By Adrianna Choquette
Staring over the smooth black background, I listened for a whisper.
I listened for the sounds of heavy breathing or a sniffle, or a cough.
But I couldn’t hear it.
Silence was all that surrounded me.
There was no unruly bantering between siblings or joshing between friends. No one even cracked a smile.
No one.
The world was completely still, except for the haunting voices of survivors, breaking news about the Holocaust bit by bit, until it rubbed raw the core of your soul.
And there is no noise for that.
There is no noise for the mother who gave her child urine so he would survive.
There is no noise for the teenage girl who found her best friend dead on the day of liberation.
There is no noise for an empty railcar, or hundreds of shoes, or thousands of pictures depicting fates too horrible to imagine.
Silence was all that seemed fitting.
Tears fell from my eyes, with the soft echo of apologies, one after another.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Each one an attempt to fill the sacred silence, but none heavy enough to do so.
Words would do no justice. Songs could not express and thoughts failed to process anything past the hallowed entrance.
So I walked in silence. I reflected in the quiet and I sat listening to nothing, hoping the silence would suppress my numbness.
But, as it turns out, silence was the answer.
There, etched above the burning flame of the prayer-filled memorial and surrounded by the warmth of numerous candles, was Deutoronomy 4:9.
“Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully, lest you forget the things your eyes saw, and lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life, and you shall make them known to your children, and to your children's children.”
Faith is rarely silent.
But you don’t have to tell me that. Today, I saw it.
It was called the Holocaust.
By Jason Helgren
About a month ago, I read an article about a store that refused to put the name of a three-year-old on his birthday cake. His name: Adolf Hitler Campbell. What’s more, Adolf had two younger sisters named JoyceLynn Aryan Nation and Honszlynn Hinler. Yesterday I read a follow-up article about authorities taking custody of Adolf and his sisters, though it did not say why they were taken from their parents. Oh, and apparently Adolf’s father denies the Holocaust happened.
Since I first heard of Holocaust-deniers, I’ve been incredulous. How could people claim that it was made up? Going to the Holocaust Memorial Museum made me wonder this even more. At the beginning of the exhibit was a quote from General Eisenhower about visiting a concentration camp.
“I made the visit deliberately in order to be in a position to give firsthand evidence of these things,” Eisenhower said, “if ever, in the future, there develops a tendency to charge these allegations merely to ‘propaganda.’”
When I learned about the Holocaust as a kid in school, it was hard to believe people would do such things, but I never doubted it. Going through the museum and actually seeing the suitcases, shoes and other personal effects of the victims made the Holocaust more personal. I don’t know how many times I got chills from the exhibits. Walking through a train car, where people rode to their deaths, was just one of these times.
It makes me sick to think that people could be so cruel to each other. However, it is even worse to think that some people deny this horrific incident--even when the evidence is screaming at them.
By Brent Friedeman
I thought a lot today, walking through the halls of the Holocaust Museum.
I didn’t necessarily learn dates, names or facts, because I already had an idea of what had happened during the Holocaust. The deeper, philosophical issues were what moved me.
I was reminded that we live in a world inhabited by imperfect humans, capable of vicious hatred and bigotry. At the same time, humans can produce intense beauty, which inspires and moves those lucky enough to notice it.
The exhibit that produced these thoughts was not anything large or visually moving. It was not the pile of shoes, the train car, or the films of concentration camps. It was a simple sentence written on a wall--simplistically poetic words that warmed my soul with their message: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”
This quotation, from Anne Frank’s diary, reminded me of the strange duality that exists in our species. I believe human beings are a species with unlimited potential, whether it is used for good or evil. The optimism and intelligence of this little girl inspired me and gave me hope for the future.
These words, inscribed on a wall in the Holocaust Museum, can be seen as a metaphor. When you are surrounded by the darkest and most evil actions, there is always hope. Even when hope is all there is, don’t let anyone take it away from you. It is the foundation of the unlimited beauty that lives in each and every one of us.
By Aaron Essay
I took a long look at Adolf Hitler today.
I would like to think of him as an evil being from another planet, but the look on his face proved otherwise. His eyes showed ambition, pride and sometimes fear—emotions that are all too familiar. He was just as human as my friends, my brothers and I.
