History of Sorts

Every day, I pass by this rail track. Just two lines, heading towards a horizon, an unknown destination. I often wonder about the people who were put on the trains toward what may have been their final destination—heading East on a journey of hate.

Hundreds of people, men, women of all ages, often pregnant women, children and babies, all cramped together, Just one bucket as a toilet. In the summer, some would die because of the heat. In the winter, some would die because of the freezing cold. The corpses were left there among the living while the journey of hate continued. During the day, there would be just a slight amount of sunlight seeping through, and then during the night, there was only darkness amplified by the sounds around them, The cries, the coughs, the sounds of people throwing up, the sounds of death, chaos, and confusion.

Millions took that journey East, sometimes also west. They were put on the trains by those who hated them. Not because they had harmed those who hated them. Because they were Jewish, Homosexual, Roma, or anyone else the Nazis deemed unworthy of living.

Not everyone was murdered upon arrival. There was a selection process, and those who were young and healthy enough were selected for slave work or experiments. The rest were sent to the showers, where they were gassed.

Other trains went to labor camps; these may not have had gas chambers, but death would still be the ultimate destiny. Not everyone died, but the memories of these journeys of hate would stay with them for the remainder of their lives. Some still live with the memories and a sense of guilt. They ask themselves, “Why did I survive?” To them, I would say, “You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. It was a bunch of criminals who murdered the ones you loved, and nothing you would have done or said would have changed that.”

As your journey goes on, your only concern is to honor the memory of those taken from you. We share the memories and stories with the younger generations so that they can retell the stories—over and over again. Again, you have no blame for the evil acts of criminals, the complacency of your neighbors, or the silence of your friends.

The rail tracks I walk past each day remind me of those journeys of hate, only because that hate has never disappeared. Maybe someday, there will be journeys of hate on those rail tracks again.