inside. I walk through the rooms completely filled with eyeglasses, with shoes, with suitcases. I sit and watch survivors tell their stories, the young girl who married the handsome GI who liberated her, the soldier who invited the man he carried out of the camp to come home and live with him and his family, the Jewish GI who rescued a distant cousin. I walk through the room devoted to the non-Jews targeted by the Nazis, the mentally challenged, the Gypsies, the Jehovah’s Witnesses, the homosexuals. The stories of the African American soldiers who laid their lives down abroad in a war against oppression and discrimination and racism, only to return home to face those same evils. I look at the replicated wooden sleeping structure, imagining the faces from my grandparents’ photo album packed in three or four to a bunk.
As I exit the main exhibit, I realize that I have been here more than six hours. I cross the wide lobby to the room of remembrance, a circular marble room with large simple monuments to each of the camps, and to the larger death marches. There are candles around the room and an eternal flame. I stand in front of the black granite wall with its simple lettering, AUSCHWITZ, and remember that one of the reasons I am so utterly bereft of family is because of that word. I am more than an orphan. I have lost so much more than just my parents, and the enormity of the experience overwhelms me. I have had moments in the past few hours when I had a lump in my throat or tears swam in my eyes, but now, in this simple, silent place, the weeping comes unbidden. The tears are hot on my cheeks, flowing with a volume and speed that surprises me, my whole body shaking.
And suddenly there is a hand in mine. A strong, large hand has taken my hand, and is squeezing. I turn to see who it is, wondering if this place even has docents assigned to comforting people, but my eyes are so filled with tears that all I can make out is that it is a man in a blue shirt, and that he is pulling me into his arms, and without even thinking I am buried in a strong chest that smells of lime and spice, and I am being held tightly, with hands rubbing my back, swaying slightly, and that even as I sob in the embrace of this stranger, he is weeping too, his cheek on my head, his breath ragged.
It might have been a minute, or ten, but eventually our breathing slows, the sorrow is tempered, and I come back into my brain to realize that some strange man is holding me in the middle of a museum, and despite the fact that I haven’t been held in more than a year, and that every fiber of my body craves this contact, nevertheless, it is disconcerting and I pull back.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
He lets me go and I stand under my own power, wiping the wetness from my cheeks.
“I ruined your shirt,” I say, looking at the large wet spot I have made in the middle of his chest.
“Not ruined. It’ll dry. I don’t even think it’s a natural fabric. I think it’s made of old tires or something. My mother would be horrified, probably.”
I laugh. He hands me a handkerchief, and I blow my nose. Then I don’t know what to do with it, since it is bad enough that I have wept all over his shirt, and I’m hard-pressed to hand him a handkerchief full of hot snot.
“I’m Nathan. Nathan Gershowitz.”
“Melanie. Hoffman.”
“Nice to meet you, Melanie. Us Chicagoans have to support each other.” I look into his face and realize suddenly that he is the guy who smiled at me on the plane.
“You’re from the plane,” is all I can say.
“Actually, I’m from Evanston originally, and now I live in the Gold Coast, but I was on the plane.” He smiles again.
“Thank you . . .” I gesture around helplessly, as if that indicates what I am grateful for.
“Thank you. I was okay in the exhibits, but this room really knocked me out, and I just didn’t want to experience it alone, if that makes sense.”
“Completely. I didn’t even know that I
As I exit the main exhibit, I realize that I have been here more than six hours. I cross the wide lobby to the room of remembrance, a circular marble room with large simple monuments to each of the camps, and to the larger death marches. There are candles around the room and an eternal flame. I stand in front of the black granite wall with its simple lettering, AUSCHWITZ, and remember that one of the reasons I am so utterly bereft of family is because of that word. I am more than an orphan. I have lost so much more than just my parents, and the enormity of the experience overwhelms me. I have had moments in the past few hours when I had a lump in my throat or tears swam in my eyes, but now, in this simple, silent place, the weeping comes unbidden. The tears are hot on my cheeks, flowing with a volume and speed that surprises me, my whole body shaking.
And suddenly there is a hand in mine. A strong, large hand has taken my hand, and is squeezing. I turn to see who it is, wondering if this place even has docents assigned to comforting people, but my eyes are so filled with tears that all I can make out is that it is a man in a blue shirt, and that he is pulling me into his arms, and without even thinking I am buried in a strong chest that smells of lime and spice, and I am being held tightly, with hands rubbing my back, swaying slightly, and that even as I sob in the embrace of this stranger, he is weeping too, his cheek on my head, his breath ragged.
It might have been a minute, or ten, but eventually our breathing slows, the sorrow is tempered, and I come back into my brain to realize that some strange man is holding me in the middle of a museum, and despite the fact that I haven’t been held in more than a year, and that every fiber of my body craves this contact, nevertheless, it is disconcerting and I pull back.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
He lets me go and I stand under my own power, wiping the wetness from my cheeks.
“I ruined your shirt,” I say, looking at the large wet spot I have made in the middle of his chest.
“Not ruined. It’ll dry. I don’t even think it’s a natural fabric. I think it’s made of old tires or something. My mother would be horrified, probably.”
I laugh. He hands me a handkerchief, and I blow my nose. Then I don’t know what to do with it, since it is bad enough that I have wept all over his shirt, and I’m hard-pressed to hand him a handkerchief full of hot snot.
“I’m Nathan. Nathan Gershowitz.”
“Melanie. Hoffman.”
“Nice to meet you, Melanie. Us Chicagoans have to support each other.” I look into his face and realize suddenly that he is the guy who smiled at me on the plane.
“You’re from the plane,” is all I can say.
“Actually, I’m from Evanston originally, and now I live in the Gold Coast, but I was on the plane.” He smiles again.
“Thank you . . .” I gesture around helplessly, as if that indicates what I am grateful for.
“Thank you. I was okay in the exhibits, but this room really knocked me out, and I just didn’t want to experience it alone, if that makes sense.”
“Completely. I didn’t even know that I
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