A Visit to the Neuengamme Concentration Camp in Hamburg, Germany

"Your suffering, your struggle and your death should not be in vain"

(One of my more memorable side trips in Hamburg. I wrote this as an assignment during my monthlong course for InWent-International Institute of Journalism in 2009)

Sunlight peeked out of wispy-thin clouds in a vast azure sky the day we went to Neuengamme. The bus ride was a little long (longer than usual, at least), but the green fields and charming suburban houses on the outskirts of Hamburg made the journey bearable, even fun. The group was in good spirits: a field trip to a visit a historical landmark was a welcome change of pace after days of lectures inside the Elsa Brandstrom house.

But the mood quickly shifted when we arrived at our destination. Raucous laughter and idle chatter among the Summer Academy participants were replaced by a hushed reverence as soon as we stepped into the box-shaped building in one corner of a small grassy field. It was the museum that housed a list of the victims of the concentration camp Neuengamme during World War 2. The names were written on gigantic scrolls that hung floor to ceiling around the four walls. The museum guide announced that not all who perished in the concentration camp were on the list: it was impossible to track down and identify everyone who suffered and died after passing through the horrors of Neuengamme.

The memorial was meant to look like a furnace chimney. You figure out why

Almost 100,000 people were held at the concentration camp from 1938 until the end of the war in 1945. They were held mostly for their religious and political beliefs: Jehovah’s Witnesses, Jews, communists, dissidents, homosexuals and other minorities the Nazi deemed “undesirable.” Forced to undergo hard labor in the most punishing conditions, about 55,000 inmates never made it out of there alive.

My familiarity with the events of World War Two, particularly the Holocaust, are limited to films like “Schindler’s List,” television shows, books and online material. The information is both fascinating and sickening: there are no words to describe the incredibly heinous acts committed by the Nazis, particularly the Schutzstaffel or SS, against their fellow human beings. But to actually see the place were those crimes were perpetrated, to walk in the same grounds where thousands of people were whipped and beaten and perhaps even shot to death, to actually be in the midst of all that pain and anguish all those years ago, I couldn’t help but be overcome by a wave of sadness. We learned history from the books at school, but absolutely nothing can prepare us when history (especially of the unbearable, horrific kind) is right there in front of us.

A sculpture meant to symbolize the loss of all hope 

Outside, a tall monument stood next to a sculpture shaped like a human lying on the ground. Its body twisted in an odd angle and shape, the sculpture represents the suffering of the inmates of the concentration camp. Our guide said the artist captures the exact moment when the person loses all hope and surrenders his or herself to his fate. It is a heartbreaking sight, and it is an image that will remain with me for years to come.

We took a quick tour of the victims’ exhibition in one of the buildings on the grounds. Their stories might be different, but they all shared the experience of being subjected to one of the worst atrocities committed by man the world has ever seen. Seeing their living conditions, what they wore and how they were treated only intensified the feeling of loss and despair. The sun was still shining brightly as we turned our back on Neuengamme, but a cloud of grief hung over our collective heads. It was a difficult visit, but one that anyone needs to make in any attempt to understand one of the darkest chapters ever in human history.

We Talked About Books That Brief Ride Home

 We talked about books that brief ride home. From the passenger seat, you spoke of your fascination with a title about finance or economics. I wasn’t sure, I can’t remember. I was too busy concentrating on the road and stealing glances at your profile hunched over your phone. My heart is beating strangely as I remember it now: your excited drawl, your thin legs protruding from the slightly sunken seat, and the way your hair fell down one side of your forehead. I found myself memorizing those little details without meaning to, perhaps as someone making his way through a maze instinctively looks back and remembers where he came from.

“What about you?” you asked. “What are you reading?”

Panicked, I searched the air in front of me for the book on my nightstand. Something about a young German soldier recruited at the beginning of World War 2, and a young, blind French girl living with her great uncle and an elderly househelp, who had just died four or five chapters ago, in the walled French city of Saint Malo.

“It’s called All the Light We Cannot See,” I finally said, telling you as much about the plot.

Was I convincing? I didn’t want you to think I was making it up. I really was reading that book at the moment. Do you look down upon literary fiction, preferring the more cerebral, more practical benefits of academic non-fiction? I prayed my voice sounded casual, nonchalant but not dismissive, enough to mask the deep uncertainty and hopelessly juvenile feelings of inadequacy.

Which was weird because the years were on my side, insofar as I had more of it compared to you. I was supposed to be the one playing the self-assured, disinterested character in this charade, and yet swimming in my head were all of these thoughts of trying to impress without making it obvious. I was an awkward, acne-scarred 14-year-old doing his best impression of a dignified, put-together thirtysomething.

“We turn right here,” you said. “It’s a one-way street, and my place is on the left.”

The minutes were galloping stallions, as if life itself hinged on how fast they got to the finish line. Carefully I maneuvered the car to the side. This can’t be it. It wasn’t even 20 minutes since I made the offer to drive you home. Where was the goddamned traffic? Why wasn’t there a stalled bus blocking our view?

“Thanks again,” you said, as you looped one arm around your leather satchel, and shifting ever so slightly in your seat to signal that this ride had come to an end.

“Very welcome,” I managed to say. I reached for the hand you extended for a friendly shake. A thousand words were trying to push themselves out of my lips, but all I could manage was a toothless grin.

You opened the door and climbed out. There was a piece of paper on your seat and you reached for it, thinking it was something that fell out of your pocket.

“It’s just a parking receipt,” I said, mentally kicking myself for being so damned messy. I snuck a quick glance at the back seat, where stray dog hairs waited for the next person’s back to stick themselves into.

“Oh okay. Well, good night!” you exclaimed as you closed the passenger door and walked to your building.

I drove away lost in my own thoughts about how the evening went. That somehow, I didn't seem too eager, too creepy, too boring, too ambivalent or too obnoxious. And that somehow, in that brief ride home, through all the messed-up words, you understood what I was trying to say.