Catherine Astolfo's Blog
August 29, 2024
Bantry and Relations: Auntie Beers' Ireland
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We head back From Skibbereen on a different routethis time. Not as much traffic. The day is glorious, blue and sunny. The hillsare a beautiful green patchwork. Here and there we glimpse the simmering watersof the ocean.
We return to Bantry and do atour of the gardens at Bantry House, located on the bay just outside the town. Originally called Blackrock, Bantry House and Garden is a stately home overlooking Bantry Bay in the south west of Ireland. Constructed in 1710, the House was purchased by the White family around 1739. The Whites were merchants from Limerick who moved to Whiddy Island before relocating to Bantry. At first there were about 80,000 acres around the manor terraces. Richard White and his wife Mary developed fabulous gardens, including steps and a fountain at the back of the house, a fountain and tons of azaleas and rhodendendron.? The house was opened to the public in 1946.
The house and gardens in 1895. The conservatory no longer exists.Palm trees at Bantry House.
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The canon at Bantry House overlooking the bay.Not our picture, but sure does show off the gardens.
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We decide to head into the town to look around more butthere is absolutely no parking. We drive through Ballylickey along the road toGlengarriff. The vistas are indescribable. Hopefully our pictures will do itjustice. (Too bad I can't find them!!)
We return to the hotel forrelaxation in the stunningly beautiful gardens.
Eventually I get in touch withAgnes¡¯s daughter Donna. Then Agnes herself. She sounds nervous about meetingus. She offers to come to the Sea View after work, as she¡¯s working at Quill¡¯sWoollens in Glengarriff tomorrow. She tells me that Kathleen¡¯s brother Tommylives in Cork. Too bad we hadn¡¯t known. It sounds as though Agnes has verylittle knowledge of the family. Tommy might¡¯ve known more.
We have another stupendous meal,drink tea inn our rooms, and settle in for the night.
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August 17, 2024
Auntie Beers' Ireland: The Genealogy Bug
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We go to the lounge about 5:30and sit by the fire. We have beer and wine. We meet Dominic the bartender. Wealso meet a resident from England who¡¯s been here for a week. She says theweather will turn fine tomorrow because they are leaving. She also says thefood here is 'haute cuisine.' It turns out she is right on both counts.
?The service is phenomenal and thefood is exquisite. The wine is great too.
?After dinner, we sit in thelounge again, this time with coffee. Kathleen O¡¯Sullivan comes by and tells a group of women about our accident. They all chat away very solicitously.?
Mum goes to bed. She has been bitten by the genealogy bug. Before we left for our trip, she said she wasn't interested in looking up any relatives. But there is something about setting foot on the land of your ancestors. You feel the connections in your DNA. We plan to do some searching tomorrow.
In the meantime, as it has now stopped raining completely, Vince and I take ashort walk. We look out over the inlet and breathe in the lovely darkening night.
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The next morning is beautiful and sunny. We havebreakfast and head out to see Bantry. We walk through the town, buy post cardsand other touristy things. It¡¯s very busy! Mum's desire to find relatives ramps up because nearly every business is owned by an O'Sullivan or a Sullivan.?
Bantry, according to folklore, was named after a sixth-century saint Breandan the Navigator. In the12th Century, the O'Sullivans arrived to overtake the Bantry Bay area. Donal O'Sullivan Beare (we have an O'Sullivan Beare in our family tree) built a Franciscan friary in Bantry, though nothing remains of this structure. The famine of the 1800's was catastrophic for Bantry.? The fisheries, a mainstay of the economy, were almost exhausted, and the woolen mill closed down. (In Auntie Beers, Pulling the Wool and The Well are both stories based on my grandmother's experiences with wool.)?
