On Being Invisible

Sometimes I feel invisible. 

No, not sometimes. Most of the time I feel invisible. And much of the time, that’s OK.

Being invisible certainly has its drawbacks. Invisible people, and I count myself among them, are usually overlooked or ignored, whether by design or for some other reason. People tend to talk over us or ignore us. Simply put, invisible people aren’t listened to. Our opinions, our thoughts, really don’t matter. Obviously others recognize our existence, at least on some level. But they still overlook us. They often overlook our contributions. I also am a very forgettable person whom others tend not to remember. Over time, being overlooked can make people feel 'less than' or insignificant.

I often feel invisible. I have written this blog, posting regularly, for many years. Yet I have only a small handful of followers. People seldom post comments about my posts. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. But the truth is, I enjoy writing, and it provides a wonderful means of expressing myself. 

I have always been a quiet person who is never the most popular person around. I’m also a shy introvert, so going to parties and making small talk make me very uncomfortable. I am invisible because others around me are so much more outgoing and talkative. I’m also invisible because I live alone, and I like it that way. I don’t seek out other people. And being a short person contributes to my invisibility.

And although I have written this blog for several years, and I share a lot of my travel photos with others, I’m still pretty much invisible. I guess part of the problem is that I’m not at all good at self-promotion, and I have never been good at promoting myself.

Others I know are frequently recognized for their photographs, while I rarely enter any sort of competition. I have tried in the past, but after being rejected time after time, I gave up. I recently left an online photo group after watching others be praised for what I consider mediocre photographs. Why should I waste my time and get my hopes up? It's just easier to remain invisible.

Never Forget

On this day, January 27, 1945, troops of the Soviet Union liberated the death camps at Auschwitz and Auschwitz Birkenau in Poland.

Today, International Holocaust Remembrance Day, marks the 78th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by the First Ukrainian Front. While Auschwitz and its more than 40 subcamps are by far the best known of the Nazi concentration camps, we must not forget that there were in fact some 27 main concentration camps with more than 1,100 attached satellite camps. 

Not all of the more than 6 million Jews who were murdered by the Nazis died in camps. That total is a 'mere' 2.3 million. But it is the deaths in concentration camps that most people think about when they hear about the Holocaust.' In the early stages of the mass murders, Jews were rounded up and shot on the edge of deep pits they had been forced to dig. But Nazi officials decided that technique was too stressful for the executioners. So they developed mobile killing facilities that used the exhaust from vehicles to murder people. Then they switched to the use of Zyclon B, a pesticide.

Entrance to Auschwitz I. 

Of the 1.3 million people sent to Auschwitz, some 1.1 million were killed or died of starvation or disease. Some 900,000 of those murdered were Jewish.

Several years ago I, along with a group of 10 Americans and one Canadian, visited Berlin and Oswiecim, Poland, to learn about the roots and history of the Holocaust. 

After a few days in Berlin, we traveled to Poland, where we spent several days delving into the history of the camps, getting in-depth tours, and going behind the scenes to talk with archivists and conservators who work to preserve everything left behind when the camps were liberated. 

Some surviving barracks at Birkenau.

We spent an entire afternoon with a local Polish guide touring the original camp, and another full afternoon walking the much larger Birkenau camp. The scope of this camp left us all stunned and silent as we tried to imagine the horrors and suffering that took place there. A gloomy and rainy day only added to the somber nature of our visit. 

I have read dozens of books about the Holocaust, among them works by some who survived the horrors of the camps. I visited both of the main camps very briefly a few years ago. But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of life and death at Auschwitz. Even then, because Auschwitz has been preserved as a museum, the true horror of the camps is evident only in the imagination.

We did a service project at the original camp that consisted of raking leaves and reviewing English-language displays for damage and for correct word usage and punctuation, as they had been translated from Polish. These tasks, while mundane, made me feel that I was in some small way atoning for what others had done. Knowing that I have some German ancestry made me wonder whether any of my relatives took part in the atrocities. My paternal great-grandparents had immigrated to the US before the war, but I wonder whether I have other, distant relatives who were there.

Entrance to Auschwitz-Birkenau camp

This was without a doubt the most moving, impactful and emotionally and physically draining trip I have taken. The one question that remained unanswered was "Why?" Why did this happen? Why did most of the German people turn a blind eye to the atrocities taking place in their name? 

Now, more than 80 years after the start of the war, those questions, despite years of study, still have no answers.

