"I know that I will always be oppressed
I know that I will always live again"
-From a poem by an 11 year old boy sent to Auschwitz, seen at the Jewish quarters in Prague
Over the course of this trip thus far, I have found that is impossible to visit Germany and the Czech Republic and not be heavily affected by the tragedies that occurred in these regions during WWII and after. Standing in places like Berlin, Leipzig, and Prague has meant standing on a piece of history because of the way these cities were both scarred by Nazi rule and have rebuilt around it. This history is extremely relevant to us as musicians because, as we have found out, Nazi censorship really impacted music and musical artifacts. For example, today we visited the Lobkowicz mansion, where many important original manuscripts are housed such as Beethoven's Eroica symphony and the original parts from his 5th symphony, and learned that these artifacts were confiscated not once but twice. I shutter to think of what might have happened to these priceless pieces of history had they not been miraculously returned when Prague fell under new leadership. However, while the ways in which WWII affected music are of great importance, I believe it is even more critical that we pay attention to what happened so we can not only honor the innocent people who lost their lives but also learn how to stop tragedies like this from happening again.
Today I had the most powerful experience on the trip thus far when Lyndi and I decided to visit the Jewish quarters in Prague, an area that was once used as a ghetto during WWII where Jews were sent before being shipped to concentration camps. The area has now been turned into a museum that both commemorates the many lives lost but also educates visitors on various aspects of the Jewish religion. Immediately upon entering the museum, Lyndi and I found ourselves in a snowy graveyard, full of simple and very crowded stones in various states of decay. This was a very stark difference from the Disneyland-esque area of Prague we had just left. It felt very troubling to realize that the brightly colored shops we had had so much fun visiting hours before were mere blocks away from a place where a huge tragedy occurred not even that long ago. Each of the stones seemed so anonymous, both because they were practically falling on top of one another and because no marker of who they belonged to was really visible in their crumbling state. It was impossible to really take in the vast number of stones on a relatively small portion of land.
The crowded, makeshift graveyard was even more upsetting after I read about traditional Jewish burial procedures in one of the synagogue turned museum. I never knew how many different important pieces go into a Jewish funeral, from one's last words to the shroud one is buried in (which must be simple so the poor are indistinguishable from the rich, a very beautiful idea). It made me incredibly sad when I realized how many Jewish people were denied the proper burial that is such an important element of their faith. In fact, the people buried in that crowded graveyard could be consider lucky when you consider how many were dumped into mass graves after dying in concentration camps.
The final stop for us that day was the Pinkas Synagogue. This synagogue featured the names of each Czech Jew killed during the holocaust, which amounts to thousands upon thousands of names painted in tiny black and red script on plain white walls. The names were so small that they almost looked like part of a larger design from far away. Only upon closer examination could you really read each separate word and, even then, it would take you hours to read them all. Seeing all the names was by far the most overwhelming experience of all. It struck me that each of those names on the wall was not just another number in a large death toll but a person, with a life that was ripped away from them because of their faith and heritage. And these names comprised only a fraction of the Jewish people killed during the Holocaust overall. I then overheard another visitor speaking to his group a few feet away from me. He said to them, "Just pick one name on the wall to remember." This seemed like such a beautiful sentiment. To one person visiting the museum, it would be impossible to really honor each of those thousands of names. However, if each visitor to the synagogue just memorized one name on that wall, each one of those people who lost their lives would become less anonymous and cease to just be another number in an overwhelming statistic. Before I left, I picked a name and repeated it over and over again in my head until I knew that, even if no one else remembered this single individual who lost their life, I would at least always be able to recall her name and age. I understand that it is impossible to grasp the true magnitude of the holocaust and the suffering it caused. However, in this small way, I felt like I could memorialize at least one victim by making them just a little bit more than just a name amongst thousands on a wall.
Anna Bringová, 1901-1942
-Megan Cummings
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