Terezin

"I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal'd by the same means, warm'd and cool'd by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you/ poison us, do we not die?" -Shylock, The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare (Act II. Scene I. Line58.)

Feb 22, 2013

I had decided that I would make my first trip out of Prague today. After seeing the Jewish quarter last night, it felt like a good time to go visit a concentration camp. There is one in in the Czech Republic called Terezin that is about a 50 minute bus ride away.

Before going to bed last night, I meticulously checked the bus schedule online to make sure I knew which stations to go to, what time the departures were, and approximately how often the return busses left to come back to Prague. From the dorm, I would take the 9 to Wenceslas square. There I would catch metro line B to the Florenc station and then transfer to metro line C. Getting off at Nadrazi Holestice, the bus depot should be right there.

I woke up at 7:45. The laundry I had done last night still wasn’t dry so I put on some of the dirty clothes I’d worn the day before. In America, this probably would have been fairly gross, but here hygiene doesn’t seem quite as important. I also brought my passport with me, just in case I had any issues while I was out.  I also wedged one of my travel books into my pocket so I could get details of what I was seeing in case the exhibits weren’t in English.

On my way to the 9, I stopped at the ATM. I didn’t know how much the tickets would cost me, nor what the entrance to the camp would cost, so I took out some extra cash. Catching the tram, I transferred to the metro at the “Mustek” station in Wenceslas just like I planned. Walking through the station, the venders selling pastries and coffees all smelled so good. If I’d know the route a little better, I might have stopped but I didn’t want to be late.

I caught the B line tram. I felt like a real pro navigating the subway station and getting on the right train. I was even more proud of myself when I got off at Florence and found my way to the C line. Three stops later, I was at the station for Nadrazi Holestice (where the depot was supposed to be.)

As I got off the train, I started following the crowd towards the escalator. I suddenly remembered that in my book, it had said that the bus depot was located at the end of the station towards the front of the train. That was the other direction. On a whim, I turned and went up the opposite escalator. Sure enough, past venders and booths selling goods, there was an open depot filled with platforms for buses.

Checking my watch, it was 8:56am. I had four minutes till my bus was about to leave. The bus to Terezin left out of platform 7 (again, according to my book.) I was at platform 1. Jogging a little down the way, I saw platforms 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. Rounding the corner, at the end of the station, was platform 7 with a bus waiting.

With two minutes to go, I walked up to the door. The driver opened it. For the Czech busses, tickets are purchased from the driver when you board.

“Terezin?” I asked the driver.

He nodded. I handed him the first bill I pulled out of my pocket. It was a 1000 koruna. He gave me a ticket and handed me a few coins. I went to sit down, glad that I had picked up the extra cash. As I looked at the ticket, I noticed it cost 88 crowns. I had been very short changed. I stood up and went up to the driver.

“Excuse me,” I said prepared to show him my ticket. That’s when I saw he was already holding the res t of my change. “Oh,” I blushed. “Thank you.” I took the money and went back to my seat.”

The bus pulled out of the station and started heading north to Terezin. I think in an earlier post I had referenced the camp as being on the eastern side of the Czech Republic, but it is actually on the western side, due north of Prague. The drive there looked very much like my drive back home between my house and my university. It was flat and barren, with only an occasional agricultural community popping up here and there. With the white snow on the ground and the white, overcast sky above, it felt like we were crossing some sort of arctic tundra.

I read a bit of my travel book as we rode along. It told about a few of the key sites to see in Terezin including the main courtyard, the museum, the barracks, and the crematorium. It cautioned that a rookie mistake was getting off the bus to early at the first Terezin stop, instead of waiting till the second one which was in the camp.

I made the rookie mistake.

It was a short half mile walk into the camp. Walking along the road probably made me look a little foolish but all of the cars gave me the right of way. When I arrived in the town, it took me a while to get oriented.

The town of Terezin, I learned from touring the museum, was built in the early 1900s. At the time the region was the northern border of Austria-Hungary. It was actually constructed as living quarters for the guards that worked the fort on the border, as well as a home for their families. When Hitler annexed the Sudetenland, Terezin came with it. He evacuated all of the residents out and converted it to “the ideal ghetto.” The ghettos were cities that housed the Jews once they had been removed from society, but before that had been shipped to the extermination camps. Most of the Jews that came through Terezin wound up in Auschwitz with a few traveling to Bergen-Belsen.

