Mauthausen

12:49 AM

The night before:

I'm emotional. Unconsciously I keep trying to justify my feelings without just accepting them for what they are. I've experienced minimal trauma in my life but being in Austria has unleashed a new fear that haunts me.

My last name Weiss - pronounced "vice" - is a German and Jewish surname that directly translates to "white" in both German and Yiddish. Back in the states my last name felt rather ambiguous, often mispronounced as "Weese" and labeled as a bit odd - mainly during my years in grade school. I despised this one word for placing me at the end of the alphabet and the bottom of class lists - it made me feel inferior somehow.

Upon arrival in Austria, I saw my surname everywhere. At bars and pubs, I seem to fit into an elite club of so-called "locals." With scharfes S my name is written, Weiß, which depending on context can mean "white" or "know." It is everywhere. Everywhere including death registries from the Holocaust.

Personally, I'd say that I don't know much about my ancestry. I've heard plenty of stories and claims about my ancestor's whereabouts but it's never felt real to me. Seeing my surname etched into plaques inlaid in the cobblestones feels real to me. It's something I can physically touch whereas inconsistent stories hold no weight.

Consequently, I'm left plagued by the hideous phrase, "what if?" I wish I could control my imagination. I wish I had answers but at the same time maybe ignorance will make this experience less painful. Most of all, I wish I knew how to handle these unexpected emotions.

A week later:

I've taken my time processing this experience. It's been a little over a week now. Part of me still doesn't know how to feel or what to think but the best way to start is just to share my experience as best as I can.

I visited Mauthausen, a concentration camp, with my study abroad group on September 22nd, 2021. Prior to departure, my professor for Austria in Europe led a discussion challenging us to distinguish and define perpetrators, collaborators, bystanders, rescuers, and resisters. We found it's easier to define a perpetrator than a resister. Typically, the American history curriculum focuses on defining the characteristics of the "villain" rather than the "hero," thereby causing us to create a more thorough stereotype for villains than heroes. From there we read biographies detailing individual roles in the war and defined what category they would best fit in. Here we discovered that categories are not as clearly defined as we imagine them to be. People are too complex to fit a single category.

I dressed preparing for the worst weather: layered pants, sweaters, socks, rain boots, raincoat, and a winter hat. Mauthausen is located roughly half an hour away from Linz, Austria - 15 miles. The camp is situated on top of a hill overlooking the town of Mauthausen as well as the greater Austrian countryside. The camp stands like a castle on a hill but rather than eliciting hopeful connotations Mauthause exudes an air of melancholy. Due to the quiet, ominous presence of the camp, I struggled to take pictures, especially in the beginning. In no way do I want to showcase Mauthausen as anything other than the location of a disturbing tragedy, but I'm still a documentarian.

Our tour - guided by our very own Professor Wolfgang - started on the edge of the hill overlooking the Danube and town below. Wolfgang established the perimeters of the camp through aerial shots. It's clear through comparison that much of the former camp is no longer, due to the Nazi's attempt to destroy all evidence. The former officer barracks were destroyed and in their place today stands the ticket office and cafe. Vegetation has grown to mask history but the similarities are unmistakable.

We were given a short excerpt detailing a prisoner's account of their arrival at Mauthausen. Our professor wanted to cement in our minds the unusual nature of the Holocaust. Local townspeople were friends with Nazi officers and thought very little about what was happening within the walls of the camp. Life for non-Jews went on as normal whereas Jews - and every other group that was persecuted - were unexpectedly extracted from their homes and sent away with only the clothes on their back, a suitcase, and an extra pair of shoes. Little did they know that all their belongings would be confiscated and sent back to be reclaimed by German Nazi families.

We entered the camp from the back, essentially the eastern edge of the main street. To my left, the buildings were an infirmary, crematorium, jailhouse, kitchen, and laundry. On my right were the courtyard cemeteries that were created after the war as well as the remaining three bunkers. The infirmary was left unfinished, signifying the fact that the camp was still expanding up until the time of liberation. The cemeteries were done quickly after the war with mass graves that hold an estimated 20,000 people.

