Memories of a trip to Auschwitz

Watching the 60th Anniversary coverage of the Liberation of Auschwitz has me thinking: is my generation the last ones to be born that have a real tangible connection to World War II?

The Veterans and survivors are dying off and as illustrated by Prince Harry Pothead - the generation that is only 12 years younger than myself views WWII as some part of ancient history; the same way that I might view the Irish Potato Famine or the Highland Clearances - I know they happened but they don't really mean anything to me.

I remember my Grandfather talking about fighting in North Africa and Italy, I remember my Mum and Dad talking about their experiences - My Mum was 11 years old in Glasgow (at the time heavily industrialized and heavily bombed), my Dad was in the Royal Signal Corp as a radio operator (something I'd think a lot about later as I started working with short-wave radio at the BBC). I listened to my Grandparents stories and my parents stories. I remember the clock that came from a Nazi Submarine that hung on the wall of my Grandfather's house and the leather belt and dagger with the Eagle atop of a Swastika on it. I built scale models of Spitfires, Hurricanes and ME 109's. WWII seemed real like it just happened yesterday.

I remember the corrugated iron roofs on houses in Glasgow built on the cheap after the war. I remember the concrete machine gun pill-box that looked out at the North Sea waiting for an invasion force from Norway. I took my first ever driving lesson on the runway of an old WWII base that had long since been deserted, the tin huts and derelict control tower were still standing. On my first ever trip to New York I sat next to an American who flew reconnaissance planes out of the same base. His recollections about the place seemed to be more about the girls in the nearby town of Crail than any Boys Own action stories.


In 1997 I found myself standing outside the gates of Auschwitz after stepping off the local train from Krakow to Oswiecim. It was my first trip to Poland and it seemed like the right thing to do.
The local train rolls along very slowly and seems to stop anywhere that has a house so someone can step onboard. I end up helping an old lady with her shopping climb up and she thanks me by talking to me in Polish all the way to Oswiecim, I don't understand what she is saying but I suspect it is along the lines of you must marry my voluptious daughter. No such luck...

When I was there, everything in Oswiecim was grey and crumbling. The post-Communist era had not brought any money to this part of Poland yet. It seemed to add to the overwhelming depression about the place.

This was my first visit to Auschwitz but not my first visit to a concentration camp. I had visited Dachau on a previous visit to Munich and had been suitably moved. Dachau is different though, it has been swallowed up by the city was a short bus ride from where I was staying. I could stand inside the camp and see houses where people lived.

Auschwitz is on the edge of town and the road was surrounded by long grass that was as tall as me. Everything seems to be designed to enhance the oppresiveness of the place.

Eventually you reach the gates that proclaim "Arbeit Macht Frei" ("Work Makes You Free.") and you are inside. My first thought was "Fuck, I took the train here!". This hit me when I was stepping over the old tracks that carried the victims here.

Ther second thought I had was that I was in the middle of the countryside on a summer's day and there were no birds singing, no signs of wildlife of any kind. This might have been my mind playing tricks but I was starting to freak out a bit.

I took the guided tour and survived only half of it. Half the museum is upstairs and half is downstairs. I saw the piles of spectacles and other souveniers taken from victims in the upstairs part. There is a room filled with suitcases, most of which have the victims name and address on the outside. I do not know what was downstairs. I could not go downstairs.

I don't know why, I don't believe in ghosts, but this place really got to me. I felt like I was having trouble breathing, I was tense and nervous, I had to get out. I left the tour and walked off on my own to the destroyed gas chambers. I felt cold (it was probably 90 degrees).

I am writing all of this from memory as I couldn't bring myself to take any pictures while I was there so if I remembered any of the physical details wrong please accept my apologies.

Prince Harry should have come here. He might have learned something (respect?) but what can you expect from a man whose family tree looks like a stump!