The Trip to Dachau

Alistair was furious with himself the moment he realized he'd forgotten to take his sleeping pills. How could he have? They allowed him to push forth the visit to one of the world's more terrible factories. But he hadn't. He'd forgotten. He wrung his hands as the car pulled into the gates of Dachau. Was this really happening? Was he sincerely being showed around a concentration camp while it was in use? He'd visisted Auschwitz with his university class, and the engery of the place had left him astray for days. What would this do to him?

But he forgot about what it would do to him when he entered the camp. And he remembered what it did to them. The people who look like ghosts. He recalled the man who'd said there was no God, there couldn't be. And Alistair agreed. How could a 'God' look down on this without immediately putting an end to it? 

He was led into a side building. There were shutters on the windows, but they weren't pulled down. Alistair shook a lot of hands and heard a lot of names, none of which he could remember. He was briefly explained too that this place was 'necessary' and 'promoted the German dream' and so on. He nodded along. 

He was told to never recount a word of what he'd seen here to people outside the camp. It was necesarry to have the KZ, the man repeated, but some might not understand. Alkstair agreed even though on the inside he firmly disagreed. But what was he supposed to say? To tell them to go fuck themselves? He would have instantly got a striped suit and a number and been sent off to work the camp himself. For the first time he asked himself if he could die in his dreams, and if he did, would he never wake up? Possible; they'd tested him positive on drugs after having consumed them with Hitler himself.

He was torn out of his thoughts by an SS-Officer who shook his hand with a smile of his handsome face. "Officer Hart, a pleasure to meet you comerade!" He clapped the American on the shoulder. "I'll be the one giving you a good look at the camp. So let's get to it." He turned back to his 'comerades' and winked. They rolled their eyes, fed up with him. But secretly every single one of them enjoyed the forty-year-olds company, he was light-hearted, still.

He led Alistair outside. "If you have any questions feel free to ask me. I've been here for a bit, I should be able to answer them."

But Alistair didn't have any. Had this been a tour fifty years later he would have had hundreds. But now, seeing it with his own eyes, stole his hunger for knowlage. Why did he have to see this? Was he that bad a person, that bad a president?

He followed the jackbooted officer through the camp. One window caught his attention. He stopped to look inside. Officer Hart stopped directly behind him, peering over the American's shoulders, almost as if he wanted to see the sight from his perspective. 

The men inside were painting. It was a strange sight to see the uniformed and starved men dip their paintbrushes into paint and cover canvases with words and flowers, with a smiling sun or several blue butterflies. The scenes they painted often held the word 'Dachau' at the top. Propaganda made by the prisoners themselves. The scene etched itself into the Americans mind. And, though he didn't know if this was just his imagination, one of the painters turned to him. His gaping mouth screaming help, the bell-flower he'd painted gasped as well, and then, although the glass had already stopped the outcry from bursting through, one of the SS-men raised his pistol and shot the poor painter. There was no blood on the window. Alistair must have imagined it. He shook his head slightly, afraid he was going to hallucinate again.

He threw a glance over his shoulder back towards the windows. The man he'd seen shot dead a few seconds ago was still there, painting a flower, one of the soldier seemed to be yelling at him. Maybe to use a different color. And the man really did look outside, and his gaze caught that of Alistairs. But his eyes weren't searching for help, his eyes were angy, full of hatred. He looked at the visitor with his blood boiling. How would he know that the American was truely horrified by the scene, especially since the latter walked leisurly and next to one of the SS-officers himself.

They walked through a good part of the camp. The SS-Officer explained some of it too Alistair. But the visuals explained more than the German-language ever could.