Our group leader asked us one evening during our daily reflection and discussion about what we had seen and experienced that day, what would we do with the information and experiences of this trip once we returned home.

Writing about my experiences in this blog, which I did previously and now again on this sad anniversary, and sharing a few of the many images I gathered, is my attempt to encourage others to never forget.

I also took this image during some free time at the main camp. The photo is quite simple: a single strand of barbed wire. A brick wall with a light fixture and a sign with a number on it. Four simple elements. The focus in on the strand of wire, which is why the background is deliberately out of focus but still recognizable.

This image of a single strand of barbed wire (there were others above and below it) is part of a fence within the original Auschwitz concentration camp. The brick wall is part of Block 23, a former Polish army barracks converted, along with many others, to become a prison. Block 23 was one of several buildings that held Soviet prisoners of war. The vast majority of these prisoners died of starvation or disease.

This photograph tells a story despite its stark simplicity. Its four elements tell a story of imprisonment and cruelty and death. 

"A picture is worth a thousand words" goes an old adage. I think this image is worth a lot more than 1,000 words. It speaks to torture, cruelty, imprisonment, starvation, death on a mass scale, hatred, inhumanity, sadism, and so many more of man's basest actions.

Being so deeply immersed in the story of the Holocaust on several levels was overwhelming. We struggled to put our thoughts and our feelings into words. Saying that it was a 'great trip' somehow seems inappropriate. It was intense. It was overwhelming. It was mind boggling. And yet, what we saw is, in reality, a whitewashed version of the enormity and depth of the horrors that confronted millions of people. My mind struggled to comprehend the atrocities that took place in the camps we visited. I didn't shed a lot of tears, but what I saw and heard kept me awake at night. Even as we raked leaves and picked up trash, we were reminded of prisoners forced to work outside in all kinds of weather. We, someone pointed out, were dressed properly. We had suitable shoes and gloves. And if we got thirsty, we could take a break for a drink of water. I am saddened that this trip is no longer offered by Road Scholar, as understanding the origins and consequences of the Holocaust is crucial if we are to avoid repeating this horror.

The memories of this trip will remain with me, and with each of us who took part in the trip, forever. We were not there as Christians or Jews. We were there as humans trying to understand one of the darkest periods in recent history.

All of us who shared this trip are joined by a common experience. Our backgrounds and our family histories are different. But I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we will never be the same after this experience. 

Who Wore the Red Shoes?

During my second visit to the main Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland, I saw, heard and experienced many disturbing things.

I walked through the cold, dark 'Death Barracks' where female prisoners deemed too ill to work were warehoused until executed in a gas chamber. I saw the field where the ashes of countless people remain buried after their bodies were burned outside when the crematorium broke. I saw the cell where prisoners were kept until they starved to death. I walked past the building where heinous experiments were carried out on Jewish women. I entered one of the gas chambers and walked past the ovens. 

Glass-fronted display rooms housed all sorts of brushes, suitcases, eyeglasses, pots and pans, artificial limbs, even human hair. But of all these macabre items, it was the shoes that had the greatest impact on me this time, as a couple of years previously. Yes, the shoes. Ordinary, everyday shoes in the styles of the 1940s.

Why the shoes? I wondered. But think about it. Aside from the eyeglasses, shoes are perhaps the most personal of the items taken from the prisoners, nearly all of them Jewish. Their clothes were laundered and sent to Germany for use by the wartime civilian population. Most shoes were sent to Germany as well. But some shoes remained in the camp, perhaps at the end of the war when the Nazis realized they were losing the war and were running out of time. Some shoes were given to prisoners, but without regard to size or practicality. Some received two left shoes, for example. Most prisoners were forced to wear wooden clogs.

When Auschwitz was liberated by Soviet soldiers on Jan. 27, 1945, the camp held some 43,000 pairs of shoes. Let that sink in. More than 43,000 pairs of shoes, each pair representing a human life. There are shoes of all sizes, all kinds and all styles. 

Most are brown. Most are well worn. But among the thousands of brown shoes on display, I spotted two red shoes, of different styles. Their color made them stand out from the rest. And so I began to wonder, Who was the person who once wore these shoes? Where did she live? What was her name, her story? How old was she? Did she perish immediately, or did she die later of starvation or disease? Did she die along with other members of her family? These are questions whose answers will never be known.

Despite never being able to know anything about the wearer of these red shoes, I feel a certain connection to her. In my mind, I see her as young, or at least young at heart, fun-loving, perhaps somewhat bold, and certainly full of life. 

