I inhale, trying to escape the horror in my mind. It’s too dark, and within the prism of reality, there is no relief. It really happened
I‘ve seen the Holocaust its remnants. I’ve been to Majdanek to Auschwitz; tasted the blood and ash and thickness of its air.
I’ve walked the noisy streets of Krakow skeletal bare of what once was. I explored Budapest’s busy avenues pulsing with humanity and emptiness of all that had been.
And now I see The Children’s Forest. A rather unremarkable forest, somewhere in the thick of Poland. We hike through the woods, a bunch of happy, tired tourists, only to stop at a small fenced-in patch of grass, where, we are solemnly informed, eight hundred Jewish babies were beaten to death. Beaten. To Death. Eight hundred babies.
In the gloom, we can barely make out the words inscribed on the lone monument, standing witness in this large, grievous land. Our tour guide reads, in Yiddish:
Create a free account to keep reading.
