Back in Italy – until September 10th at least.
The German Fugue has finished, and I loved seeing München again. My memories had started to fade and this trip made them vivid – I was also more conscious, and took more pictures.
Subway was not an issue, either, after dealing with Barcelona, New York and especially Tokyo.
As with Barcelona, I felt like I could live in Munich. The city is gorgeous, huge but perfectly organized: everything is on time, and one is offered several options as far as public means of transportation are involved. Tram, subway, train and bus: a paradise.
One thing that surprised me: the controllers do not wear any uniform. On Tuesday, on the bus to the center, a nice young guy approached me and asked: “Ihre Karte, bitte”. It took me a while to get that he wanted to check my ticket, and I do understand German quite well. I just couldn’t convince myself that he was a controller – he just didn’t look like it. Scary.
Then, Dachau.
I am not sure I want to write anything about visiting a Concentration Camp Memorial, I guess everything would sound corny. It was quiet, big and desolate. I walked around by myself, taking pictures, reading inscriptions, thinking.
One monument that struck me was in the middle of the main square (the old Appellplatz) and it said: “Never Again“. We ought to remember. Forgive, but don’t forget was another one: we are Christians, we forgive, but we can’t forget what happened (and occasionally we will blame the Germans…).
Although many people were around, silence could be heard everywhere – amazing how a sort of respect arouses from old barracks and big severe buildings, and takes the form of silence.
This morning, on my way to the hospital to do some analysis.
Talking to my grandfather, he asks me how it went in Dachau, and that gets him started on his experience in the KZ Camp again. He tells me about his “job” there, at the train station near Dachau, about his punishment after accidentally chopping off his Russian colleague’s finger (punishment: a month at the ‘pole’, getting whipped…), about Russian women that worked like men and smelled like garlic – they would eat it to keep bacteria away. It still amazes me how he perfectly remembers the word Krieggefänger (war prisoner)in German. My grandfather doesn’t speak German at all, and never has: yet, some words are vividly present in his head, words used by guards of that concentration camp, where he has been for 19 months. Bröt, Kartoffeln, Aus… the only pieces of the language he ever got, bound to terrible memories.
I sometimes wonder, how it must be, 19 months of hell.
He continues, telling me about his escape from Dachau, just a few days before the liberation. They left the camp in 25, on April 25th, 1945, headed to Verona.
Munich – Verona, 700 kilometers, through the Alps.
On foot.
They arrived home in 2, on May 10th, 1945. On the way home, they had to steal food from fields, clothes from shops, etc. When my grandfather finally got home, it was only to find his old house bombed to ruins and everything destroyed. He left for the war wealthy, he came home after 6 years of service in the army and 2 in the camp (he was then 26) to a complete misery. With part of his family yet still alive, he rebuilt everything from scratch and eventually got wealthy again.
Yet, when he talks about the KZ camp, terror fills hie eyes through his smile, and his irony becomes grotesque.
To think that a man so tough, at 92 years old, can be so terrified, one wonders how terrible of an experience it must have been.
Forgive, but don’t forget.
Music: Enjoy the Silence, Depeche Mode