Few physical items are more personal than the shoes people wore. Shoes take on the shape of the feet that wear them every day. They are chosen by the people who wear them, whether for comfort, style or color. Each of these 43,000 pairs of shoes, and uncounted millions of other shoes, once were worn by people imprisoned and doomed to death because of who they were. It doesn't matter whether the people were Polish political prisoners, Roma, Soviet prisoners of war, Jews or homosexuals. All were rounded up, stripped of possessions and their identities, and murdered simply because one group of evil people decided they must die.

Piles of shoes in Auschwitz and other death camps served several purposes. They were a reminder to the Nazis of the success of their ongoing efforts to cleanse the Nazi empire of anyone and everyone not 'Aryan' enough. They provided shoes for German civilians. And they served as reminders to those still imprisoned that they, too, would soon join those whose shoes were part of a huge pile of items taken from people who no longer needed them.

I don't plan to return to Auschwitz again, having visited the camps twice, the second time on an extended exploration and learning experience. But I don't think I ever will forget the red shoes and wonder about the person who once wore them.

One Simple Photograph. A Million Untold Stories

What do you see when you look at this image?

There isn't much to see, is there? This simple photo shows a single strand of barbed wire. A brick wall with a light fixture and a sign with a number on it. Four simple elements. The focus in on the strand of wire, which is why the background is deliberately out of focus but still discernible.

I generally photograph landscapes and wildlife, things of beauty. I seldom write a post focused on a single photograph, especially one that isn't breathtaking in its beauty. People enjoy looking at gorgeous scenery and impressive wild animals. Barbed wire? Not so much.

But I wanted to share this image taken during a recent trip to Poland. This single strand of barbed wire (there were others above and below it) is part of a fence within the original Auschwitz concentration camp. The brick wall is part of Block 23, a former Polish army barracks converted, along with many others, to become a prison. Block 23 was one of several buildings that held Soviet prisoners of war. The vast majority of these prisoners died of starvation or disease.

I like this photograph for its stark simplicity. Its four elements tell a story, of imprisonment and cruelty and death. Is there any doubt about the story the image tells nearly 80 years after the end of the war? 

"A picture is worth a thousand words" goes an old adage. I think this image is worth a lot more than 1,000 words. It speaks to torture, cruelty, imprisonment, starvation, death on a mass scale, hatred, inhumanity, sadism, and so many more of man's basest actions.

I took more than 1,500 images during my time at both the Auschwitz main camp and at the nearby, and much larger, Auschwitz-Birkenau camp. I think this photo is one of the handful that really represents the horror of the Nazi effort to exterminate those they considered to be undesirable and sub-human.

I would love to hear your thoughts.

The Machinery of Mass Murder

This post initially appeared in September 2019. I have updated it and am reposting it in light of the rise of anti-semitic attacks in the United States.

The thoughts expressed in this piece have their origin in an intense 12-day trip to Berlin and Oswiecim, Poland.

You say you've never heard of Oswiecim? Perhaps you know it better by its German name of Auschwitz. I went with 11 other people on a tour to learn about the origins of the so-called 'final solution to the Jewish question,' and to see and learn about the places where mass crimes against humanity took place. The trip was developed by Road Scholar and led by a German political scientist who has spent years educating people about the Holocaust and the conditions that gave rise to it. 

I have struggled to find the right words to describe this trip. As a writer, I love finding just the right words to express myself. I enjoy manipulating language to convey the proper feelings. But this is different. It's quite difficult. And I think it will continue to be impossible to find the right words to adequately describe the experience and the reality. Several of us in the group talked about struggling to find the right words. This trip was intense. It was surreal. it was impossible to understand the why and the how. 

Despite the impossibility of finding the right words, and knowing that only those who have spent time at Auschwitz will understand, here are some of my thoughts. I jotted down some thoughts each evening after dinner as I tried to retain the experiences while they were still fresh. With so much information thrown at us, and so many surreal experiences, it was difficult to process everything. So I took a few notes.

Each aspect of this trip showed us just a tiny fraction of what the more than 1 million people who were killed in Auschwitz went through. It also showed us a bit about the life of the large Jewish population in Germany and Poland before the war. 

This was a physically and emotionally exhausting trip. Days were sometimes 12 hours long. There was a lot of walking and a lot of standing. Our trip began in Berlin, where we spent 2- 1/2 days visiting a variety of sites and memorials. We visited the Brandenburg Gate and the

Reichstag, and we saw some of the many 'stumbling stones', brass squares engraved with the name, date of deportation and, if known, date of death, of Jews who lived in a given house and subsequently were sent to death by the Nazis. 
 
