish) had been interned at the Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Treblinka concentration camps. I had read a few letters and cards about the imprisonment my grandparents received from them and kept. The tone ranged from hopeful to hopeless, some describing everyday life, confusion, uncertainty, and horrible conditions. Of those relatives, some survived, others did not. Our grandparents lived through and survived World Wars I and II, and our father and mother also survived World War II.
Their memories, experiences, thought processes, and acquired (and honed) survival skills were taught and passed on to us. They did not spare any details on what they lived through, fought through, overcame, and how they survived. It was unimaginable to us. We respected them. Admired them. And loved them all the more. What our close relatives had taught us, what I was hearing and learning on that school field trip to Bergen-Belsen, and my physical presence at that concentration camp in that moment all condensed and echoed in my mind in one single sentence I heard our grandparents and parents tell us over and over: “Was passiert ist, kann nicht vergessen werden, und niemand sollte zulassen, dass es noch einmal passiert. Nie wieder. Verstehst du? Hörst du?” [What happened cannot be forgotten; no one should allow it to happen again. Never again. Do you understand? Do you hear me?]
We understood—loud and clear. We did not need convincing. We were angry. We felt profound sorrow. We promised we would never forget—how could we? Standing and walking on those unassuming footpaths through a vast green landscape enclosed by a forest, the silenced voices of tens of thousands around, below, and above us were clearly audible and pervaded our senses. Schoolmates leaned their heads on one another and held each other, sorrow and grief running down their cheeks in empathetic, unremitting tears.
As we boarded the bus back home, we all felt that something in us had changed. Perhaps it was the realization that our generation had just been given the solemn task and duty to affirm human dignity and human rights through our voices and actions in the name of freedom and justice, unifying solidarity, and a pluralistic culture of peace.
Forty-five years after that school field trip, our grandparents’ admonition that preceded it and the appeal from silenced voices on that day is being called upon louder and emergently. Learning about and commemorating the Holocaust may seem tedious and disconnected to the current eye-rolling younger generations who perceive history to be irrelevant to them (that perception is both naïve and terrifying). Yet, their apathy may very well dictate and define their future.
Anne Frank wrote, “I don’t want to have lived in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to everyone, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death!” Yehuda Bauer, a Holocaust Historian, wrote, “Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator, but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander.” Lastly, Tahar Djaout penned, “Silence is death, and you, if you talk, you die; and if you remain silent, you die. So, speak out and die.” – Reflect. Listen to the voices silenced by the atrocities of democide.
Do not forget. Do not choose neutrality. Do not choose apathy. Do not choose silence. Never again.