Warsaw, Poland
Easter in Warsaw
With spring and Easter in the air, we were feeling upbeat as we arrived in Warsaw. Some wanted to see the zoo and others wanted to see more of the city, so we split into two groups. We delivered the mothers, their children, and Denise -- who has always had an intense compassion for animals -- to the front gates of the Warsaw zoo, and began to explore.

Curious about the ghetto, we went there first. Except for a commemorative monument, there was barely a trace. The area seemed new and modern. It was as though the city had taken conscious steps to erase all memory of the Warsaw ghetto. We didn't remain long, but continued until we found ourselves at what appeared to be the edge of the city. In fact, it appeared to be the edge of the world. Stretching before us like massive concrete megaliths was a series of arced, multi-storied apartment complexes. They were constructed out of 10-foot by 10-foot slabs of cinder block material. The slabs did not meet and seal, but seemed to have been haphazardly slapped into place. There were gaps where the slabs tilted at angles. Clothes hung to dry on the precarious-looking balconies, over which women leaned to watch children playing below in the treeless plazas.

We could not believe our eyes. And because we saw nothing but vague flatness beyond this colorless world, we had the distinct feeling that we had reached the end, not only of Warsaw, but of humanity. At the appointed time, we drove back to the zoo, and were surprised to see the faces of our companions were as frozen and somber as ours.

What we had seen on the outskirts of Warsaw, they had seen here, in desolate creatures, a dark, forgetful prison of a zoo.

We set about looking for a place to stay, but could come to no prayerful consensus. The sun set, we fed the children, and quickly began to run out of options.

Treblinka II
Easter Monday

We were tired, disoriented and displaced by the day's experiences. We drove awhile longer around the city of Warsaw. We saw more and more men teetering drunkenly down the streets, and the later it got, the more sinister and hopeless they, and all of Warsaw, seemed to be. At one point, Dietrich stepped out to check for vacancies at a hotel and was accosted by one of these gray men on his way back. He returned shaken and listless.

At last, we decided we should leave the town, traveling north, back toward Treblinka. I'm not sure of the distance, but I remember it being a one- or two-hour drive. I dozed. Dietrich and Hans Peter took turns at the wheel.

We arrived at the dark and wooded entrance to what once had been the camp, wiggled our 11 bodies around for what comfort we could, and went to sleep there in the van.

---

We awoke to the crowing of a rooster. Dietrich, more than six feet tall, had gotten out of the car at some point during the night to sleep more comfortably on the ground. The park-like grounds included, thank goodness, a decent public toilet where we washed up, attempting to guess at what our chances might be of finding an open store or restaurant on Easter Monday, almost as sacred as Easter Sunday in many European countries. So far, we'd been incredibly lucky about our meals and provisions, but traveling with little children made us wary anyway. This morning, in the middle of a remote and strange place after a terrible night adrift in Warsaw, the doubt was visible on all our faces.

As I walked back to the car alone, I was shocked to see a strange man, and then remembered him to be the groundskeeper. He was as suprised to see me, and understood that there must have been some sort of trouble. Standing as if poised to run for bandages or tools, vodka or friends, he exclaimed something in Polish. In my excitement, I called upon every Polish word I could think of: "Chleb! Maswo! Woda!!" ("Bread! Butter! Water!!") He understood. He ran back to the house. Less than a minute later, he was back, lugging a large wire basket full of brown eggs. He came toward me, stopped, took in my open mouth and hands, re-evaluated the lovely -- but raw -- eggs, and ran back to his house again. By this time, the others had joined me, and when the groundskeeper returned, he motioned for us all to follow him.

Less than ten minutes later, all of us were crowded around a large table, surrounded by the groundskeeper's smiling family. His wife was serving us generous portions of eggs, sausage, jam, butter and bread. Someone in the house could speak in broken German, so Dietrich followed his calling as gracious translator.

After meal we helped to clear the table, and seasoned travelers that we were, we neatly and happily assumed the gender roles of our hosts. The women gathered in the kitchen to clean and attempt at chatting, while the men remained around the table sipping cognac, making similar jolly attempts at conversation.

We parted at the door with waves and smiles and multi-lingual goodbyes, then went over to the van to begin the day's discoverings. Perhaps we were not off course after all.

Treblinka III
The Teacher

The rest of the day was filled with the sense of gratitude and peace. So when the oddly shiny red car appeared at the park grounds, we were just happily curious about who might have such a piece of Western equipment so far away from capitalism and packaged groceries.

Betty and I were sitting with the children in a grassy field while the other adults had gone back through the camp. We all sensed there might be one other thing that had brought us back here. The children had invented a new game. We sat around an imaginary campfire and fed it small sticks while we warmed and rubbed our hands, contentedly exclaiming, "Ahh!". A well groomed man and woman got out of the car and watched us for a few minutes.

Finally the man walked quickly over to us and asked us who we were and what we were doing here. He looked surprisingly desperate, and a little confused. I remember we told them a little about our journey and our nationalities, but not in great detail. That we were there, and that we were Jews and Germans together, seemed more than enough. He explained, "I am a teacher in West Germany. I teach history, the history of the Holocaust.

"I have seen every film, every documentary, there is. Over and over, I have stared at films and photographs of the mountains of bodies, the skeleton faces. After awhile, you get used to it.

"These last weeks," (the same weeks we'd been on our Tour), "a new documentary has been televised throughout West Germany, called Shoah. (That's the Hebrew word for Holocaust). Most of the people in the film were living near, or had at one time been in, Treblinka.

"It's not the same as the other films... there are no pictures of bodies... only people speaking honestly and plainly, perhaps more honestly than they intended to...

"and I realized I had become numb. I had stopped feeling what had happened. Now I remembered all over again the horror and the hopelessness, and I had to come out to Treblinka.

"And here, I drive up to this terrible place, feeling so lost, feeling as if nothing has changed, nothing will ever change... and what do I see? Children! Children, playing and laughing.

"For the first time ever, I feel hope."

Potsdam (I think)
The Long Distance Phonecall
We had arranged to make a weekly phonecall home to America, and tonight in the hotel we dialed the operator to arrange the call. We were already experienced with the long wait-times, so it was a matter of routine to "pray the call through". We sat in a circle, held hands, and asked for a speedy and clear connection. When we were done, I went downstairs to wait for the operator's return call since it was my turn that particular week.

Two men were hunched at the hotel front desk, smoking cigarettes and talking. They asked me what I wanted and I replied that I was waiting for my call to come through. They burst out laughing.

"You want to call America, you can wait 3 days to 2 weeks!" they snickered, eyeing each other knowingly. Then the phone rang, which surprised them so badly their cigarettes fell out of their mouths.

It was for me.