The town had been restored by the European Union in the 1990s, but now, it still looked like a ghost town. I didn’t see anyone, anywhere. Standing in the town square, there were no people walking around. There were no tourists. There weren’t even any locals. The whole thing felt creepy and uncanny.

Using the map in my book, I found the Ghetto Museum just across the street. I went inside and asked the lady at the counter for the student combo ticket that had been described in my book. I gave her my student ID and she asked me, “Where you from?”

“I’m studying in Prague,” I said, “but I’m from America.”

“USA,” she said typing it into the computer along with my name. Both printed on my ticket. On the back of the ticket was a small map (this had been the case on most tickets I’d bought.)

“This is museum,” she said pointing to where we were. “Barracks are here, five minute walk. Crematorium is here, 10 more minute walk.”

“Thank you,” I said, and she gestured for me to enter the exhibit.

The museum had been constructed out of the original Terezin school house. During the time it was used as a ghetto, it had been the dormitories for the teenage boys. There were also a few rooms that had been used for some light religious schooling. Thinking of the kids who had lived on the very floor I was now walking gave me chills. It was not as disturbing though as the names on the walls.

All of the children who had passed through Terezin had their name painted on the wall, along with their birthdate and estimated death date (this was done by the EU as part of the restoration.) I found one girl—Lily Dietrova—who shared my birthdate. Seeing it made the hair stand up on my neck. The only thing creepier was finding a young girl—Ruth—who shared my last name. Both girls were killed in Auschwitz; Ruth when she was nine years old.

Reading diary entries from the captives revealed so much fear and pain. There were stories of disease, death, and desperation. The cruel punishments and harsh living conditions were extraordinary. The naiveté with which it was reported was tragic. But also, the occasional glimpses of hope were just as numbing, especially when it was indicated that the author had been murdered.

The barbed-wire fences around the ghetto had been removed in June of 1943 when a Red Cross inspector came to evaluate the camp, based on reports from neighboring areas that it was suspicious. The city was “beautified” with gardens and paintings and the Jews were required to act as happy citizens. Fake sinks were installed in buildings (although there were no pipes leading to or from them) to satisfy health codes. The visit lasted about 3 hours and the city passed with flying colors.

After touring the museum, it was after 11:00 and my stomach was starting to growl. My book suggested the Palace Hotel Restaurant as the best place for tourists to eat (most likely to find and English speaker.) I snaked around the streets and found the restaurant.

Stepping inside I couldn’t help but notice how dark and quiet it was. There was a sign on the door in Czech that I tried to read it through the glass. Suddenly, a small voice behind me said something.

Turning, I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Czech.”

“We are closed sir,” the young girl said. “Not open today.”

I apologized and stepped outside. Walking down the block I saw another little restaurant. There was a Budweiser logo in the window so I figured there was a good chance they would speak some English. Stepping inside, I took my chances.

Like most of the other restaurants I’ve been to, there were only five or six tables in the room. I sat down at one by a window. It is custom in Europe that guests seat themselves…you can spot Americans who wait by the door to be seated. The woman working behind the counter brought me a menu. The only other guests in the room sat at one table. They were four men in mechanic jumpsuits and laughed over their meal, while talking in Czech.

The woman asked me if I wanted something to drink. English was clearly not easy for her, but she knew a few words.

“Drink?” she said.

 I saw a large 2-liter bottle of orange soda on the bar. “Orange soda,” I said, pointing at the bottle.

“Orange?” she clarified. I nodded with a smile.

A few seconds later, she brought me a glass of the pop. It wasn’t really an orange flavor, but more of a guava or mango taste. It was good either way, and I drank it far too quickly.

When it came time to order a meal, I wasn’t sure what to do. The menu was in Czech with only English headings of “Beef,” “Pork,” and “Specials.” I pointed at something under the beef heading and she read it, then smiled and went back to the kitchen. That was when I realized the kitchen was really just a stove hidden behind a curtain in the corner of the room.

Looking around the room, it was very artfully decorated. It looked a lot like one of the little cafés or family restaurants we’d stopped at on Boy Scout trips before. On the television was a TV show in Czech. When I watched it for a while, I realized I recognized Matthew Perry. Watching it a bit longer, I realized the show was Friends dubbed in Czech.