The Gulf Stream warms up the climate around Bantry Bay, so even cabbage palms can survive. There are also seals, whales and dolphins in the nearby sea waters.?Mum and I, strolling through the Bantry Market, 1998. Nowadays, it's much larger: "A treasure trove of stalls offering everything from organic fruit & veg, food, home baking, cheese, fish, meats, olives, eggs, honey, preserves, plants, local crafts, pet supplies, bric-¨¢-brac to collectibles. Bantry Market is the largest market in Cork county and it occupies the central town square, spilling out into the adjoining roads and car parks."
Downtown Bantry. Mum's parents spent their childhoods in Bantry. There were, at that time, two farms inhabited by relatives on the Cotter (maternal) side and the O'Sullivans. Unfortunately, we didn't know where they were in 1998.
Mum wants to visit every business in Bantry owned by an O'Sullivan. The residents smile indulgently but deny any relation.
Our room with a view at, of course, the Sea View.
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August 8, 2024
Auntie Beers' Ireland: Seaview House
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July 1998
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Just as we¡¯re nearing the signsfor Bantry (about 2-3 kms out), someone in front of us stops suddenly to pullinto an ESSO station. The car directly in front also stops. We stop. The twocars behind us, don¡¯t. Smash, into the back of our car! We are angry, butmostly unhurt, although our necks are stiff. Mum seems to be okay.
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As our journey continues, so does the rain. Even harder,joined by wind and fog.?
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We pass straight through Bantryand into Ballylickey where we find the Sea View House hotel. It is absolutelygorgeous. Mum¡¯s room is The Garden Suite and ours is #307.
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We overlook thebeautiful gardens and can see the inlet of Bantry Bay and the hills in thedistance.
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Torrents of rain lash against ourwindows. We sit and read. Relax and listen to the news as the winds and rainswirl around us. Despite the ambience of the hotel, we are very dispirited.?
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When the proprietor, Kathleen O¡¯Sullivan, hears about our accident, she sendstea and coffee and cookies in beautiful silver pots to our rooms. She lets usknow that dinner is at 7:30.
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Our spirits lift immensely! (Of course the pictures were taken during much better weather.)
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August 7, 2024
Auntie Beers' Ireland
Writing my book about a fictional ancestor involved some truth, too. My trips to Ireland helped inform the story. On one of those trips, in 1998, my husband and I brought my mother along. She was 76 years old but could keep up with us and outdo us every time at the pub. I wrote a journal about the trip. I'm going to put excerpts up here, along with images, most of which are yanked from the internet, since my pictures unfortunately have been lost.?
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July 22, 1998: We head down theroad toward Bantry, through lots of little villages. The scenery is lovely,green and expansive. The driving is harrowing with vine covered walls on eachside of the narrow and winding roads. The homes are brightly coloured andresemble painting and post cards. Unfortunately, the rain continues.
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January 1, 2021
Monkey
After my little cat gets her diagnosis of acute kidney failure, with no real answer about why the disease progressed so rapidly, I question my ability to see what¡¯s in front of me. Had there been clues that I missed? Was I not paying enough attention?
Her real name was Raven but when she was a kitten, she made a sound like a monkey and she climbed trees like one too, so she was Monkey and sometimes Miss Monk, depending on her attitude. She had begun to follow me around a bit more than usual. Always at my side, curled in her little nest, as I sat by the computer. At my feet. Back and forth from the front door to the back door to look outside. Her behaviour was perhaps a bit different, but not enough for me to wonder about her health. In winter, she always pouted, because she loved the sun. Perhaps I ignored those first signs because I put it down to winter blahs? In winter she also slept at our feet or on my pillow and that didn¡¯t change. Again, I ask myself, was I not paying enough attention?
I know everyone is like this. Questioning. Doubting themselves and their abilities to catch the signals. I¡¯ve heard the questions from my family and friends after a loss much worse than losing a pet. Should we have paid more attention to that cough? Why didn¡¯t I notice the bags under those eyes? How could I not know that suicide was ever considered an option? Why didn¡¯t we ask Dr. Google about that back pain?
We find it difficult to believe that we are unable to stop the inevitable. To change the course of someone¡¯s history. To control what will happen. To deny or conquer death. To make time stand still.
