No pictures, only memories

In the ninth grade, my English teacher assigned our class a short story to read. The book had a dark brown cover with worn out, ripped edges. While reading, I saw the word “Holocaust” and quickly glanced over it. At this time, I was accustomed to skipping over words that I did not know. You may ask, how is that possible? Trust me, I faced many dropped mouths and wide opened eyes that day in room 131. I watched as my classmates’ emotions fluctuate from shocked to bafflement, and finally to genuine curiosity. The funny thing is, my expressions mirrored theirs completely. I was just as confused as they were. I can’t explain why or how I missed such an important event in history, but I missed it.

I enter a crowded hallway. The smell of burnt wood takes me by surprise. The strong odor and small space make my head spin. I take deeper breaths, but I am losing it. I feel aggressive. By some self-preservation mechanism, my body straightens up. I take one big breath and held it in as if I was preparing to plunge into a lake. With an unyielding strength, I shove past the fortress of bodies. One last push and I stagger into a wide, open room. I let out a breath of relief. My eyes scan the hallway that I just escaped from and I see the wooden wall, chipped and blackened by fire. I turn back around to find myself in an oddly familiar place. The spacious room has glass display cabinets line against all sides of the wall. A museum. In this world of black and white, I see old photographs of families, faded names on documents, long unused medical instruments, and stained shoes. For the first time, my camera hangs from my wrist, lifeless. No pictures. My eyes are the lenses and I soak in the details of each item behind the clear glass window, making a copy of them in my memory.

I see color, a yellow star sewn onto striped pajamas. An uncanny quietness penetrates the room. With colors came a change of atmosphere. A silent film plays in my head. I see a life in those pajamas, someone with eyes drooped and puffy. A body curled up, knees glued to the chest and arms wrapped tightly around thin frail legs. The pajamas shake in rhythm with the shivering body that hugs a cold, white wall. No sleep tonight and a hopeless morning.

Far from that room, I stand on tiny rocks scattered across a cemented ground and slowly breathe. A cool breeze blows by and for a second, my skin loses the burning sensation caused by the sun. I walk off, with the final picture of large gray cement walls erected from the ground and lined along a path separating sachsenhausen from a small-town neighborhood.