We saw the main Berlin synagogue that was seriously damaged during Nazi attacks in November 1938, as well as other buildings that played a prominent role in Berlin Jewish life before the war. Sadly, the synagogue must still be protected by two police officers to safeguard it from vandalism.

We visited the memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe, as well as memorials to homosexuals and to the Roma and Sinti (Gypsies) who fell victims to the Nazis. One of the most touching places I visited was the Wannsee conference center where 15 members of the Third Reich got together one day in January 1942 on the shores of the lake to decide how to implement their so-called final solution. They put in place concrete plans to rid Europe of all Jews, as well as homosexuals, those with physical or mental disabilities, and the Roma (Gypsies). After that they enjoyed a hearty breakfast while gazing over the lake.

We spent time in private exploration of the Topography of Terror museum, built on the site of the former Gestapo and SS headquarters. But the place that touched me most was track 17, the train track in Berlin from which Jews were shipped off to Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen and other concentration camps. The tracks are no longer used, of course, but the short section that remains is marked on both sides with metal plaques indicating the date, the number of

Jews deported that day and to which camp they were shipped from Berlin. Perhaps most unsettling of all was hearing trains at the nearby, still functioning train station. Trains leaving from track 17 carried some 50,000 German Jews to their deaths.

Leaving Berlin, we took an 8-hour bus ride to the Polish town of Oswiecim, infamous for its most well known landmark, the Auschwitz concentration camp. One morning, we toured the old city of Oswiecim on foot. This city of some 40,000 inhabitants once was home to a thriving Jewish population. Today, not one person of the Jewish faith lives there. Most were exterminated during the war. Survivors, understandably, don’t want to live there. The only remaining synagogue is used only for special occasions by Jews from nearby towns. 
 
Our lodging was a former Carmelite monastery now known as the Center for Dialogue and Prayer. The rooms were simple and small, but comfortable. Meals were served family style, and consisted of typical Polish food, usually soup, cabbage salad, potatoes and pork or chicken. It was plain and simple food, yet as I ate, I recalled the watery soup fed to the prisoners in the camp and their near-starvation diet. 

The lodgings provided a wonderful respite from the emotional stresses of our time in Oswiecim. Staying in a fancy hotel would have been so inappropriate. Even the center's name encouraged us to engage in discussions and to reflect on what we saw and experienced each day. And at the end of an emotionally and sometimes physically exhausting day, I looked forward to returning to my room, a hot shower and some solitude. Our lodging wasn't totally devoid of comfort, however, as we could get a bottle of Coke, a latte, ice cream or a candy bar.

On the first full day in Poland, I went for a walk around the monastery grounds at 6:30 a.m.

The outside temperature was 43°F, and the sky was foggy. The weather seemed to reflect the somber nature of our visit. Somehow, a bright and sunny morning just wouldn't have seemed right. As I was enjoying the early morning solitude and fresh air, I heard a train whistle, a sound that this morning gave me chills as I thought of those innocent souls who were brought to their death on trains. And as I walked in the chill and fog, dressed warmly in a long sleeve shirt, long pants and a down jacket, my thoughts turned to those who endured freezing cold winters in Auschwitz without benefit of warm clothes or shoes, and who returned from 12 hours of back-breaking work to unheated barracks.

Several mornings after breakfast, we walked to the main Auschwitz camp for a morning of work or study. The walk was less than a mile each direction, but I think it gave each of us some very tiny experience of what the prisoners must have endured as they walked and ran every where. I felt that walking made me feel more like a participant in the entire experience rather than as a mere observer. Some days, we walked back to the camp after lunch. Walking was for me a meaningful part of the experience. Rather than arriving in a bus as most visitors did, we walked across some of the railroad tracks and saw some of the many buildings that still stand as stark, cold reminders of the Nazi horrors.

The appearance of the main camp, with its tidy brick buildings, is deceiving. It looks like a small village, with streets neatly laid out. The reality, of course, is far more sinister. Auschwitz is anything but a neat Polish village. The famous sign at the main gate, with its proclamation that "Arbeit Macht Frei" (Work will make you free), was a chilling introduction to the camp, marking the place where countless people walked to their deaths. We passed the spot where the prisoner orchestra played as new arrivals entered the camp, and where the bodies of those who were killed while trying to escape were displayed as a warning to others. 

