[I wrote the rough draft to this essay, if you will, on a small notepad while riding out of Mauthausen concentration camp in a coach bus. This single event was part of my cumulative experience with the Global Young Leaders Conference in the summer of 2008. It was an unforgettable experience, and readers should know before they continue that they’re delving into one of my weakest and most personal moments as a human being on this blue Earth. Nearly a year later, I’ve taken what I wrote and organized it into something worth reading.]



The ascent to Mauthausen may as well have been any other bus-ride. We passed by fields of sunflowers, pastures full of cattle and goats, rural farming communities left over from the Old World; by now, we were used to these characteristic symbols of the Austrian countryside. But as the bus full of somber teenagers drew closer to its destination, the scenery subtly transformed. The jolly, rustic houses we’d become accustomed to were gradually replaced by plain, jagged stones which lined the road. The fields of wheat and sunflowers turned to bare plains of grass. I attempted earnestly to flesh out the symbolism in the transition. One could imagine it wasn’t difficult. But I caught myself in thought – the people who came through here didn’t have windows. They were boxed away in steel train cars, packed shoulder to shoulder. They had no symbolism, just the harsh reality of their situation. The bus remained silent.

As the stone walls of the complex came into view, I prepared myself for the journey ahead. We exited the bus one by one, very slowly, and very carefully. Sometimes the way you exit a bus can say everything about your character. This was one of those times. Some refused not to move until others broke the ice. A few refused to move at all for a good few minutes. The gravity of the events that took place years ago became manifest in the present day. Everyone was visibly affected; not only those with some connection to the place. You wouldn’t have been able to tell from my demeanor that I was a Jew. We might as well have all been Jews, standing there on corrupt ground, shifting our feet and praying to some abstract and likely absent persona in the clouds.

Outside, a sharp wind bit at my ears. It chilled me to the core. I knew I was lucky to have comfortable clothing, shoes that fit, and the Star of David around my neck.

* * *

I’d bought the Star of David two days beforehand in the Jewish Quarter of Prague. A string of small street stands joined together to form a makeshift marketplace between the two Synagogues that marked the borders of the Jewish Quarter. Prague is the only Eastern European city with a significant Jewish population that was not decimated by the war. I felt it proper to pay the medieval city my respects.

The ground was wet; rain fell from the sky in tiny pinpricks. The street was nearly vacant. An ancient Jewish woman reached for beaded necklaces beside me. The entire setup was underwhelming – I’d been expecting something bigger, something grander, some sort of reception. I expected to feel some sort of fellowship with these Europeans, something that connected my soul to theirs in a unique way. In the end, there wasn’t any connection. In the end, the synagogue still charged me 12 bucks to poke around inside. There was no affirmation of faith, no holy pilgrimage. I was here on my own terms.

A small, metal Star of David suspended by a thin black string struck the corner of my eye. To this day, I’m not sure why I bought the thing. Maybe I was suffering from some delusion of cultural grandeur. Maybe I just wanted to get rid of the loose change clumsily jerking at my thighs.

The woman behind the stand was surprisingly handsome. She flashed me a counterfeit smile. I had the demeanor of a tourist, but I was business nonetheless. She gestured towards the necklace I was eyeing. Picking up a similar one hanging from an adjacent shelf, she said with a patronizing tone, “170 coronas, yes?”

To be treated like an alien here, among all places! The last thing I wanted to be was a tourist. Why couldn’t they see that I was one of them? Like a fool I stood there with my hands in a suit pant pockets, trying to fish out coins that meant very little to me at the time.

170 coronas was roughly equivalent to 11 dollars. I produced from my pocket the remainder of my Czech currency – 300 coronas, or 20 USD. Taking the necklace from her, I pointed to a maroon felt Kippah marked “150.” She nodded in approval. I shoved the Kippah. Two days later, I carried this Kippah with me in my lower right-hand pants pocket into what had formerly been Mauthausen concentration camp.

* * *

We waited a few minutes outside the domineering walls of the complex for our guide. Some gathered round the monument in the center of the square. Others were engaged in internal debate as to whether or not it was appropriate to sit. The minutes I spent there, outside the walls, were tedious. Large bricks of granite and limestone stared down at me from above. Each imposing brick was put there by a resident of Mauthausen – a Jew, a gypsy, a political prisoner, a homosexual, or another victim of the Nazi campaign of hatred. I’d already seen the stores of first-hand experiences at Mauthausen; I’d seen pictures of those who lived, worked, and perished there. I matched the names to the faces: Benjamin Soep, Henia Ring, Lubertus Schapelhouman. I saw each one carrying an enormous rock up the hill I’d just ascended in an accommodated coach bus. I pictured great grandparents I’d never met and grandparents I knew intimately doing the same.

The cold, biting wind of Mauthausen was unrelenting. Every few seconds it blew the Star of David around my neck to my right shoulder. I felt that the camp itself was engaging in battle with me, trying to claim my identity as it had done to so many before me. Each time the Star was removed, I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, and returned it to its proper place at my chest. I clutched it tightly, feeling its jagged edges dig into my skin. I wouldn’t let the camp win. I earnestly believed that an epic struggle between good and evil was taking place around me; that the camp, in all its unholy glory, was drawing me in, coaxing me to surrender to its indomitable will.

Our first stop was the shower house. Here new prisoners were shaved from head to toe. Here their jewelry was removed, their bodies stripped naked, and their clothing burned. Here their identities were systematically destroyed. This building was one level underground. Windows looked out at large brick walls inches away. A large oven took its residence in an adjacent room.

Friends offered me support – friends of all racial, political, ethnic, social, religious, and personal backgrounds. Without them I surely would have surrendered to the camp down in the shower house, where my ancestors were humiliated.

The wind outside had settled and the sun warmed my skin upon reemergence. A plane flying overhead gave me the affirmation I needed to keep moving. Not quite smiling, I stepped up on to the curb, where no one else was quite smiling either.


[I hadn’t originally planned on stopping here, but immediately after I wrote that last sentence almost a year ago a friend in the row across from me asked me what I was writing about. I smiled for the first time since leaving the camp and set the notepad down, claiming it wasn’t important. It was no longer the time for dwelling on the grim past; it was time to move forward, remembering the sacrifices my ancestors made and honoring them while crafting a life they would be proud of. I knew my friend had been reading over my shoulder all along. I still wear the Star of David around my neck to this day.]