I watch in admiration and, at moments something bordering on exasperation, while my cat fights to assert her wishes despite a failing body. As she flops over, weak and in pain, then gets up again. Lifts her proud head. Walks slowly and unsteadily forward. Falls and gets up and does it all over again. I want her to stay in my arms, but even now, she¡¯s not a cuddly cat. Everything happens on her terms. It seems she is determined to do so right to the end. She howls at us in pain. She sneaks down the stairs in the middle of the night and I stumble around in the dark looking for her. Thanks to my grandson, who finds her on the cold floor, I go down and pull her to me. This time she is too weak to protest. I cuddle her in our bed, skin to fur, warming her. She purrs. Comforts herself and comforts me. We sleep.
I think of my cousin throughout this ordeal. How she did all these things with her son. Her baby. I wonder how she found the strength. As I force water into Monkey or nearly choke her with a pain medication, I wonder if I could be as strong with my child. I pray I will never have to test that. My friend recently nursed her husband through his last, messy, awful dying. To me, it was the greatest expression of love and courage. Again, I am not sure I am brave or selfless or loving enough to manage it. Maybe. Maybe Monkey has taught me I can if I ever have to. (Please, universe, I want not to have to.)
However, going through a death is also a gift. One that hurts but one that makes us appreciate life. Makes us pay attention. I know we are lucky, and so is our little cat, that hers was so quick, progressed so fast from fine to dying. We talked to Monkey constantly. Vince and I reminded her of all the fun we had in our sixteen years together. We asked her to say hello to all our other fur babies who have gone over the rainbow bridge.
When we take her to the end of life appointment, we are suffused with grief and tears, but grateful we can be at her side. What of all those poor people who have had to die this year, alone and unaccompanied? We know this is a privilege and we are appreciative of these last moments. With the first shot, the tranquilizer, Monkey curls up beside my hand. Her face looks different. Ah, this is what I felt like before the pain and illness. Her serene look, I believe in my soul, reflects peace and acceptance. We lean over her, tell her we love her. With the last injection, she is completely still, but that look remains. We spend time after she is gone, enjoying the last feel of her soft warmth.
Many people seem to choose a moment of aloneness to complete their dying. Often it¡¯s a matter of bad timing. For instance, I didn¡¯t make it in time to be at my mother¡¯s side. I always regretted taking the time to brush my teeth before I went to her. In the Islamic faith, family members wash the body, place the hands in prayer, and cover their loved one with a sheet before burial. Jewish rites include washing the body, tearing garments or wearing black ribbons, staying with the body until burial. We did the same thing in our old Irish traditions, wrapping the body in a shroud, staying and warding away evil spirits until the beloved could be buried. In the Irish case, we also partied hard while we guarded. I never considered the idea of washing the body to be a ritual I could embrace. Now, however, I can see its benefits. Still not sure I could do it.
I recall one of the times when I study my great-grandson's head. He's in profile and doesn't notice my scrutiny. Clutches his bottle for comfort, sipping now and then. He watches a lively kids' show, though he's too tired to react. It's a kind of lull; he's relaxing as he lets the cartoon characters do the work. His wispy blond hair, his perfectly shaped ears. The long eyelashes. Little nose and full lips. If he turned this way, his eyes would be big and clever.
I wonder what kind of world we have brought him into. I know he's far better off than many toddlers. He's got a huge circle of people who love him. He's got a roof over his head and food on the table. In the corner there's a testament to his luck: he's got a tower of toys. I know he's smart and empathetic and kind and energetic. He's got his challenges having parents who don't live together. But they are smart, too, and share custody and talk constantly about what's best for him. Not them. Him.
Having attended an event where Jane Goodall spoke to a rapt audience for two hours, I am hyper-aware. I am paying attention, the way I did to my great grandson.
I think of attending Jane Goodall's appearance at the Sanderson Centre in our hometown, Brantford. In particular, her response to the question, "What's the next big adventure you are looking forward to?"
