Jewish Berlin

This past week has involved visiting many of Mitte’s memorials to its Jewish community; we’ve seen the site of the first synagogue, the first Jewish cemetery of Berlin, Christian Boltanski’s “Missing House” (which, interestingly, is not, despite its location in a historically Jewish neighborhood dedicated to anyone of particular Jewish heritage. It instead memorializes the families who moved into the building following the deportation of its original Jewish renters), the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, a synagogue that was miraculously spared during Kristallnacht by a lone policeman, and to top off the week – the concentration camp Sachsenhausen. While none of what we visited this past week could be called cheery, I (along with most of our group) left Sachsenhausen feeling especially emotionally and spiritually drained. After a week of sightseeing and beer drinking, I was truly unprepared for what the afternoon held.

To be in a place such as Sachsenhausen and to hear tales (thanks to our awesome and extremely knowledgeable tour guide, David) of the almost unimaginable cruelty and barbarism performed there in the name of National Socialism is enough to put one in a sour mood, but couple that with first-hand accounts and relics of the time and the afternoon is well and truly ruined. I’ve heard my classmates talking about being in tears after reading the diary entries of some of the inmates of the camp, but what pulled at my heartstrings the most were the examples of selfless giving and artistry that also occurred. One prisoner had fashioned an ornate and colorful shoe and bouquet out of his bread rations and had given it to his friend as a gift shortly before dying of tuberculosis. The plaque next to the artwork contains a quote from the recipient, “This gesture came from the heart. It was the most beautiful present of my life.” Personally, this artwork only manages to stress the horrible loss of life that occurred at Sachsenhausen, drawing attention to how creative and intelligent many of the victims of National Socialism were and the many works of art that the world never got to see.

However, what stuck with me the most about Sachsenhausen was its post-war treatment by the East Germans. Immediately upon passing through the gates of the camp, one is accosted by a 40 meter high monument decorated with 18 red triangles – the identifying patches worn by the political prisoner s of the camp. The DDR seemed hell-bent on distancing itself as widely as possible from accountability for the atrocities National Socialism, instead playing the victim. It baffled my mind that an entire regime could be as insensitive as to push aside all of the other suffering endured there just to further the party line. But then I remembered where I was, and that human suffering didn’t much matter to anyone in possession of Sachsenhausen.