There is always something to remember

One day before the celebrations of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, on just another grey cold day of the usual long German winter, I was accompanying my friend for a walk in the West Berlin. It was the day of the weekly open fair in her area and we wanted to take some fresh air and reconnect with the street vibe, after her long sickness.

An energetic woman, a former survivor as a kid of the forced labour camps in Eastern Europe that succeeded to reach the shores of the then-Palestine before the creation of the state, my friend enjoys talking with the vendors in her impressive German. 

A lively ambiance on the streets, that defides the unpleasant weather, with mostly people in their retired years, curious about prices, ordering some Turkish products for the late lunch or just spending some time outside their homes. This is the usual mood and age spectrum in the conservative, quiet and predictable West Berlin.

We made a stop at the fruits' stand, with many tempting sorts from all over the world and we started to ask about different fruits and their proveniences. (Don't expect any bargaining at  these markets!) Suddenly, a chat between one of the vendors and an old lady starts whose topic I somehow missed, but anyway, it covered the very exciting issue of fruits and their production. Noticeable, it ended with the old lady sniffing with a casual smile on her face: "Hahaha Arbeit macht frei!" Mesmerized, we both stopped from debating how much does it last to bring fruits from South Africa to Berlin and starred in shock at the lady. The vendor kept laughing at her very good joke. 

We exchanged looks and cursed the witched trying to figure out how old was she at the time of the camp or maybe her genealogy too. 

But honestly speaking, all these details didn't matter, the indifferent smile and her self-contained sniffining when she said those words were enough for me, at least. It was just another example of a reality that you cannot touch it if you are in the full admiration of the cheap bubbling life of Berlin as seen from the bar and disco scenery from the English speaking Eastern Berlin.

In the camp

Felix Nussbaum, In the Camp, exhibited at the Deutsches Historisches Museum, Berlin

On 27 January 1945, the dead camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau was liberated, too late after 6 million innocent people were already killed. For many of those killed, it was not the end of the pain and humiliations. Those returning in Poland, for instance, were faced with the cruelty of their neighbours. And not all those looking to go to the eretz Yisroel, were allowed to finally have their home and were sent in (other) internment camps in Cyprus or Atlit where they waited for years. Some died because of the poor conditions in those places.

The Allies were too late, and the free world should never forget that when many of those killed in Auschwitz and the other killing camps erected in the middle of the cultured Europe tried to get a free entrance in America or UK and were refused. The historical and diplomatic evidences from the last years proved that the big powers were aware of what was going on in the camps.

One of those tragic destinies was the family of the painter Felix Nussbaum, entirely killed during Shoah. Originally from the German city of Osnabrueck, his father was a veteran of the World War I and a German patriot. Philipp and Rahel Nussbaum were able to escape to Switzerland but were homesick and returned to Germany where they were shortly sent to death.

Felix Nussbaum studied in Hamburg and was influenced by the works of Van Gogh, Henri Rousseau and Giorgio Chirico. Escaping Germany, he was sent to a camp in St. Cyprien, due to his German citizenship. His painting, In the Camp, is a testimony of those times, but can easily reflect the overall situation of the life in the camps. After the German invaded Belgium, he and his wife were living illegally for a while, before being caught and sent to Auschwitz where he was killed. The same destiny was shared by his niece, brother and sister-in-law.

Every victim has its own tragic story. They also give us, to the lucky ones to be born in a time when we do have a country to defend us, a lesson: that we should not give up and always keep believing. We might not understand the secret design, but we might be aware that every problem and tragedy have hidden the grains of redemption.

May the memory of the victims will be remembered and that of the murderers for ever erased.