She answers, "Death."
The audience gasps, chuckles a little, surprised. Embarrassed?
"I have witnessed too much to not believe in an afterlife." I paraphrase, but her message is clear. Jane believes there is a great adventure awaiting all of us after we die. We go on to something else, something completely different, a spectacular new life.?
I agree with her. But I want to focus on this life. This present.?
As I write this, Vince listens to the Eagles on TV, so I hear:
There's a hole in the world tonight
There's a cloud of fear and sorrow
There's a hole in the world tonight
Don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow.?
As 2020 mercifully comes to a close, I wish for all of us to wash away its fear and death. Lift our heads, burdened with sorrow but facing hope. My belief is that 2021 will get better as it goes. Start off very low, but the highs will be enormous. Can we take the lessons of the pandemic and improve life for others? Can we clean up the mess we have made of the earth? Yes. Judging by the miracles of science in this past year, yes, we can do this. A tiny virus made us sit up and pay attention. Focus.?
I plan to finish reading ¡°Ten Lessons for a Pandemic World¡± and reread ¡°A Life on Our Planet¡± and ¡°Homo Deus.¡± Read ¡°Peace and Good Order.¡± Figure out how I can contribute, even in a tiny way. For now, that might simply be staying home, washing my hands, wearing my mask, staying away from people I love to hug.??
There are holes in this world tonight. The lesson that fear, dying and death has taught me is to pay attention to the holes. Let¡¯s fill them with respect, support, action. Let¡¯s keep loving despite the grief of loss. Appreciate what we had, what we still have. Bug the shit out of our governments to make huge changes in the way they ¡°lead.¡± To quote Yuval Noah Harari, ¡°Is there anything more dangerous than dissatisfied and irresponsible gods who don¡¯t know what they want?¡± (He refers to all of us, but here I target those with the 'power.')
Let¡¯s get rid of them. Shift the power. Force a different kind of economy in which everyone has equal opportunity. In which those who suffer from any sort of roadblock, mental or physical, systemic or individual brackets, are given dignity and assistance. In which people are not allowed to accumulate wealth beyond their ability to spend it in a thousand years. Greed, that slot machine of reward and false promise, must be wrestled out of our civilization.
Let us choose a humanist revolution. One in which we foster collectiveness. Encourage science to shepherd the planet back to health. Again, from Yuval, let's embrace the idea that we redefine human happiness as knowing the truth about ourselves. Not what we want, but what we need, what we all need. What, for our health and joy, we should want to want. We evolved in tiny communities where we shared everything. We can return to that concept. To survive, and survive well, we need to choose the right paths.
As the Anishinaabe legend of the Seven Fires tells us, if we choose the right road, we can ¡°light the eighth and final fire of peace, love, brotherhood and sisterhood.¡±
First we have to pay attention. Be conscious and take notice. Guide our world by learning and knowing what to pay attention to. The environment. Racism. Inequality.?
Think. Learn. Act.
Come on 2021, light that fire.
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May 11, 2018
May Eleventh: Dear Dad
May 11 has rolled around 38 times since you abruptly left for the other dimension. I know you've been watching.
We've sent you some pretty special people to spend time with. One of your daughters, our mom - your wife, all your siblings and in-laws, some nephews and nieces, lots of friends. Sadly, some grands, too. In the last twelve months, we've sent you Dave, David, Linda and Kevin. Hug them for us. We're bruised and raw from their losses here in this world. We sent you some friends, too, whom you might not have known before - Dave, Patrick, Leo and Adam. Take care of all of them for us.
Isn't your family spectacular? Aren't you amazed by how it has expanded? You're a great-great! You're still Papa and you continue to smile from your pictures. We tell stories about you to the grands.
We've had our ups and downs, as you know. Heartbreak and mistakes and fights. But the joys and the good times far outstrip the bad. Our family is strong. We love each other unconditionally. We stay in touch not only with each other but our extended family too. We celebrate. We mourn. We have each other's back. We can be a rock or a chocolate mess or a loud-mouthed drunk and know we will still be loved.