Delving into the nitty-gritty we entered the crematoriums. An exhibit was laid out detailing the various methods of killing that the Nazis used: hanging, bullets to the head, gas chambers, etc. Most importantly it was clarified that the majority of lives lost within the walls of Mauthausen did not die but were rather killed - there is a huge difference. Their death was a product of their circumstances. They didn't choose to be given small rations, they didn't choose to be overworked, they didn't choose unhealthy living conditions, they didn't choose to be underdressed in sub-zero temperatures, and most importantly they didn't choose to be persecuted. Every person brought to Mauthausen could have lived a long happy life if they were not preyed upon by the Nazis. In turn, Nazi documentation of killings was often falsified, writing "electric fence" under the cause of death to insinuate suicide rather than murder.

Once through the exhibit, we walked through a room with the first cremator. This room also hosted a vast assortment of memorials with pictures, plaques, and flowers. The memorials continued through a few more rooms before coming upon the Room of Names. In the Room of Names, is a room where every prisoner's name is projected onto stone blocks, in giant books, and on electronic tablets that allow you to search a specific name. This is where my curiosity got the best of me. My biggest fear awaited me but I'd rather know than go through life wondering "what if?"

I first searched the electronic tablet where 654 people, 5 biographies, and 5 websites appeared. Then I approached the almighty book and flipped to W. 216 people with the last name Weiss appeared and that doesn't even include variations in spelling. I was shocked, to say the least. I knew the number would be high because it is a common last name in Germany but I didn't expect to see such a high number. I don't know of any family members that were direct victims of the Holocaust, but sharing the same surname feels like a significant connection. To my knowledge, none of my ancestors were Jewish but would my family have been labeled as targets just because of our last name? These are the questions that haunt me.

Once I'd composed myself, ready to take on the next thing I turned around only to find myself uttering alone. My tour group had left me behind and the tour group that had been behind us was long gone. I decided to continue on the guided path and hope to run across my group. Sadly, the next room was the only gas chamber that remained. I'm not superstitious and would never claim to have a sixth sense but standing alone in a former gas chamber used by the Nazis in World War 2 is a truly eery feeling.

I don't mind getting lost but getting lost in a concentration camp, specifically an extermination camp while standing in the crematorium, is deeply disturbing. My mind immediately jumped to the worst scenarios it could conjure. Panic set in. I have a good gauge and control over my anxiety but this moment flipped the switch. I was calm and collected on the outside but internally I had reached a breaking point. The walls were closing in and reality had slipped away.

I remember freezing for a moment while my mind ran through every piece of advice I'd received about getting lost as a child. "Stay where you are, we'll come find you." Should I stay in the gas chamber? Will anyone notice I'm missing? Would anyone even come back for me? Instincts told me to just follow the path and try to catch up but once out of the building the path inlaid in the ground disappeared. I found myself in an alley of sorts. The main wall to my left, a guide tower above me, another crematorium to my right, and a longer alley laid out in front of me. Most significantly there was nobody in sight and the only sound was the whistle of the wind.

My second wave of panic set in. Not only am I lost but I have reached a crossroad and there has still been no sign of life for my mind to anchor onto. I grabbed my phone and sent a text out into the void hoping that one of my friends would have noticed my absence and turned to their phone for a connection. I stayed put, like the lost child I was. I'd never felt so small before. I get choked up just thinking about how lonely I felt at this moment. I felt forgotten at the least and abandoned at the worst.

At the brink of internally collapsing, I made the impulsive decision to enter the next entrance for the crematorium. It was pure instinct that led me through this building. Through every twist and turn, I held onto the thump of my heart and the scuff of my boots as a connection to reality. "There's got to be a way out, they couldn't just be gone," I recall saying to myself for comfort. I walked on unsteady feet, absentmindedly skimming the small informational plaques detailing the process of extermination: holding rooms, freezers, cremators. They all blended together to what I'd now call my worst nightmare come true.

