As I sit in my hotel room in Warsaw, with a beautiful view of the cityscape at night, Chopin playing, and a whisky in my hand (it was the bartender’s idea) my mind bends towards my visit to the largest and deadliest Nazi concentration camp.
The serene beauty of the area obfuscating it’s torturous past.
The train tracks covered in children trying to balance on them.
The barracks, most of which are nothing more than remnants, warm and aerated belying their former lives.
The presence of laughter and chit chat amongst so many visitors not precluding mourning nor, if I accidentally overheard right, admitting of association to loved ones.
The absurdity of the SS detonating dynamite at the crematoria to try and hide their deeds,
The irony of throngs of people clamoring to get inside with the staff ineptly managing the lines.
I am now considering a tattoo. I am…
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