There are cuddles and kisses, sometimes a pinch or a push. We're loud and talkative and you must wonder if we listen. But we do!
Aren't you proud of the accomplishments? It would be impossible to list all the ways in which your family has made and continues to make a difference in the world. As you know, it's a huge network of influence and positive impact. We work hard! And we party hard in your footsteps.
We tell corny jokes, too, just as you did. I'm sure you love that every year we stage the Easter Hunt with as many family members as we can gather. The little ones have such a great time! One of your granddaughters has now become the Master Bunny. The tradition lives on.
Very soon we'll add two more babies to the family! How wonderful Christmas 2018 will be!
Thank you, to you and Mom, for starting all of this. In the whole scheme of things, we are incredibly lucky and grateful. See you on the other side - though I hope it's many more years before we send you anyone else.
Love, Your Eldest Daughter, Cathy
March 15, 2018
Introducing Laurence St. John: YA Author!
??????????? Terror on the East Coast - Two Million Dead!
??? TOLEDO, OHIO, March 15, 2018 ¨C Yesterday, more than two million people were killed, including the President of the United States.
??? The death toll is the worst in the history of America and the world.
??? This tragic day will be known forevermore as ¡°The Day of Annihilation.¡±
??? The CIA has the sole person responsible for the killing of millions and millions of innocent people in custody.
??? His name is Tyler Thompson ¨C? a moral person turned evil. The question foremost on everyone¡¯s mind is, why did he orchestrate this horrific act of terror and how did he pull it off?
?This headline is fake news ¨C or is it?
??? In his new release, METATRON: DAGGER OF MORTALITY, science fiction/fantasy author Laurence St. John creates an uplifting and inspiring fiction novel that ¡°sustains constant action as 15-year-old Tyler struggles to stop the relentless animosity of a demonic figure and his accomplice! Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward,¡± said Piers Anthony, New York Times bestselling fantasy Author of the Xanth series.
??? St. John, who hails from just south of Toledo, Ohio, quickly grabs the reader¡¯s attention then poses the ultimate question: Can superheroes really be killed?
??? Who is this Black Shadow character and who does he want to get revenge from?
??? Tyler must execute the most grueling choice of his life ¨C save himself, save his beloved girlfriend Kendall or save millions of helpless people and hinder Kelltie¡¯s plan.
??? In this, his highly anticipated third action-adventure, St. John keeps readers turning the pages up to the last adrenaline-filled moment when Tyler¡¯s fate is determined.
??? The story is set in New York, Nevada, and Massachusetts, where the action-packed adventure opens your mind¡¯s eye, conveying the sensation that you¡¯re watching a movie.
??? Metatron: Dagger of Mortality is a novel made for the silver screen ¨D action-packed, emotional and a gripping story that will leave you wanting more.
From the back cover:
??? Tyler believes a Superhero¡¯s responsibility is to make the right decision then follow it through to the end. But, what if the outcome results in his death?
? ??? Fourteen-year-old Tyler Thompson has been in isolation for eight months so he could focus on completing his superhero training. Not even one day after his completion, Master Pat Tanaka urgently summoned Tyler. Pat desperately needs his help, but for what?
??? Kelltie is threatening Tyler¡¯s destiny of being a superhero by framing him for what will be the largest mass killings in American history and there¡¯s nothing he can do to stop it. She also teams up with Black Shadow, a ruthless demonic figure with his own agenda ¡ª to use the Dagger of Mortality and kill Metatron.
??? Tyler feeling vulnerable gets inspiration one last time from Master Tanaka¡¯s instructor Master Dogmai. Nevertheless, with the Dagger of Mortality in hand, it¡¯s time for Black Shadow to get his revenge. Tyler must render the most arduous choice of his life. He¡¯ll save himself, save his beloved girlfriend Kendall or save millions of helpless people and hinder Kelltie¡¯s plan.
