Auschwitz I Death Camp, Poland
http://gallery.me.com/
Auschwitz II (Birkenau) Death Camp, Poland
http://gallery.me.com/
Gorgeous, lush landscape rolled past my window as the tour bus sped through the countryside. I could see my reflection in the glass window as my eyes admired the natural, idyllic beauty of rolling green hills before me. Tall trees in the distance, charming little homes speckled the expanse on either side of the bus. Fragments of unspeakable horror resided in such natural splendor. Our tour guide announced that we had arrived. I stepped off the bus and we made our way to the main reception building where we were handed ear sets and a receiver which enabled us to hear the commentary by our tour guide as we followed her. A few steps later I found myself standing in the shadow of the sign “Arbeit macht frei” (“Work Will Set You Free”) with the rays of the sun streaming through the letters cast in iron above the main gate. The ground under my feet was dusty and unpaved. I looked up. The letters wore a sinister dark shroud against the shining bright sun.
I don’t wish to launch into and describe what I saw there, as it has been documented countless times in languages the world over. I will share with you what I felt. I spent four hours taking a tour of the two camps and as I walked, and with every word that fell upon my ears and registered by sight, I felt numbed with disbelief. At every turn, in every exhibit was a testimony of lowest of the lowest depths man can succumb to alongside the heights of endurance man can scale.
It was a nice sunny day with a slight breeze blowing through as we stepped in and out of barracks and buildings which today are home to material evidence of horror unleashed by man upon man......seven tons of women’s hair shaved off their heads, children’s shoes and clothing strewn around, piles of artificial limbs and reading glasses, fabric made out of women’s hair for the SS soldiers with locks of real hair placed on the yarn in the display window, photographs, paintings, sketches and images of human suffering of the unfathomable kind are enshrined behind glass. We walked past each exhibit, paying a solemn homage to those who perished. Some coughed and cleared their throats, some wiped dry their moistened eyes as tears erupted and some couldn’t hold it in. A lump in my throat lodges itself as I revisit those images. Real people like you and me lived through it and succumbed.
What does a small child of 4 experience when it is stripped naked and suffocated until its innocent flame of life is snuffed out of its un-lived body? What must a young fellow feel when he is ordered to remove the remains of his family buried under a pile of hundreds poisoned by Zyklon B (the gas Nazi’s used to kill)? Human bones crushed and turned into fertilizers? People made to stand naked for hours, sometimes several nights, outside in brutal cold simply for being late for roll call or having taken a few extra moments relieving oneself in the toilet; clothes not washed for 6 to 8 months; women resorting to taking a shower with the tea served to them; sleeping nightly in bunk beds under a shower of human waste; 11 hours of hard physical labor daily on a diet of soup, one piece of dirty bread and water; surrendering to be specimens for experiments by a mad doctor; appearing like a 70-year old at tender age of 13; a horses’ stable fit to house 70 horses, accommodating 400 humans......just a few of the countless unbelievable atrocities.
Imagining the unimaginable which actually happened to real people renders the mind parched. I struggle to react and process and, lend it a perspective but nothing comes of it. Grief renders the brain arid. I salute the generation that lost its own and till today struggles with it. I salute those who perished as they left behind a heroic legacy of human courage and endurance while falling victim to the worst crimes subjected upon mankind.
These sites must be visited, for those who lost their lives there are deserving of our homage. It is a part of history, albeit incredibly wrenching to the mind and soul, that one must acquaint oneself with by being present there, inhale that air, touch those barbed wires, feel those cold muted walls and walk those grounds.
If you listen carefully, you might hear their cries of despair traveling with the winds in the distance;....those tall trees have stories to tell;...the earth below is still redolent with tears and blood spilled many decades ago;...that icy gallery of facial mugshots with hopeless stares and glassy eyes shimmering with fear....
“Man did this to Man”.
March 2010
The two balloons rose up into the morning sky and bobbed against the rugged backdrop of the aged, aloof and imposing Colosseo. A haze of thrill and anticipation enveloped me. I stood there, one among the surging multitudes, under the crisp morning skies, surrounded by glorious vestiges of ancient history - edifices of bygone eras, pictures of which I used to pore over growing up as a kid in junior high school back in India. Announcements in Italian and English bellowed through loud speakers, multi-lingual chatter bounced off my ears from all around me, the ground was an omnium gatherum of running footwear from around the world and my pair of New Balance 850 were there among the rest, laced and ready to get my feet cover the formidable 42.195 kilometers all around the visually stunning city of Rome.
