Living amongst an uncomfortable past.

by Alexandra Cox (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

‘Arbeit macht frei,’ work sets you free, is neatly drawn across the top of an arched entrance in faded black and white paint, the yellowing of years does nothing to dilute the pain of the tragedy, very recent and very real. The atrocities inflicted by humans are perhaps the most difficult to comprehend. The sharp sting of leather on bare, icy skin, the grinding, gnawing pain of hunger, the sweltering, rising, choking fear… We took a short train through the idyllic Czech countryside to a small town Terezín, nestled between flat, luscious farm land and the bustling capital of Prague. A small red topped farm house sat in the distance, flanked by rows of skeletal trees crowned in crimson. The gentle breeze, just audible through the trees was the only sound, but instead of peaceful the air felt heavy with apprehension and a noticeable eeriness. Terezín is an old military base, famous for its role as the concentration camp used to deceive the Red Cross during the Second World War. A monumental operation of trickery by the Nazis successfully quietened suspicious from the rest of the world, but unlike its more notorious neighbours Auschwitz and Birkenau, it is routinely left off of Czech guide books and travel blogs. Old stone fortifications greet us as we walk along exposed rail track to the camp, the crumbling limestone rock marked sharp line divisions, the point of which looks ironically like a star. We entered through a russet bricked archway, highlighted in black and white stripes which revealed a large star monument and hundreds of 12-inch headstones. Despite the warmth of the day, a chill ran along my spine and goosebumps tingled my arms. ‘These are some of the few burials on this site,’ explained Petr our guide. ‘Most of the people that passed through here weren’t buried, some were cremated but remember, cremation is strictly against Jewish religion’. We pass through the fortifications towards the tunnels, a sleepy looking guide sits slumped in a plastic chair that surely looks like it may cave under his weight. He doesn’t acknowledge us. The air here is thick and close, a musty smell of damp hangs amongst the cold atmosphere. It’s hard to imagine want went on down here. We emerge from the darkness of the tunnels into the maze of brightly coloured buildings. Petr turns sharply on his heel and looks at us. ‘Be careful of the locals,’ he warns, ‘they hate tourists.’ His tone is jovial but his face is serious. ‘Who lives here?’ I ask rather incredulously. ‘There’s two types of people,’ explains Petr. ‘Elderly people who never wanted to leave and have returned to their homes and people who basically have no where else to go'... he trails off. 'No one really wants to live here.' I blink again at the pastel coloured houses, paint peeling with wear, bright canary yellow, lime green and rose pink. It’s impossible to distinguish between which one is a museum, old sleeping quarters and which one houses a poor family of four. Petr points at a grey stone building with barred windows, ‘That used to be the children’s block’, he states. ‘I think they build kitchens in there now…’ Sounds of life suddenly emerge, the tinny bass of a boom box style radio plays as some children shout excitedly on the edge of the square, a car rumbles past, the tires crunching under the cobbled streets. A large pink building stands out from the rest of the square, it’s edging freshly painted. ‘That’s a mental health hospital,’ Petr explains. We duck underneath the black framed windows and an inaudible shout of a man from inside pierces through the air. A sign reading 'Otvíráme Brzy' advertises the opening of a new Pizza restaurant, its character feature utilising the old cellars and tunnels… Amongst the moving preservation of artwork, letters and stories from those enslaved here, there is life continuing anew. Terezín is more than its uncomfortable past, the present has a story to tell too.