I blew out my 18th birthday candles, but some never had that chance.
Marta, our guide, ordered watermelon and a Polish chocolate and custard cake I can’t pronounce. “The traditional birthday treat,” she said. As the fire erupted in front of me, she clapped and sang a song I recognized from hearing stories of my great grandparents. Her smile was bigger than mine if that was even possible. This was her favorite restaurant in Krakow, and she picked my birthday to share it with us.
It was the first time my dad had been “home” to Poland, and we decided this would be a sentimental place to celebrate my birthday and my graduation. The day before I turned eighteen we went to Auschwitz Bergen-Belsen.
As we crossed under the words Arbeit Macht Frei, I realized I was actually in a concentration camp. I was in same place my ancestors had died. I was in their cemetery.
I watched as others pulled out their cameras to document every moment. Employees swept the ground, but no matter how much they tried, they couldn’t scrub the horror from this place. I couldn’t grab my camera; I wouldn’t. To me, this wasn’t a place to take tourist photos. I will never forget the room with glass cases filled with hair and with shoes. I will never forget the bone chilling shiver that swept over me as I took my first steps inside the crematorium. I would will never forget the train tracks that ended in death. My eyes were my camera. My father walked alongside me, and I could see tears pooling on his cheeks. I had only seen him cry once, when his mother died.
We were silent. The gravel beneath our feet spoke louder than we ever had. I couldn’t even form thoughts. All I could see were the faces of my ancestors who were killed simply because they were Jewish. And here I was walking on the same ground. I was safe and alive because my great grandfather escaped. My blood is mixed with the dirt beneath my feet.
When we left, no one said a word. We didn’t speak until the next day. My parents woke me up and said, “Happy Birthday.”
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