Can superheroes really die? What choice does Tyler make?
Reviews:
¡°Metatron ¨C Dagger of Mortality, by Laurence St. John sustains constant action as 15-year-old Tyler struggles to stop the relentless animosity of a demonic figure and his accomplice! Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward¡¡±- Piers Anthony, New York Times bestselling fantasy Author of the Xanth Series
¡°Laurence St. John turns up the heat with?Metatron ¨C Dagger of Mortality. This book continues the story of Tyler Thompson and his journey?of discover as he masters his powers in preparation?of a new evil threat. A can¡¯t miss read for middle-grade readers and young adults!¡±
Braxton A. Cosby - Author of the award-winning Star-Crossed Saga Series
¡°Dagger of Mortality¡¯ packs a wallop! St. John blends equal parts superhero and X-Files into a high energy yarn sure to inspire.¡±
Jason Born ¨C Author of The Norseman Chronicles Series
¡°Teens and adults alike will identify with Tyler and his all too human angst as he executes superhero feats in a way only St. John¡¯s hero can accomplish, with many twists and surprising turns of events in this young adult thriller.¡±
Kenna McKinnon ¨C Author of Short Circuit: And Other Geek Stories, Blood Sister, and Den of Dark Angels
* * * *
Metatron: Dagger of Mortality was published by Ogopogo Book an Imprint of Imajin Books and is available in eBook edition at Amazon, Google Play and Kobo. Order your copy today.
It is also available in trade paperback edition at Amazon, Books-A-Million, and Barnes & Noble, as well as other retailers.
Buy here :
Amazon ¨C
* * * *
Laurence St. John is currently working on book four and five in the Metatron Series.
Laurence is also available for interviews/guest appearances.
For book sign dates please see his Facebook page.
For more information please visit:???????
Follow Laurence on Twitter:?
¡°Friend Request¡± Laurence on Facebook:
Imajin Books:
Laurence is a 1983 graduate of Genoa High School, a 1988 Black Belt recipient in Tae Kwon Do and a 2004 graduate of Owens State Community College.
July 30, 2017
Baltic Sea Cruise 2017 - Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp
The chance to explore the historical aspects of World War Two was something I couldn't pass up. Particularly, I have always wanted to visit a concentration camp.
Why? I used to feel strange or ghoulish when I would tell people such a visit was on the top of my "bucket list." Having visited once, I will no longer feel as though I have to apologize. I am proud that I want to remember, that I want to empathize, that I consider the horror and the agony to be too profound to ever forget.
I now feel the same way about my visits to the Mohawk Residential School in my own hometown of Brantford or the museum in Dresden, ON. I won't let myself forget.
I'm not Jewish or black or native or homosexual or poor. I'm the mother of half-black children, I love people of every race, creed, size, colour, sexual orientation and so on. I am the granddaughter of a man who was harassed and fired for his Catholic religious background. I see poverty in my streets.
If you judge the book by the cover, though, you see a well-fed, well-dressed, middle-aged white woman. (If you see me at all, that is¡ªsince I am pretty much the majority in my circles and in an age bracket that's becoming invisible.)
Yet I feel a compulsion to explore others' experiences, to empathize with others, and to share my perspective.? Sometimes to try and "walk in their shoes" in order to deepen the understanding of the characters who live on my page.
Chris is our guide on the way to Oranienburg, where Sachsenhausen awaits. One of the very first concentration camps, Sachsenhausen was also relatively small in comparison to others that were built in Poland and Germany. Deemed a work camp, its primary purpose was to provide free workers and to silence political dissenters. It devolved into a killing machine in several ways as the war progressed.
Our guide, Chris, in the cap.
Chris is charming and speaks English well. He's interested in why the people in our car have chosen to visit a camp. Through learning last names and their origins, he can often discern their motivations: ah, you might have been related to a prisoner; you may have a guard in your ancestry and so the stain of guilt rests upon you. The rest of us have motives like mine.
