Reflections on the Berlin Holocaust Memorial

         As you approach the Holocaust Memorial of Berlin, you see that it consists of a series of dark stone rectangular prisms with no signs or labels of any kind (other than a possible assortment of temporary messages drawn in snow).  Upon seeking a meaning for this presentation of rectangles you may find yourself noticing that the approximate size and shape of each one matches that of a coffin.  But in between each coffin-sized rectangle is a 2-foot-wide space which allows you to easily walk further into the memorial.  Upon doing so, you quickly realize that there are a great number of these stones, and that the further in you go, the larger they become.  They go from being coffin-sized to being as tall as you are, and then taller, and then twice as tall.  At this point they are surrounding you, towering over you, dominating you.  

They are organized in an almost perfect grid, one that you’d think it would be easy to escape from, should the need arise.  And yet, you may just find yourself on edge, trapped, claustrophobic.  You may find yourself wondering whether or not those footsteps you hear around the corner might just be those of a sinister intent.  

And if you go in the winter, as I did, you will likely find the path slick with ice and not always to be trusted.  You may find yourself holding on to those dark stone walls-- those same stone walls that are dominating this temporary world of yours, those walls which are making you somewhat uncomfortable, those walls which make possible the cold that keeps ice frozen here even when the normal streets nearby remain perfectly walkable.  

And if you venture beneath these stones, you will find the names and stories of the 5 to 6 million people who died as part of the Holocaust-- this does not include those who died as a result of the war, only the Holocaust itself.  The word murder, which is not used in connection with war, is used frequently.  The stories of the 5 to 6 million  who were murdered-- that’s what you will find under the stones.  They are underground.  Although, not all of the stories.  It would take quite a lot of time and space to tell 6 million stories.  And half of the stories are unable to be told anyway, as they happened too quickly, or in places too obscure, or to people who were not writers, or to people who had no one left to write to, or to young children, or to the mentally handicapped, or before the victims yet knew for sure what was going on.  

Then when you emerge from this underground museum, you are back amongst the stones.  They are large and well-organized.  They are also very similar to one another, never exactly the same, but quite similar.  They are dark.  They are blank.  They are hard.  They are cold.