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 4th 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
