Thoughts on Terezín

Named after the great María Theresa, Terezín was originally built for soldiers serving the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Unlike the biggest concentration camps, Terezín was more like a transition camp and detention center for political prisoners during World War II. Maybe that’s why the first impression after crossing the ominous black and white gate, is that this isn’t such a bad place. Tall trees and big, yellow buildings remind me of a nice country villa. The cobblestones were clearly laid down thinking of carriages and horses’ hooves. At a glance, the first courtyard looks like any regular courtyard, until you notice the words painted on the arch: “Work makes you free”.

The passionate explanations of the tour guide reveal his interest in the history of the place. He keeps talking about the propaganda that portrayed the town as a perfect safe heaven for misplaced Jews. I never knew about this and I can only imagine how they must’ve felt, seeking refuge in what soon became a ghetto. As I watch the footage of cheering crowds in sports competitions and happy Jews playing on their wooden beds, I can only imagine what were they thinking. Did they film that before things went downhill? Were they using actors? Or worse, were they real Jews forcing smiles and looking at their captors, trying to ignore their own lies reflected on the lens?

Our tour guide, Marek, kept talking about the instinct of self-preservation that led the Jews to Terezín. At some point they even refused to believe those who had escaped from Auschwitz. How could there be such a thing as gas chambers? This was the 20^th century, the Great War was over and everyone had learned the lesson. How could all humanity be lost along with the value of human lives? I probably wouldn’t have believed it myself.

The rooms were crowed and there were only fifty of us were a hundred were forced to stay. The detention cells felt big in comparison, and the humidity in the air played tricks with my mind making me imagine the pungent smell that must’ve prevailed in the place. How much time did it linger even after everyone was gone?

And still, there was wild grass growing on top of the roofs, proof of the life that was still going on outside. The birds could be heard singing; were they there during the war? Even in some isolation cells, you could still feel the blinding sunlight coming through the double bars that guarded the windows near the ceiling. My neck hurt from staring outside, was it like that for them? Or did hope hurt so much they chose to turn their heads down and stare at the floor instead?

Artists had privileges as long as they cooperated and worked on propaganda, but still remained true to their beliefs by drawing the real face of Terezín. They undertook a great risk, same as the few who dared help the prisoners by smuggling letters and passing on news. People can’t be divided in neat categories; there will always be moral grey zones and silver linings that prevent us from dismissing someone as purely good or bad.

There were transports constantly leaving for the major concentration camps, and a stream of casualties being carried away by Jews through the gate of death. Disease was widespread and the occasional showers did nothing to mitigate it. Few that walked out did so with the freedom that I had when leaving behind the main gate.

As I look upon the massive graveyard with the cross and the star, I remember the execution field depicted as farming land in the propaganda. This field was once plain simple ground; a hill like every other until Terezín was first built. Even then there was no reason to believe that someday it would end up looking like this: so beautiful and sad, so devastating and yet filled with colorful roses.

There is no excuse for the suffering that everyone: Jews, Catholics, Gypsies or intellectuals, had to endure, but walking the same grounds under the warm sun, I realize that every gloomy movie, every bittersweet story from a former prisoner, is just a small part to the truth. There are more hidden stories in the photographs of German soldiers and the rag doll that will never be held by another innocent girl.

Things and places are what we make of them, and so a concentration camp with souvenir stores and a restaurant can be the uncomfortable reminder of great suffering; a witness to the best and worst of human intent, or a simple playground for the children and birds who care about nothing else but enjoying the shade of trees who have witnessed more than we will ever see.