We had a 4-hour, in-depth tour of the original camp, Auschwitz 1, led by a Polish guide who provided an amazing wealth of information. Auschwitz is a state museum, and it feels like a museum. It covers 49 acres. Despite the atrocities that took place there, I don't feel that I got a real sense of the horrors and reality of life and death in Auschwitz 1. Yes, I saw displays filled with eyeglasses, suitcases, shoes, brushes and even human hair. For some reason, the collection of thousands of shoes got to me, as it did the first time I visited Auschwitz a few years ago. My eyes were drawn to the two red shoes in the case among thousands of brown shoes. People -- now brutally murdered -- once wore these shoes. The human connection was very real. But I felt detached from the realities of this place whose name will always be synonymous with cruelty, torture and death on a mass scale.

I saw the basement 'standing cells' where prisoners were forced to stand up. There were four standing cells at Auschwitz in the basement of Block (Building) 11, each of which measured about 1 square yard. Four prisoners were crammed into each tiny space that forced them to stand, with only a 2-inch opening for air. I also saw the starvation cell, where prisoners were held without food until they died. Block 11, with its narrow corridors and dark cells in the basement, truly was a house of horrors. Another tidy brick building was the scene of horrific experiments on woman, most of them Jewish. I saw displays of empty cans that once held pellets of Zyklon B, the pesticide used in the mass killings in gas chambers. I saw a display of the gray pellets themselves. Auschwitz 1 also housed SS headquarters. The camp initially held Polish political prisoners and Soviet military prisoners, part of the Nazi plan to exterminate Slavs, whom they viewed as sub-human. Later it and its sister camp, Auschwitz-Birkenau, held primarily Jewish prisoners.

Despite knowing about and seeing these horror chambers and exhibits, I feel that the camp on the outside seems too neat and tidy. It's hard for my mind to imagine the torture, the starvation, the cruelty and the mass murder that took place there. At the back of the camp, just beyond the electric fencing and several guard towers, stands the house once occupied by Rudolf Hoess, the commandant of Auschwitz who was hanged for his crimes. It is occupied to this day, complete with a satellite dish on the side of the house. I cannot imagine how anyone can bear to live there.

During the trip, I certainly was struck by the immensity of the suffering and death, but strangely, I didn't have a strong emotional response. I was very tired, yes, both physically and emotionally, and overwhelmed, but I was surprised by my muted reaction to what I saw, experienced and learned.   


Perhaps one reason for my lack of a visceral response was due to the fact that the brick barracks are not what most people envision when they think of concentration camps. The first time I visited Auschwitz, I expected to see the wooden barracks shown in many documentaries about Auschwitz. This, in part, made it difficult to imagine and comprehend the true horrors of this camp. The double electric fences and numerous guard towers, however, did give an idea of the true nature of the camp. Perhaps the human brain simply has trouble comprehending such cruelty and death on an unprecedented scale.

Seeing the rooms in the brick buildings (known as blocks) crowded with wooden bunk beds gave a pretty good idea of the awful conditions in which prisoners were kept. Some groups of tourists were noisy, chatting away and laughing. The group I was with, however, was silent and solemn as we toured the various buildings and learned of the horrors they had held.

The following day our Polish guide led us on a 4-1/2 hour tour of Auschwitz 2 Birkenau, the huge expansion camp about 2 miles away from the original. This camp covers 423 acres and has 360 barracks, 60 of them brick and the remainder made of wood. It had four crematoria and could house 92,000 prisoners.

Standing outside the main gate, looking at the tracks where the trains entered the camp, I tried to imagine how frightened and exhausted the new arrivals must have felt. They had no way of knowing what lay ahead. Perhaps that was a good thing. But of course, my imagination fell far short of their reality.

We first viewed the camp from the big guard tower at the main gate, gazing down on the massive prison. We then stood near a train car, frozen on the tracks with the doors closed. I looked at long rows of barbed wire, electric fences and countless brick buildings destroyed by the fleeing Nazis attempting to cover up their crimes. We walked the route prisoners took as they went either to the gas chambers or to barracks where they would be worked or starved to death. We walked most of the acreage and visited sites most visitors don't see, including a lush, green field of grass that holds the ashes of countless bodies cremated outside when the nearby crematorium V stopped working. This camp truly was a house of horrors on a massive scale. The overcast skies, and eventual rain and falling darkness, only added to my sense of foreboding.

