It’s weird how pain fascinates us. I was peering out of the window eagerly, hands on the edge of the glass. Like a child on Christmas Eve, I waited for my gaze to set upon the granite-looking building from the pictures I saw on the internet. I had always dreamed of coming here since I was about eleven years old. Finally, my head nearly imploded from my level of excitement. The building looked just the way I thought. The polished, sharp edges of the building were more noticeable with the sun beating down on it. I rushed out of the car and reached for the shiny gold handles on the glass door. The cool crisp air rushed towards my face, the wall above me read in bold gold letters “Museum of Tolerance”. I’m here, I’m really here.
After a long tour filled with videos and interactive exhibits, we heard a voice, “Fifteen minutes! The speaker will begin in fifteen minutes!” Like any tourist, we went to find out what it was. The museum was having a Holocaust survivor tell her story. Without hesitation I walked through the large maroon door. It lead into a small auditorium-like area. We sat down in the few open seats. They were seats like in a movie theater, the hard plastic arm rests, and the suede upholstered seats which matched the maroon door. I liked it, even though it wasn’t a movie, it made me feel as if I was about to experience something amazing. We peered down to a lonesome stage, no decorations, no special lighting. Just an ordinary looking old woman sitting in an ordinary looking chair. But something in me, maybe my heart, possibly my brain, told me that this woman was special. I knew that she was about to tell me something that would change my life forever.
She began with her name and her age. (I would tell you what those things were but I can’t seem to remember). She took a long pause and began her story. I felt like I was watching a movie. She described everything so vividly, as if she were there in that moment. As did I. Reading textbooks and watching Anne Frank didn’t prepare me for how I would feel when I was sitting in the same room and listening to an actual survivor. A woman who also was once a girl, a girl my age whose life and family was being torn apart in a time of great pain and suffering. She talked about her little brother and her mother who accompanied her on the train to Auschwitz. She described the train with such disgust and hate “we were like animals in a cage”. The story went on about how many people died of starvation and how many people were sick, including her brother. In a single moment her facial expression changed, she looked sad and ashamed to say what she was about to tell us. “I killed my brother” she said with great anguish, but I didn’t quite understand. She talked about how much she loved him, how could she have killed him? She explained that her brother had recently turned thirteen, which in Jewish culture made him a man. A German soldier demanded that everyone separate into two groups ‘men’ and ‘women and children’. She did what any girl my age would do, her brother was sick. She told him to come with her mother and herself so that her mother could care for him. “I didn’t know that in that moment I was killing him”. The men were sent to work and a German soldier told them “All women and children will be sent to the chambers”. In that moment I understood why she would say such a thing. The words brought pain to my ears. I felt an ache in my chest and a sudden cold, single droplet gently rolled down my face. I didn’t wipe it away, I couldn’t. I remained motionless for several minutes as she continued her story. The last words I heard her say were “I can never forgive myself”.
After a few quiet moments we all realized that her speech was finished. We all clapped, not for what she did, but for the bravery and courage she had. To get on a stage and tell a few dozen strangers how she was responsible for her sibling’s death. I walked down the aisle and went straight to the woman. I don’t know why I did but I hugged her as tight as I could. Her small fragile body in my arms, her delicate arms hugging me back. I felt her sorrow, I felt her pain. As my face rested on her soft elderly shoulder I whispered in her ear “thank you.” The words came freely without a need to think. I’m not sure how long we stood there holding each other, but it didn’t matter. It was a moment that seemed to last a life time and last no time at all. A few tears quickly rushed down my already moist cheeks, and I could feel that she too was crying. We took a quick photo, said thank you and left. The same maroon doors that welcomed me in with excitement were now letting me go with sorrow. All of the painstaking information I received in one day, and yet I was interested. I wanted to hear more, to see more. I should be sad, and never want to return or hear more painful stories. But I wasn’t sad and I did want to come back. Why? Why was I so interested in how much they hurt, or how much they wished they had lived a different life? I was interested by the pain of others. Their grief intrigued me.