A woman crosses the 'Arbeit macht frei' gate at the site of the former Nazi German concentration and extermination camp Auschwitz prior to the 80th anniversary of the liberation of the camp in Oswiecim, Poland, on Jan. 9.Kacper Pempel/Reuters
Shortly after arriving at the death camp, as he writes in his memoir Survival in Auschwitz, Primo Levi saw an icicle, because it was freezing, and reached for it, because he was very thirsty. A guard snatched it away. “Why?” Levi asked.
“Here there is no why,” the Nazi responded.
My mother had her own here-there-is-no-why experience at Auschwitz. Imprisoned in its Birkenau camp, she was forced, with other malnourished women, to pick up boulders and move them. The next day, still in the shadow of the chugging smokestacks, they would be forced to move those boulders back. And on it went, in her case, for three months. She was 19.
People look for lessons from Auschwitz. This futile search will reach a fever pitch on Monday, International Holocaust Remembrance Day, the 80th anniversary of the liberation of the concentration camp.
Hmm, lessons. Maybe: Don’t force people into sealed rooms and gas them to death in an effort to eliminate their race?
I grew up in a constant classroom of these atrocities: the absence of grandparents (gassed); the tattoo on my mother’s forearm; the sanctity with which we treated food, even gross leftovers. But if I was asked to take an exam about the why of it all, I would fail.
Why would anyone make starving teenage girls carry boulders around, just because? Or shove toddlers into gas chambers? Was it to blindly follow evil leadership? To cover one’s ass? To act on propaganda? To act on their own hatred?
Cruelty seems to have been the point. Mixed with power, the cruelty was able to thrive.
I have this problem – part of my intergenerational trauma – where I am often and unexpectedly reminded of, or mentally transported to, the Holocaust, in the midst of unrelated events. Riding a packed subway train, for instance. Or watching children line up outside a school gym.
These flashes come at me often these days while watching the news.
It happened this week when a populist leader announced he will end the hopes of people desperate to live in the safe country he now rules. Attendees in the sports arena cheered. They cheered the misery of other humans.
This produced a visceral response in me. How can one poor soul’s grave misfortune spark someone else’s celebration? I can apply this to many recent and continuing situations.
My mother’s miraculous survival has no why, either. Why did she live? Because she was strong, because she was good, because God is good? Please. Millions of strong, good people were murdered. My mother was strong and good – but mostly, she was lucky.
My mother wasn’t at Auschwitz for its liberation. In November, 1944, she was sent to a satellite camp of Buchenwald, in Lippstadt, Germany, to make munitions for her captors. On April 1, 1945, she was on a death march when she was liberated by U.S. soldiers.
A couple of years ago I travelled to Lippstadt. On the outskirts, behind an office building, an unassuming plaque tells the story of these imprisoned women – of my mother.
Before leaving that pretty little town – which my mother, I realized, would never have actually seen – I went in search of a souvenir for my son. He’s really into soccer and I wanted a jersey from the Lippstadt team. When I asked for one at the sports store, the salesman laughed, and summoned his friend, whose English was better than his, to ensure he understood me correctly. Did I really want a Lippstadt jersey? The team, apparently, is terrible. Why not go for a better team – Bayern Munich, perhaps? Why insist on Lippstadt?
Because my mother was a prisoner in this city. Because she survived, and because of that, my son and I exist. The jersey is a sort of symbol of that.
Of course, I didn’t say that. “My mother once lived here; it’s special to me,” I said, or something to that effect.
Some of those lucky enough to survive Auschwitz not completely broken – many were – emerged with various whys as they sought a reason to go on. Primo Levi needed to tell the world. Elie Wiesel made it his mission to stop such horrors from happening ever again.
My mother’s why was simpler, less grandiose – if no less extraordinary. She met another survivor, they married, had three daughters. My parents, no longer alive, now have 23 descendants walking (or, in one sweet case, still just crawling) the Earth. We are her why.
I keep searching for mine. An obvious lesson of Auschwitz – beyond “do not murder” – could be to show kindness, care and respect for our fellow human beings. (I’ve had my moments, I know. I’m working on it.)
These can be small gestures, or they can be very big ones. But they must trump cruelty. I don’t think I need to explain why.