A Day in the Holocaust Museum

Yesterday, on my day off, I spent the day in the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. It was my second all-day visit. When I first moved to the Washington, DC area I spent days wandering the National Mall, soaking in larger than life art, architecture and tapping into the root of American history. After I had dazzled myself for a couple of weeks with the exhibits I decided to find the Holocaust Museum. It was a blazing-hot August day when I finally found Raoul Wallenberg Place a few blocks off the Mall. One of the five people I knew (and just met) in the area was going to meet me and we were going to tour together. She called and cancelled.

I've come to realize people have many projections of what the museum is and few, in the area, who I know have been able to face down their vision of the museum. So it is a wonder, now as tourist season is in full swing, that tickets are handed out daily to limit the number of visitors--because the architect had not envisioned so many people would come to the memorial.

The first time I visited I took the elevators up to the permanent exhibit with no idea what to expect. In my hand I held a female identification card I picked up with an ominous feeling. Yesterday I held a male identification card as I walked through the display of the beginning of the Holocaust through liberation.

On the top floor I walked the gauntlet of propaganda, never ending film loops of Hitler screeching irately to masses, book-burnings, bizarre charts and instruments that measured human body parts and subsequently determined "race," and the faded black and white striped prisoner uniforms. I passed the small wooden bunk beds that fit 5 yet it's smaller than my bed. I walked through the wooden transportation rail cart that crammed so many prisoners in it there could be either none or almost no room to move.

As I left the smell of chemicals and wood I saw discarded luggage on the ground that had been rummaged through, emptied and sorted as if it belonged to the Nazi party. I continued through the maze of people and remembrances of those who did not make it and passed the glass windows etched with the names of European towns which no longer exist. The smell of rubber shoes (sadly, worth more than human life) still clings to me. Then finally into the room of survivor's testimony. Each visit I have sat and listened for over an hour to the full loop of stories. The strength and courage of these people is profound.

I went to the museum with my senses tuned to forgiveness. I did not find it. As I reflect on this I recalled several years ago seeing the documentary Hiding and Seeking:Faith and Tolerance after the Holocaust, a father's exploration to teach his Orthodox sons that not all Polish people were bad. However there was no satisfactory resolution in this documentary despite the father's faith in his own resilience, survival and physical retracing and retelling of his experience. On the whole, with the testimony of the survivors, the male and female identification cards (both survived) and from my reflections, I believe nobody who survived did it alone.

As I continue with a mindful step towards forgiveness and reconciliation through our required reading The Sunflower, and continue to reflect on the course theme I feel equal parts pain, and need for relief through forgiveness. Yet, I recognize many of us who have not been tested or survived such trials blatantly admit we have difficulty asking for and granting forgiveness. How can we achieve true forgiveness if we are afraid to grant it? How can we live with the pain of the unforgiven? At this moment, I do not know.