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Dark reminder knots family ties
(by Barbara Christian - December 10, 2008)
WINDOW ON MAIN STREET, BY BARBARA CHRISTIAN
Dark reminder knots family ties
Thanksgiving weekend found our family in Washington, D.C., the city where you could not walk a block without bumping into vendors selling inauguration mementos or district police patrolling aboard their Seguays.
And everywhere we looked there was a recognizable monument, sometimes two or three from a single vantage point. We were set on taking the grandkids ice skating on the rink at the National Gallery. It was crowded. People queuing up for the next skate time. It was OK. We were together as family.
Instead, we sat at the outdoor cafe and talked, sipped cocoa and watched the kids playing among the outdoor sculptures.
Eventually and reluctantly, we left our sunny spot, gathered the drained cups and the kids and headed across the street to the National Archives and another line. We were there to pay homage to the Declaration of Independence and Constitution but only made it past the Magna Carta. That's where the line slowed and the kids began to ask, "When?" In pursuit of happiness, we exited before it was our turn to view liberty-making documents. No problem. We were family, and we were together.
The next day's activities would not be multigenerational. The Holocaust Museum is no place for kids whose minds are already full of unimaginable images. They wouldn't need to add these new monsters to their collection, at least not yet.
In reality, none of us were ready. We thought we knew what we would find inside the museum. The steel and brick above, below and all around us set a grim mood. We were met by an elderly gentleman who explained the layout of the museum. In fact, most of the museum staff is elderly, survivors possibly.
Next, we were directed to stacks of passport-sized booklets which told a brief story on a person who had lived during this bleak era. The exhibit began with an explanation of the political climate in Europe during the 1930s, when and where the Holocaust put down its putrid roots.
No, we were not ready for the rage, horror and sadness we would see as the story unfolded. There were historical data, news footage, archival films, piles of human hair and shoes, suitcases. And there was that familiar boxcar that took people to their deaths. We saw actual gas ovens too.
Our throats tightened, and tears stung just behind our eyes as we stood witness. We shook our heads in disbelief. How could this happen? Why? The people we paid witness to here were just like us. All with families not unlike ours. They were singled out for a hideous fate, for extermination. What were their crimes? The answers were there among the exhibits, but they were not enough. You need not be Jewish, Polish of Gypsy descent or homosexual to keep asking: Why? How?
We exited the museum lost in our thoughts. We made small talk. We had no "big talk." There were no words for what we just experienced. In the end, it was all right. We were held in the protective embrace of family. We were together and thank God for that.
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