It's an eerie feeling as we speed through the tunnel of trees. So many movies have shown those cattle cars racing to death surrounded by this very greenery.
?
In Oranienburg, we meet Eva, our local guide. We walk from the station to the camp under hot sun and blue skies, through the lovely little city with its caf¨¦s and people on bicycles. Eva tells us that this march would have been similar to the one the prisoners took. And every day, they would have gone back and forth to the factory, ignored or avoided by the townspeople, who were convinced they were the worst of mankind. Pedophiles, psychopaths, murderers. From most reports, it should have been the guards they feared.
An example of a prominent prisoner was Reverend Martin Niemoller, who survived his imprisonment, and is best known for this poem:
?
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out¡ª
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out¡ª
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out¡ª
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me¡ª
and there was no one left to speak for me.
Once the Nazis began to reveal their true purposes, the Reverend was outspoken and a member of the resistance, which led to his imprisonment.
We enter the gates of Sachsenhausen with a keen awareness that others who walked through here would know they might not walk back out again.
The infamous sign, Work Sets You Free, and the design of the camp became the blueprint for all the others to follow.
The building under which we enter and go through the gate housed the armed guards. Because the camp was laid out in rows within a certain distance from the entry, the guards could shoot anyone from their perch.
Many of the prisoner barracks have been removed, but there are several that have been reconstructed to show how they were forced to live.
Eva explains the Nazis' methodic breaking of the human spirit as she leads us through the barracks. Without proper access to toileting or keeping yourself clean, or making your own decisions, or having any sort of privacy, people were systematically stripped of all dignity. In most cases, the prisoners became too dispirited, weak, and numb to be able to resist any longer.
If you were kept inside
with barbed wire...
If you only saw the
sun through the
bars of your cell...
If you
were deprived of
food and worked
until you fell on
your knees...
If you slept in filthy
uncomfortable
conditions...
If you shared a
wooden bunk
and a thin blanket
with three or more other
dirty, degraded
people...
If you had to toilet
and clean yourself in these rooms
with a hundred or more others...
Would this bed - all by yourself and a blanket of your own -
start to look good? Would the opportunity to toilet and wash
before anyone else entered the room begin to sound enticing? The chance for more and better food?
Would you then become a Nazi pawn? Would you herd your
neighbours and friends and become a gopher for your captors?
If you were a guard, would you swallow the drugs they gave you? The belief that made the prisoners rats to be exterminated?
I can't say for certain what I would do. I hope I'd be strong. All I know for sure is that my admiration for the courage of those who continued to resist despite everything is now boundless.
We look back at the menace of the barracks and the cruel heat of the yard. Here, prisoners were marched back and forth along various ground covers to test military footwear. Experiments with drugs were forced upon them.
Here, prisoners suffered so much abuse that thousands of them died.
Several of the local companies who exploited slave labour or profited from working for the Nazis (in other camps, not just Sachsenhausen) still exist, such as Siemens, Bayer, IBM, BMW, Audi, Daimler-Benz and Hugo Boss.? Most of these companies worked to compensate laborers after the war. For many, that initiative was far too late.
We walk around the long, intimidating wall and are punched, emotionally, in the chest.
Here is the death trench. Here - particularly later in the war - prisoners were lined up and shot and shovelled into the ground. In the beginning were the political dissenters, the resistors, the homosexuals, the disabled, the mentally ill - and later, Romas and Jews.
Inside the building, the ramps lead to ovens where the overworked, starved, or murdered bodies were disposed of.
Here is the place many in our group dissolve into tears.
We walk out of the camp subdued and sad. Yet as we face the sunshine, the bustling little city, and the comfortable bus to Berlin, hope buds inside us. Eva's tour of the facility, this museum of remembrance, helped to change the grief, horror and guilt into determination to do whatever we can to stop evil, even in our own little corners of the world. No kindness or good deed or smile or charitable work is too small. That is the point of this tour, the reason for doing it. To bolster the strength of love and goodness in our world, one visitor at a time.