One building holds displays of photographs prisoners had with them when they were 'processed' and sent to their deaths. Some show smiling couples, families, children and individuals. They were ordinary people condemned to death simply because they were deemed different, inferior, sub-human.

The final stop at Birkenau was known as the death barrack, for the two buildings housed women deemed unfit by the SS for further work. These women awaited death in the gas chambers without food, water or medical care, perhaps for several days. When the barrack was full, additional prisoners were kept outside in a locked yard. There is no electricity in these buildings, so it was nearly impossible to see the crowded barrack and stacked wooden bunks in the falling darkness. Some visitors used light from their cell phones to provide the only illumination. The building has a stove, but there was no wood with which to provide heat during the cold, cold winters.

The next day we returned to Auschwitz I. My group spent about an hour one day and 90 minutes the following day raking leaves and sweeping a small portion of Auschwitz 1. These very mundane and seemingly small tasks were our little contribution to maintaining the grounds at this very special place. It also, I think, enhanced our understanding of what it was like to live here. But we had proper clothing. We all had shoes that were appropriate and that fit. We had no concerns about being beaten or shot if we didn’t work quickly enough or hard enough. And unlike the prisoners, we were able to leave and return to our lodgings for a good lunch. Everyone in our group pitched in to help others. We took pride in our simple work. And we were happy to contribute in some very small way to the museum.

I think each of us felt this personal contribution to the museum. My back was sore after the first day of sweeping and raking, but my discomfort was nothing when compared with the suffering of the prisoners. Physical labor, something most of us weren't used to, put things into a new perspective. We also spent time on other days checking portable displays for signs of damage or wear and tear, and inspecting permanent exhibits for spelling or grammatical errors in the text that had been translated from Polish into English.

In the evenings, we had a debriefing session to ask questions, present our thoughts about what we saw that day, and respond to questions from our German leader. His questions were thought-provoking, to say the least.

We also got to hear from a member of the archive staff who showed us some of the documents (letters and Nazi forms) both original and photocopied produced during the war. The Nazis were consummate record keepers, a task carried out by slave labor under the direction of the Nazi overlords. But only those prisoners not sent directly to the gas chambers were registered, so no record remains for the vast majority of those who passed through the gates of Auschwitz and Birkenau. 

We got to see a special exhibit of art produced at great risk by prisoners and by survivors, as well as getting a tour of the facilities where work is ongoing to preserve the thousands of artifacts from the camp. Everything from baskets to some 3,500 leather suitcases

to toothbrushes and enamelware are being carefully preserved. Sitting next to a box of toothbrushes that once belonged to prisoners, and realizing the very personal nature of these items, was chilling.

We had a couple of hours of free time on the last day, to revisit exhibits, take photographs or just be present among the ghosts of  Auschwitz. I took advantage of the nice weather to wander the camp one last time, taking photographs that I hoped would capture the horrors of this evil place. This also gave me a chance to be alone with my thoughts. The people in my group are wonderful

The wall where the SS shot prisoners.

people, but sometimes I needed to be alone.

Auschwitz is so much more than just a stop on a tour of Poland, or a day trip from nearby Krakow. The first time I was there a few years ago, I visited both Auschwitz 1 and Auschwitz 2 Birkenau in a single day. There was so much I didn’t get to see and experience. 

Auschwitz is so much more than simply a a collection of buildings, guard towers, electric fences and mass killing facilities. It deserves to be visited with enough time to truly understand its horrors. What members of my group struggled with, and that still remains unanswered, is how this could happen.

This trip was very physically tiring due to the long days, lots of walking (more than 7 miles a couple of days), as well as the emotional and intellectual toll it took. But as one member of the group noted, our feelings of hunger, our sense of feeling tired or sore or cold, are nothing. 
   
As I prepared to leave Auschwitz 1 for the last time, after spending many hours there, I paid a final visit to the crematorium. There were few people inside, so I was able to offer a final, quiet tribute to the victims of the Nazi killing machine. I wanted to say something to the ghosts of all those murdered by the supposed superior race, to let them know that they have not been forgotten. But all I could whisper was "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The crematorium and gas chamber at Auschwitz I.

Savoring the Old Ways

Sometimes the old ways are the best.

Younger folks might disagree, and claim that my old-school ways are too outdated. But I don't care.

I recently decided to make some beef stew. Although I seldom eat red meat, the cloudy and cold day made me yearn for some hearty beef stew. I gathered a few ingredients, and then I realized that I should probably refer to a recipe to make sure I did everything correctly and didn't forget anything important.

