Pale figures stumbled on in the grim darkness. In a distance the silhouette of the last train carriages, vaguely visible in the dim light of the distant moon, sometimes bright and clear and then vanishing behind the broken clouds, almost like the old worn blankets with many a torn hole.

In the early snow, deep footsteps criss-cross the bleak austere landscape inside the high-wired fences. Guards keep on shouting and driving the frightened new arrivals with the butts of their rifles. Hardly a word was spoken. The icy wind leaves no motivation on anyone to talk. Occasionally stark faces looked at the sky, where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morning was beginning to spread behind the dark bank of clouds. 

A man stumbled over a big stone and ended up on his knees in a murky puddle of melted snow and those following him fell on top of him. The guard rushed over and used his whip on them all. Thus, thoughts were interrupted for a few minutes. They all will most probably end up in the left row of faceless victims, destined for the morbid chambers of no return.

It was autumn of 1942 in the south of Poland.

I am standing on the uneven sleepers in the middle of the dividing train tracks, just inside the tower gate of Birkenau. It is a winter’s day in February. No other tourists, only Tomaz, who fetched me in the early morning hours at the Saski Hotel in Krakow. While looking at the single train carriage, almost in desolation, Tomaz points at the arched gateway in a distance:

My grandfather (dziadek), who had been employed by Schindler in his factory in the Stare Podgórze region of Krakow during the German invasion of Poland, also arrived at Birkenau by the train of final fate. He was accused of being involved in resistance activities against the Reich during the latter part of the war.

A shy bleak sun breaks through thin clouds and slow rising mist. The wooden watch towers, spaced at distances like chess pieces on a playing board, cast long pale shadows over the fresh snow of the previous night. And at the rail track junction a single withered rose tells a story of saluting the brave at heart, those who never gave in, those whose strength to survive overcame their fears to die.

Picking up the rose, Tomaz continues to share his story of how the will to live and survive, even under the most inhumane circumstances, became the dividing line between life and death in the camp.

Dziadek told me of the power of brotherhood and the caring for somebody else’s survival. Those who survived became brothers in fate, cutting out the horror of the holocaust and focussing on their inherent strength to survive just yet another day.

And all of a sudden a thought transfixes me. I realise this truth as is set in song by numerous poets, seen as true wisdom by many a philosopher. The truth, where love is, is the ultimate highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasp the true meaning of this reality: why the real meaning of all this suffering does not lie in the millions of deceased victims, but rather in the many stories of real faith to live and eagerness to survive.
 

As Frankl, Tomaz’s grandfather, who also survived Auschwitz, tells his story of a man’s search for meaning. He was such an extraordinary old and wise man. He taught me to nurture friendships, to appreciate relationships, to live life every day to its fullest, as if it is the last day of your life.

There are many evidences of the horror and suffering on exhibit: stacks of suitcases with names and piles of empty Zyklon-B canisters, thousands of spectacles and woven pieces of material made of human hair; the death wall and crematorium – all to remind one of the atrocities of genocide during the years of Polish occupation.

What is to give light must endure burning.

But much stronger with a very particular message, are the many stories of human strength and the dedicated will to survive. The double row of tall poplar trees, lining the gravel streets between the barrack buildings, is to me symbol of the spirit of survival and life, despite the tangible presence of death hanging in the air. Although it seems now, in the cold of winter, as if they all have died, the energy is saved, and soon life will again re-appear during the nearing summer.

As early this morning in Birkenau, again the late afternoon sun sketches some long shadows of the chairs on the snow palette of the square. And again, as this morning on the tracks, a single withered rose was left on one of the metal chairs, next to the unused rail track, commemorating the point of departure of the train to Birkenau.

- Johann Beukes