When my meal came, it was very good. The main dish was slices of roast beef covered in gravy. The gravy had kind of a sweat maple taste to it. The side was potatoes, onions, and red peppers and tasted fantastic! I ate the entire thing (minus the small salad it came with…I don’t like lettuce back home and I hadn’t developed a taste for it here yet either.)

When I finished, she cleared my plate and asked if I was alright. I said I was. After that, I just sat there. She seemed to have no motive to get me out and I didn’t have a clue how to tell her I was ready to leave. I decided to put my beanie on, and that did the trick. Right away, she grabbed her money bag and brought me my bill.

It wasn’t a very formal check, just a couple numbers written on a sticky note, but the price was significantly less that I’d expected. I paid her and gave her the appropriate tip, to which she smiled and thanked me. And with that, I bundled up and stepped back into the cold.

The walk to the barracks was across the small town and down several blocks. I still couldn’t help but notice how quiet everything was. There didn’t seem to be any people in the town. I suppose it would be hard and disturbing to live in an area that was known to be a former concentration camp, but 23 years after the renovation, it still felt like a ghost town.

The path down passed a few soccer fields and a basketball court. According to the museum, several promotional films had been shot in Terezin to showcase “life in the ghetto” before transporting Jews to the camps. The soccer fields had been a special point of interest in these films so that people could see “social life” remained “normal” in the new living quarters.

When I arrived at the barracks, it too had been converted to a museum. The various displays showcased art, poetry, music, and theater that had been created by the prisoners. A few of them had gone on to be quiet famous, while most of the creators showcased here had been murdered. It struck me at how much creativity, brilliance, and intelligence had been lost in the holocaust; how many ideas would never be discovered and how many changes would never be made to the world because of that horrific event.

An example of this lost brilliance came in the form of Petr Ginz. Petr was the child of a mixed marriage between a Jewish man and a Christian woman. As a child, he had been able to travel around Europe and Asia and wrote several short stories. One of his tales—a science fiction story—was even published. Petr was fascinated by the sciences as much as he was by literature and studied lots of subjects on his own.

In accordance with Nazi law, all mixed children had to be deported to camps at age 14. Petr was sent to Terezin where he lived in the boys house I had toured earlier. While in the camp, he continued to study from confiscated books that he would steal. He also rallied the other boys and led them to produce a camp newsletter called “Vedeem” (which means “We Lead.”) Petr acted as the editor and distributed it to the residents every other Friday.

Like Anne Frank, Petr kept a diary that would later be published after the war ended. In it, he detailed interviews he had with various prisoners as well as his own commentary on sites around the camp (including a tour he gave himself of the crematorium.)

Petr was in one of the last groups to be sent out of Terezin before it was liberated. He was killed at Auschwitz in 1944 at the age of 16.

There was one bunk room that had been left intact. It looked just like the black and white photos had made me imagine it. Tri-layered bunk beds were lined up against the walls and in the middle of the room. It is estimated that each resident had 1.62m² of living space in the barracks (roughly 5ft².)

After leaving the barracks, I continued down the road, following the signs to the crematorium. The road gradually started to lead out of town, and the uncanny feeling of being alone only increased.

Crossing over a bridge, I was able to see down into the dry mote where the Jews had been forced to garden vegetables to feed the gestapo soldiers that guarded the city. They were no allowed to consume any of the food they grew; their only nourishment was to be their daily bread ration.

Down in the mote, the ground was swampy now. There were mallard ducks playing in some puddles of water. All of a sudden, a black slimy creature popped out of the marsh and dove into one of the puddles. When it came up again, I saw that it was a beaver. It was very soon joined by a second beaver. They, along with the ducks, splashed around and rummaged for food in the muddy mote below.

At one point as I walked along, I saw two caves on either side of the deserted road. Stepping over, I read a sign that described the ceremonial hall. Similarly to the synagogues I saw yesterday, this had been a place where the Jews could hold funerals and prepare the bodies for either cremation or burial.

Once again, not knowing if this was someplace to tour, I decided to take my chances and step into one of the caves. Just a few steps into the un-lit maze, and the uncanny feeling I had was quickly replaced by a flat out creepy one. My footsteps echoed like thunder as I walked down the dark, stone corridor. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. There were occasional electric lights every 20 meters, indicating people did come down here, but I felt like something was going to jump out and chase me at any second.