There is a limitless number of beef stew recipes online, but I reached for my old, tattered and stained Betty Crocker cookbook, something I have had for close to 50 years. A previous dog ripped the spine, but the contents are still in one piece.

There is something comforting in referring to an old standby rather than following a recipe on my tablet, although it's a lot easier to read on the tablet. My eyes aren't what they used to be, but I muddled through reading the smaller font in the book. 

The book is like an old friend, familiar and comforting. The tablet is more like a newer, younger friend. Both are valuable, but for different reasons. Whichever recipe I follow will be seasoned with my experience and preferences. The recipe is like a roadmap to my destination. Although I might take a different route to get there, the destination is the same.

I don't remember who gave me the Betty Crocker cookbook so many years ago. It may have been a wedding gift from someone long forgotten, as is the marriage.

Regardless, it brings me comfort and warmth on a very cold and windy winter day.

So Much Hate

 A recent post on the NextDoor community app left me shaking my head in sadness.

A woman posted about the success her organization (the country Democratic party) in collecting diapers, baby wipes, toys and formula for infants and toddlers waiting at the US border with Mexico.

That simple statement about a group of people doing something good to help innocent children really brought out the haters. One woman in particular kept ranting about how 'her' party (apparently she is a Democrat, although what she said certainly is not representative of what that political party stands for) should be doing something for the residents of her state rather than helping 'illegals.' 

I really wanted to ask her to explain how infants can be considered illegals and criminals, another term she and others used in the discussion (that's my polite word). What exactly did these infants do to make them 'criminals'?

I agree that America's immigration policies are in need or urgent and comprehensive reform. We cannot continue to take in millions of people seeking a better way of life. I'm not talking about those with legitimate claims of threats to their lives. I'm talking about the majority of those trying to get into the US for economic reasons, because of poverty in their own countries. There must be a means of allowing legal immigration in a way that is both humane and fair.

But railing against the infants whose parents are waiting at the border and calling them 'criminals' is not the answer. My guess is that those protesting the loudest are really upset that the would-be immigrants aren't white and they don't speak English. And I would also guess that these nasty people consider themselves to be good Christians, perhaps even evangelicals and white nationalists. 

Here's a bit of information these people choose to ignore: Jesus Christ was not an American. He was not white. He likely had black hair, dark skin and brown eyes. His native language was most likely a Galilean dialect of Aramaic, not English. He may have spoken some Hebrew, Latin and Greek, but certainly not English.

I personally experienced backlash against my decision to adopt an 11-year-old girl from Russia (back before adoption of Russian children by Americans was banned by the Russian government). A couple of people wondered (and one actually asked my beautiful daughter) why I hadn't adopted a child from the US. A Facebook post about an American family that adopted a girl from China with Down syndrome also asked why the family hadn't adopted an American (i.e., white) child. Maybe it's because girls in China are considered second-class citizens not worthy of saving, and because a child with a disability are even less worthy of life. Or maybe, just maybe, this little girl's family fell in love with her and wanted to give her a far better life. 

I am appalled by the vitriol and hatred I read this morning in the NextDoor thread. Can we not simply celebrate the help obtained for little children, or if not able to celebrate, at least keep our mouths shut? 

For my part, I'm going to make a donation to World Central Kitchen to help feed the innocent victims of Putin's war on Ukraine. Yes, I know there is significant hunger in my state. And I donate to a couple of organizations that help feed the hungry locally. But right now, the people of Ukraine need help, and lots of it. 

And as my, and many other,  mothers used to say: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

Up Before the Sun

As part of preparing for the new year, I decided to embrace the fact that I nearly always wake up very early (5 a.m. or earlier).

Rather than grumbling about it, I decided to get up and start my day despite the early hour, the cold and the darkness. I decided to get up and do something either enjoyable or productive, and sometimes both.

This morning I am working on slowly decluttering my kitchen and my office. How far I will get remains to be seen, but at least it's a start. I'm also spending time reading, something I have loved to do since I was a child. And of course, early morning is a perfect time to do some writing while enjoying a cup of hot tea.

So far, on day 3 of this experiment, I am enjoying the change. And once the sun rises early in the morning during spring and summer, I will be able to get out for an early morning walk should I feel like getting a jumpstart on my day's exercise.

Being an early riser helps when I go on safari, as we always leave camp before sunrise so we can be in the field when the animals start to become active. Non-predators wake up to begin their day, while lions return from a night of hunting to sleep in a secluded spot.

