Majdanek

Majdanek

The path toward Majdanek is filled with scenes from a painting you might find in the waiting room of an office in which you have something to fear-pastoral fields, grazing cows, handmade fences- designed to calm your nerves before you face the grim look in the doctor's eyes as he delivers the news that will divide your life into before and after.

How appropriate.

Majdanek is the only death camp that was intact when liberated by Allied forces.  The Nazis knew the Russian forces would arrive soon, but they underestimated the speed at which they were moving. There was time to destroy documents, but the guard towers, barbed-wire fences, barracks, gas chambers, and crematorium remained to testify to the horrors suffered by thousands upon thousands of both those who lived and those who were murdered there.

Really, the shoes say it all. 

Column after column of mesh cages hold countless pairs of shoes. Shoes belonging to men, women, children. Sturdy boots, dancing shoes, tiny sandals- all now nearly the same shade of gray that signifies the number of years passed since their owners danced in the rain, held hands, gossiped, worshiped, loved, hoped, wept, lived. Each pair belonged to a face, a name, a person. Now, simply another anonymous testimony. 

One shoe caught my eye- a red sandal that looks a little something like a pair I owned once.  I'll never know the name of the woman who wore it. But I also know I'll never forget her.