August 7, 2009

Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp (07.08.2009)

 I believe this picture encompasses the mise-en-scène of Sachsenhausen. A bare, anonymous cell in the solitary confinement building with boarded up windows and meager bags of stray for a bed. It stirs, as intended, every compassionate fiber in the human soul.

 I stood outside this cell taking some pictures and watched people as they passed. No one found reason to smile or reach out to one another, save for a whispered utterance or a gentle touch on the arm as if to say, Hey, I wouldn’t let this happen to you. The solitary confinement prison—what they’d call The Hole in movies—cast a blatant pall over the group. I saw an older woman covering her mouth, half disgusted and half heartbroken, and I wanted to hug her; not for her comfort as much as mine. Watching the gallery of silent people in this horrid setting made my stomach churn a little bit.

 There’s no simple word in English for the weight one feels in his chest in the presence of something depressing, but we’ve all felt it from time to time. In some cases, during Relay For Life or “Marley and Me,” we open up to people and nourish our vulnerable sides. But this was different. Lauren and I found each other’s eyes for a moment, and all I could do was look away. The remnants of brazen hatred were strangling and musty, like a thick woolen quilt out of the attic. The entire building seemed to choke the sun’s rays—too chilling, too heavy.

 The old woman accidentally pivoted into me when her grandson jostled to see inside the cage. She had not seen me, partly because of her somber transfixion on the cell and partly because I’m too gangly to see in peripheral vision. She stood there, still slightly spellbound, trying to explain with her eyes why she bumped me. “It’s okay,” I eyed back. “It won’t happen again.”