I got lucky. My instincts didn't lead me astray. Once through the maze that is the crematorium I came upon a staircase that led up into the main street where I found my group waiting for me. Nobody came back for me and nobody tried to reach out through text. Logically I understand why none of that happened but mentally I felt exhausted and slightly infuriated at how the experience played out. Apparently, they had done a headcount, realized one was missing, couldn't figure out who was missing but decided to wait.

After a few tears that I tried to hide shamelessly, we continued on our tour entering a residential bunker. Of the 24 bunkers that once stood, only 3 remain today but most left behind an indentation in the soil that not even foliage can conceal. The middle of the bunker houses the washroom with large stone basins that were once filled with ice-cold water. Informational plaques detailed the significance of bathing in concentration camps; bathing consistently was seen as a sign of perseverance whereas those that didn't bathe essentially gave up on the hope of freedom.

Straddling the washroom on both sides were two larger rooms. The first room had holes in the ceiling, indicating that there was formerly a stove. This room housed the upper-class prisoners that oversaw the lower-class prisoners. They were given their own bed, heating and more space with only 5 beds in the room, as well as special privileges such as being allowed to leave camp with some of the officers. Maybe they were close enough with the officers to receive a cigarette which they could then trade in the nearby town for a drink at a bar. The second room housed the mass majority of the inmates where they would sleep sometimes two to a mattress in bunk beds that were crammed tightly into the space. Prisoners slept sparingly and were shot if they didn't make it to morning lineup on time.

We walked on to the last building on the left next to the main entrance. Here prisoners were brought in, ordered to strip off their clothes, and surrender all their belongings. They were then herded down a staircase for disinfection. Shaved by fellow inmates and forced into the shower room they were cleansed. All the while Nazi officers stood by and gave out beatings as deemed fit.

Once outside of the main entrance we came upon the former stomping grounds of the Nazis. Today most of the buildings are gone but the eery stone walkways and staircases remain. Filling the space are large national monuments from each country in Europe. Our professor referred to them as Cold War Monuments because they were done during the Cold War as an act of solidarity rather than in response to the end of WWII. Realistically the monuments are rather ironic. For example, the monument from Hungary shows a group of people holding hands above their heads, and the description translates to "Together we can do anything." In actuality, the Hungarian police had an alliance with the Nazis. They inconspicuously helped extract the Jews from Hungary, yet they also "mourn" the lives lost during the Holocaust.

Along the western ridge, we took in the sweeping countryside. Wolfgang pointed out a seemingly ordinary house that stood nearby. During the war, the woman that lived there was known for writing complaints to the camp. She said something along the lines of "you can kill as many Jews as you want just not in my backyard." It's jarring. People lived so close and observed daily the inhumane acts that were carried out within concentration camps. For this woman though she didn't care what was happening so long as it didn't affect her personally.

Additionally, far below we were able to catch a glimpse of the notorious Stairs of Death. Mauthausen and its satellite camps exceeded all other camps for labor productivity and economic growth mainly due to their rock quarries. The so-called Stairs of Death lead down into the rock quarry where prisoners were forced to mine and then carry the rocks up the 186 stairs. Often times inmates would collapse from fatigue, fall backward, and cause a domino effect.

Further down the main road, we looked down into what appeared to be an ordinary meadow with faint indentations in the landscape. Formerly there was a soccer field along with a sick camp in this meadow. Nazis would form soccer teams at concentration camps and travel to play games. Local townspeople could enter the camp just to watch the game from the seat carved into the hillside. In fact, the head officer who beat up prisoners upon arrival as a test was the goalie for the Mauthausen soccer team.

My experience at Mauthausen was humbling, to say the least. Reality hits us all differently but various experiences in life have taught me humility. History specifically always reminds me to count my blessings and stay grounded. Even the simplest things are often taken for granted. We shall learn from history and never repeat it, for nothing good could ever come from it.