As I descended further and further down, it felt like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. When the tunnel finally opened up, I was amazed at what I saw. There was a giant candle holder in the center of the room. It looked like a menorah but it only held six candles. On one side of the room was a black carriage with a bench for a driver and a flat back for collected bodies. There were tables, separated by curtains to privately wash the bodied, and in the corner, coffins waited for their cargo to be ready. In another corner, there was an altar of some sort displaying the Ten Commandments. Plaques, some in English but most in Czech and German, explained the process around the room. It was both disturbing and fascinating at the same time.

I snapped a few photos and then started back up out of the corridor. As I did, I suddenly heard a voice. I couldn’t make out the language at first, but as it got louder, I recognized it as Czech. There was a couple coming down the corridor on the same personal tour I was on.

When I got to the top, I crossed the street and went into the next cave. This one had a guard behind a window as you entered. He was reading a book and smoking a cigarette. I tapped the glass and flashed my ticket at him. He nodded and I proceeded in. This one did not descend as much, but the halls kept dead ending with iron gates that blocked the entrances. I finally found the main chamber and discovered that it was the columbarium for the urns of ashes. The Nazis has burned many of the bodies that died of disease, promising they’d be given a proper burial when the war ended. In fact, when the camp was discovered by the allies, the ashes were tossed in the river to cover up the evidence. The columbarium had now been converted to a memorial with various plaques donated to commemorate deceased relatives that had died in the camp.

Walking further down the road, I started winding through a field. I still couldn’t see anyone ahead of me or behind me and the town was now starting to fade out of site. The path gradually turned to mud and was lined on either side by tall thorny bushes. My only assurance of where I was were the occasional “Krematorium” signs along the trail.

Finally, I came to a small parking lot with a sign asking men to wear head coverings. It also warned that pictures were not allowed. As I continued through the trail, there were bizarre frost covered trees that covered overhead creating sort of a tunnel. When they cleared, I was in an open field. Scattered around were tombstones marking a grave yard.

This graveyard had been used by generations, both before and after WWII as a burial ground. Guards and soldiers serving in the original fort had been buried here. Some Jews from the camp were buried here (which was why head coverings were required.) The soviet soldiers that had been killed liberating the camp were also buried at this site.

And off in the corner of the cemetery was the crematorium. It was a very unassuming building, painted a beige color with a single metal smoke stack coming out. As I walked up the steps and pulled the door, the hinges screamed as they pivoted open.

As soon as I stepped in, a guard barked at me. “Cesky? Duestch? English?”

“English,” I said.

“English,” he repeated and handed me a brochure. Reading it, I found the history of the four oil burning ovens and the Jews who were forced to operate them. At the one end of the crematorium was a morgue to perform autopsies. This was done to identify diseases and epidemics that ran through the camp. There was also a small room to house the guards that oversaw the crematorium.

As I finished reading the brochure, the guard again started speaking to me. I couldn’t tell if it was Czech, German, or a combination of both but I clearly understood what he was saying. He was asking me which of the souvenirs I wanted to buy. Opening a glass display case he began pulling out books, maps, cups, and candles and rattling off the prices. I looked at them but finally said, “I might be back in a few weeks with my family. Maybe I’ll buy them then.”

He didn’t seem to understand this. He did understand when I handed them back and said, “No.” He was not very happy about this.

I began walking around the room. I saw the autopsy tables and the small guard quarters. The ovens though were quite disturbing. The small compartments seemed so undersized for a body and the gravity of the room was incredibly poignant. Several people had placed white roses on the various displays as a sign of respect.

It is estimated that 30,000 Jews and other prisoners died in the camp from 1941-1944.

After I walked through the crematorium, I ventured out into the cemetery. It felt like an ocean of death. What was perhaps the most powerful was the monument commemorating the soviet soldiers that liberated the camp. While they freed the few remaining prisoners that hadn’t yet been shipped to Auschwitz, they invaded during a typhus outbreak. Most of the liberators perished soon after from the disease and were buried here.

The whole day was an emotional and disturbing experience. In many ways, the only way to cope with it was to be numb to the stories. To imagine the people who had stood in this town in their final moments was unbearably heavy. To picture the scenes of death and disease was painful. To think that people were capable of being so horrid to each other was beyond me. It was all too much to think about, and in some ways, I don’t think I could fully process it at the time.

While I hadn’t yet seen the jail cell which held Gavrilo Princip (the assassin who shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand, which started WWI) my fingers were getting cold. I decided I would save that tour—which required its own ticket—for a different day and started heading back to town to catch the bus.