It twitched and then it happened again. It stung like a long needle slowly finding its way into my toe and making its way up through my leg. The wart was awake. Both of them, in fact. My heart was calm in my chest but my mind was racing. Employing the breathing I learned in yoga classes (“let it out slowly, it brings down the heart rate!”, my yoga teachers roar in the hot room, themselves sounding out of breath as they recite the sometimes turbulent 90-minute Bikram Yoga dialogue), I kept the heart placid but my mind processed every conceivable circumstance that I could possibly encounter over the next few hours.
Three months ago, I visited Bologna, Italy. I was there during the New Year’s Eve weekend and fell in love with the country. I decided to return and make Rome as my next destination for my first marathon of 2010. “Roma Maratona” is one of the premier races in Europe and thousands participate in it, drawing home-grown runners and a rapidly growing international interest in the race. Any avid runner would be seduced by the charms of this strikingly gorgeous city. The course was easy, flat and fast and it covered most landmarks of the city. I was sold to the idea. I registered for the race, booked my hotel and air travel and dreamed of running those 26.1 miles in the middle of spring season in Rome, while snow, sleet, icy rain lashed against the windowpanes of my apartment in New York, which endured one of the harshest winters in recent times. The dreadful weather made it harder to train outdoors with most windswept weekends ended up buried in several inches of snow.
A few weeks prior to the race, I encountered a rather peculiar discomfort in my left leg. It erupted in one of my yoga classes and never quite left. A long distance run or the mere act of stretching would trigger it and characteristically, it mirrored the much-feared sciatica pain, but not in severity. I sought counsel and began acupuncture and massage therapy. It is a very tight, rigid muscle which apparently pressed a nerve at certain times, causing the pain which originated in my gluteous maximus (“minimus”, in my case!) and escaped all the way down to my feet. Treatment had barely begun for it, when I began to suffer a sharp pain in my right foot. Inspection made me believe it was a callus. All athletes suffer from them, a collateral gain from the endless hours of running, and they are a regular occurrence on my feet. I ignored it and thought it would go away with further neglect. It did not. The pain persisted with a steadfast determination to make my right foot its permanent home. Mulishly, I subjected it to further neglect. Maybe it is the male psychology or maybe it is just me. I tend to ignore any unpleasant occurrence as if it is not happening to the point that I become oblivious to it and, almost always, it suffers a premature demise much to my relief. I thought the same of the foot discomfort until one fateful morning commuting to work. I stepped out of the apartment and my foot experienced such excruciating pain that I was shaken out of my blissfully oblivious reverie, barely able to take the next step before me. I reached office somehow and pounded (not pressed) on the panic button. An emergency appointment with a podiatrist delivered the news that what housed in my foot was a nasty gremlin of a “wart”. I could do nothing with it because I was traveling to New Orleans for a half marathon that weekend. Any treatment would require a minimum 2-week recovery period. My New Orleans plans could not be altered. The weekend following the New Orleans race was slated for travel to San Diego where I was hoping to run a long “training run” of 20-plus miles by myself, all in preparation for the Rome race. I have to confess that both trips were also my escape from New York’s glacial weather. I faced the predicament of treating the foot and scrapping travel plans or live with the pain and proceed as scheduled. I opted for the latter, hoping it would miraculously go away. It did not. Rome was scheduled 2 weeks after San Diego, again the foot could not be touched or I risked opting out of the race in Rome - something I was dreaming of since early January. Daily I limped my way as the tiny black spotted gremlin continued to make merry in my foot. Then, out of no where, I contracted Strep Throat barely two weeks prior to Rome, and my physician prescribed a 10-day dose of 1000mg penicillin daily, which rendered my body weakened. Suddenly things were going wrong, my plans was falling apart. I boarded the flight to Rome this past Friday......
Landed in Rome on Saturday morning at 7am with minimal sleep. Reached the hotel, dropped my luggage and made my way to the Maratona Expo to secure my race packet with the race bib and other goodies. The Italians did a marvelous job of race organization. The goodie bag included a nice t-shirt and a cool backpack. The energy and enthusiasm at the Expo brightened my dimmed spirits. At the Expo, I felt a rumbling in my belly. I had to use to the restroom and that was the first of several restroom visits I made on Saturday. Perhaps it was anxiety that caused it. My fatigued body was rapidly getting depleted of the last remaining traces of energy. I felt dehydrated and began consuming hydration pills, sports drinks and gels but, consuming solids was tough.
