Spiraling

As we walked up to the museum, we noticed armed snipers on the roof. It was a little disturbing, seeing that we had spent the morning at the Smithsonian and didn't see anything like that there. We entered the museum and were ushered through metal detectors as our purses were passed through an X-ray machine. Even our tour of the White House didn't include metal detectors and X-ray machines. But this was a place where Jews gathered, which always seems to demand extra vigilance.

We were then separated into groups and given identification cards. We were instructed to read the first page of our identification card, but to not turn the page until we reached the bottom of the 4^th floor of the museum. We were all a little confused, but we complied. I read my identification card.

Name: Zigmond Adler

           Date of Birth: July 18, 1936

           Place of Birth: Liege, Belgium

           Zigmond's parents were Czechoslovakian Jews who

           had emigrated to Belgium. His mother, Rivka, was a

           shirtmaker. She had come to Belgium as a young woman

           to find a steady job, following her older brother, Jermie,

           who had moved his family to Liege several years earlier. In

           Liege, Rivka met and married Otto Adler, a businessman.

          The couple looked forward to starting a family.

We were then herded through a dimly lit area where we lined up to get into elevators that would take us to the top of the building. The elevator car was very dim and was built to the dimensions of a railroad car. There were many of us led into the car. We had to shuffle and squeeze together to make room for what seemed the endless crowd of people who were to ride with us. When everyone was squeezed in, the doors shut. The closing of the doors was loud: The crowd was silent. Then the elevator rose up.

We rode to the top of the museum. The top of the spiral. Through the first level of the spiral we view the artifacts of the beginning of the Nazi's rise to power. Jews still have some semblance of their normal lives, but as we continue down the slope of the spiral to the third level, the lives of the Jews are changing for the worse. I turn the page of my identification card.

           1933-1939: Zigmond was born to the Adlers in 1936, but

           his mother died one year later. His father remarried, but the

           marriage didn't last. Zigmond's father then married a third

           time, and soon Zigmond had a new half-sister and a stable

           family life. As a boy, Zigmond oftern visited his Uncle Jermie's

           family, who lived just a few blocks away

We witness atrocities presented to us in black and white photos in clean, well presented frames. We see images of pure suffering. “Are any of these people our relatives?” my Jewish friend and I wonder. We mutter a prayer even though, if asked, we would both claim to be atheists. We read about the Jewish underground and about families trying to get out before it gets worse. We know these stories. We were raised with these stories. We continue to spiral down. We follow the instructions printed in our identification cards. I turn the page.

           1940-1944: Zigmond was 3 when the Germans occupied Belgium.

           Two years later, the Germans deported his father for forced labor.

           After that, Zigmond's step-mother felt Liege, giving Zigmond to

           Uncle Jermie and Aunt Chaje. When the Nazis began to round up

           Jews in Liege, some of Uncle Jermie's Catholic friends helped them

           get false papers that hid their Jewish identity and rented them a house

           in a nearby village. Two years later, early one Sunday morning, the

           Gestapo came to the house. They suspected Jews were living there.

We come to a round room. It is very tall, reaching to the top of the building. It is brick. It is a chimney. The walls of the chimney are filled with photographs of people who didn't survive. Again, “Are any of these people our people?” The reality – they are all our people. Past the gates, the piles of suitcases, marked with family names. We know some of these names. We have relatives with these names. Past the piles of shoes. Past the hair. I cannot take anymore. I flee. I can flee. Through the brightly lit hall with television screens which hold the images of survivors who tell their stories. Through the gift shop.

Freedom.

I sit on the ground, leaning against a large concrete pillar that supports this spiral. I wait for my friends. People come out. They blink in the sunlight. They laugh. They make dinner plans. They head to the Smithsonian to see Archie's chair. I am awed.

           Zigmond, his aunt and two cousins were sent to the Mechelen

           internment camp, and then to Auschwitz, where 7 year old Zigmond

           was gassed on May 21, 1944