New Mexico provides some glorious sunrises over the mountains, so being up before the sun gives me the opportunity to see and photograph some of Mother Nature's handiwork.

Throughout much of my professional career I started work early (7:30 a.m.), so in order to fit in a 1-mile walk with my dogs and a 3-mile run, plus time to shower and get ready for work, I got up at 4:30 on weekday mornings. I also have have suffered from insomnia for many years. 

So I think circumstances aligned to cause me to continue to be an early riser, despite being retired for more than 12 years. And it doesn't matter what time I go to bed. I still wake up very early.

What I have noticed is that I feel more relaxed later in the day after an early start. I like knowing that I already have been productive, regardless of what else comes my way. Or perhaps I'm not relaxed, but simply tired. 

Whatever the reason, so far I am liking this change of attitude toward early mornings. 

The Book of My Life

You know the saying, Today is the first day of the rest of your life?

It's true, you know. Today is January 1, the beginning of a new year. 

Each of us has been given a very special gift -- a new year, a new book if you will, with 365 blank pages in 12 chapters. As a writer and as a photographer, I know that some days the words just don't come. Some days, the inspiration simply doesn't show up. And that's OK. The important thing is to fill the pages of our unique books with special people, things, events and experiences.

Obviously not every day will be filled with noteworthy things. But we have the capacity to make each day special. After all, this book we are writing is just for ourselves, not for anybody else to read. It will become a record of 365 days of our lives, 365 days that once gone, cannot be relived or recaptured.

I naturally wake up very early every morning. So I have decided that rather than bemoaning that fact, I will get up and do something productive. After my dogs were fed and let outside for their first potty break of the day, I started writing this post. I prepared some food for later today (and a couple of days later). I replied to an e-mail I received from a young man in Ethiopia who was a big help to me during my visit to that country a few years ago. I am currently enjoying a hot cup of tea.

Each of us has a unique story to tell. We get only one blank page every day. I want to fill the 2023 edition of my book with lots of things that are significant in my life. I don't want to waste even a single page. I am at an age where I am acutely aware that the clock is running out on my life. So I don't want to waste any time on frivolous or annoying people or things. I want to focus on things and people who bring me joy.

 What story will you write in your book? What story will you read on Dec. 31, 2023?

Oh, How I Hope

Nobody knows for sure whether animals have souls.

Nobody knows whether we who love our animal companions will in fact be reunited with them after we die.

There is no proof that the Rainbow Bridge actually exists. It is based on a couple of poems written in the 1980s. Doesn't it make sense that a love as pure as that given by our animal friends won't end with the death of an animal's body?

But many believe that this special bridge is where grieving people and their beloved animal companions are reunited, cross the bridge together and are together forever. This mythical bridge connects heaven and earth. It is a place where the old, infirm and ill animals are made whole again. Blind dogs and cats can see once again. The lame can run and play. The abused are healed. If an animal died without being part of a human family, there is an abundance of rescuers who will reunite with the animals they helped to save. Body and spirit are healed.

Believing in the Rainbow Bridge is a source of comfort for many humans who mourn the loss of a beloved animal companion. It gives us hope that saying goodbye to our animals is merely a temporary separation, and that we will be reunited again. It helps in some small way to ease the pain and make it just a bit more bearable. 

Many humans mourn the loss of a beloved dog, cat, horse, rabbit or other animal just as much as some people mourn the loss of a human, and sometimes more deeply. There is nothing wrong with that. Animals can be wonderful sources of love and companionship, without the judgment that sometimes accompanies human relationships. Animal love is pure.

Believing in the Rainbow Bridge requires a leap of faith that this unknown and ultimately unprovable thing is in fact real. But religion is in large part also based on a leap of faith that the god or gods are real. No one has proven that heaven and hell exist, but billions of people believe they do. The same is true of the Rainbow Bridge. Religious authorities are divided about the question of whether animals have souls. Those of us who love animals believe there is no doubt they do. The Jains definitely believe that animals have souls.

Pope Paul VI was said to have once told a distraught boy whose dog had died: “One day, we will see our animals again in the eternity of Christ. Paradise is open to all of God's creatures."  Pope Francis has seemed to suggest that there is a place in heaven for animals: “Holy Scripture teaches us that the fulfillment of this wonderful design [an afterlife] also affects everything around us.”

So yes, I hope that the Rainbow Bridge is real. I have adopted 13 dogs over the course of my life. What a joyous reunion it will be to see all of them rushing toward me when I arrive at the Bridge.