I counseled myself that I will be able to do it, that all will be well, that “it will be a-l-r-i-g-h-t”, as a dear friend once used to croon soothingly in my ears when the going got tougher. At the hotel after a shower, I felt something new in another part of the same foot. I looked at it and there it was - another black spot on one of my toes encircled by white, dead skin. Another wart???? This can’t be happening to me. Now I have two to contend with on the eve of the race! After an early dinner I was in bed at 10pm. My body was tired. My mind raced several marathons of its own all night, leaving me to toss and turn in bed.
The horn blew and the crowds surged forward. Initially we walked and then the pace accelerated. My strides turned from calm to rapid. I obliterated the negative thoughts in one swipe and moved forward. Running is like meditation in motion. It requires one focus and unshakeable determination to get from the start line to the finish line. I have always considered running to be analogous to life in general. Life begins at its “Start Line” and ends at its “Finish Line”. The distance we cover in between is the journey of life. We are all running, we are all trying to get somewhere, we are all constantly moving and while that is happening, we encounter challenges and obstacles which we must overcome to get ahead in life. If we trip or fall, we must get back up on our feet. A running race, to me, is representative of this journey. As I moved forward, I motivated myself with the words, “You can do it. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t think about the foot. Keep moving.” The 2-kilometer sign went by and the foot burned with discomfort. I struggled to remain calm and in that battle my breath cycle went awry. Keeping calm is essential in all adversity. I was losing grip over it. The pain shot up through both points in the foot. It seared through the leg. The 4-kilometer sign approached and my mind wondered, “Is it over yet??? 38.195 kilometers more to go???? Oh crap!!”. It was then I adopted a new approach, thinking of the entire race as a multiple of 5-kilometer races. My objective at all times was simply to cover the next 5 kilometer mark. Thats all I was thinking about. 5-10-15-20-25-....... Those of you who are not long-distance runners perhaps are unaware that while running long distances, the blood supply increases in the legs and feet and, during the course of the run, the feet swell up and, as a consequence, the friction between the toes and the running shoes is heightened. Well, that certainly did not bode well for my condition. By the way, I must mention here that large sections of the race route was cobblestoned. When the foot pounded on that uneven surface repeatedly,....well, you can use your imagination here.
At every 5 kilometers, there was a hydration/refreshment stop where they gave out drinks and after 15 kilometers they began giving out cut oranges, fruits, sports gels and cookies. Halfway through every 5 kilometers were positioned “wet sponge spots” where they handed out soaking wet sponges to help us cool down. These stops helped me split the entire distance into tiny smaller races. Essentially, I was running a 2.5 kilometer race at any given point.
At several points I could not run anymore. I forced myself to stop and when I did, I struggled to walk because my legs felt like pillars of stone. The injury in the left leg began to throb as well. I would throw myself forward in an attempt to simulate (and stimulate) a run. This cycle continued. Seven more kilometers left. The twinge numbed my legs. A lump originated from somewhere deep in my chest and lodged itself in my throat. I could not believe I had come this far. Six more kilometers to go. My temples throbbed, my eyes attempted to well up, my heart raced. I was walking at this time, more like limping. A fellow runner was walking alongside. Then he began to run. I saw him slowly get farther and farther away from me. At that point, I decided to give it my all. I lunged forward, threw my head down and ran. Five more kilometers to go. All sensation below my waist was gone by then. I was blinded. Those were the longest 5 kilometers I ever ran. I crossed the finish line. It was over. 5 hours and 33 minutes. I stood there stunned. I felt like a small child with an overwhelming desire to be hugged. Then, suddenly someone came up to me, congratulated me in Italian and a beautiful finisher’s medal adorned my heaving chest. I was back at the Colosseo and had to walk another 500 meters to the closest Metro Stop to take the Subway to Roma Termini (the main train hub of Rome). My hotel was six blocks from the Termini. I made my way to the hotel, entered the room, took two painkillers and sat down on the edge of the bed. Untied the laces of my running shoes. Slid the shoe off my right foot, slowly peeled the sock off to stare at it.......
Deepak
Roma, Italia
