Crimes of Inhumanity

1978- Dachau, Germany

I am 23 and traveling through Europe with a friend.  We are in Amsterdam, leaving Anne Franks’ house and I am moved to tears with the injustice of the world and the courage of one young girl. 

“What should we do tomorrow”, my friend asks?

She wants to go to Switzerland to see the beautiful Alps. But now I want to go to Munich to Dachau, the concentration camp.  That is more than my friend can bear so we part company and catch up to each other in a few days.

I board a midnight train and make my way to Munich.  I spend the night reading Anne Franks diaries. By the time I arrive in Munich, I am exhausted and sadden.  My eyes burns and now I am sorry I have wandered off on my own to search out such misery.

I make my way to this beautiful town of Dachau and find a pastry shop.  In conversation with one of the locals, a pleasant woman, about 60 years old, she offers tourist sight for me to see.  “And I hope you haven’t come to see that dreadful camp.  There are so much more beautiful things to see in my country than that.”  I don’t respond because it is just easier for both of us.  But I wonder if she lived here during that time and did she know what was going on?

I find the camp and spend the day in bewilderment. The inhumanity is beyond comprehension.  I cant take it all in.  Nothing makes sense to me and I want to forget this place.  Just then I hear a man call to his wife, “over here, love, come take my photo by the oven.”  He stands perched against one of the crematory ovens, smiling as if this photo just might be his Christmas card photo.  I want to forget this place and he wants to make it a photo opportunity. I leave, angry with him.

1994: Cape Town, South Africa
  I was in Cape Town, South Africa in the early spring of 1994, just a few weeks before the election to end apartheid. There was lots of optimisms and tension in the air. We went to one of the township housing settlements for the blacks. Hundreds of people lived together in very confined areas. Living conditions were deplorable. here is hope that the election of Mandela will bring an end to these deplorable conditions.

As I was standing on the dirt road, a group of kids were playing around me. They were having fun and kicking up dirt. An old man came up to them and yelled at them. He waved his cane at them. They immediately stopped and ran away. 

My guide, a young black woman, asks me, “Do you know what he said to them?” I had no idea. I shook my head no. “He told them to stop kicking up all this dust around you. He said they should be more respectful towards you because you are a white person.”

2005: Viet Nam, The American War Museum

I am in Viet Nam, visiting the American War Museum. The country is celebrating 30 years since the end of this war.  I have always been drawn to this war.  Why were we ever there? What did we hope to accomplish? Would I ever fight in a war? What great atrocity would have to be committed to motivate me to take up arms against another human being?

The last soldiers sent over there would be my age now.  They would be men who have had their children and are now slipping into the role of grandparents.

I notice a photo of an American taken in 1970; he must be my age now, maybe even older.  He is bare chested, smoking a cigarette and he is holding something with one hand, he is grinning, ear-to-ear.  I look closer and he is holding the head and upper torso of a Vietnamese man. The rest of this body been blown away. Our soldier holds this head like a trophy, like a hunter who has just snagged a buck.  Of all the destruction I see today, this photo haunts me the most and I wonder what this man would think of his photo now, 30 years later.

2005- Cambodia- The Killing Fields

The headquarters for the Khmer Rogue is a grade school in Phnom Penh.  Picked with the full intention of making a mockery of the people, their school, a safe haven for children, was the center for torture for intellects.

Even though so much of the torture took place here, I am a little numb to my surrounds as I roam from room to room.  I sort of block it out of my mind, just to cope.  I am still thinking about the photo of the American soldier.

But when we step outside and go to the Killing Fields, I look up and see the monument that reaches to the skies. It is filled with the skulls of hundreds and hundreds of victims, and at that moment, life just becomes too real.  And when I think it can’t get any more gruesome, I look down at my shoes and see splinters of bones protruding from the soil and I feel bombarded with inhumanity. Thousands of people are buried beneath my feet and I am walking on them with no clear understanding of how massive this gravesite is.

2008- Auschwitz, Poland

Jim and I are on a train, making our way to Auschwitz.  “I wonder if this is the actual route they took”, he comments ever so somberly.  “I wonder how much they knew what going in to here. What were they thinking when they pulled up here?” His tone is unusually pensive.

The setting is just as horrible as the concentration camp in Dachau. So the harse reality doesn’t slap me in the face the way it did for Jim. But the exhibit of the solders’ socks made with the hair of the prisoners seems particularly cruel to me.

Jim is very quiet as we all are. We walk around in silence and try to figure out how to even respond to all of this ugliness.  Just then, our silence is broken.   An older couple approaches us.  We are standing by the execution wall where the prisoners had to stand and be shot or watch others as they are executed.  The wall has an ugly history, one of murder, shame and grief.

“Excuse me, would you be so kind?  Would you take a photo of my wife and I in front of the wall?” he asked ever so cheerfully, oblivious to the thoughtlessness of his request.

The thought of cheerfully posing in front of this horrific wall offends me as it does Jim.  He looks at me and I look back at him in disbelief of this disrespectful gesture. 

“No”,  Jim answers, “No, we won’t” and we walk away.

2012- Dachau, Germany

I am in Germany, visiting friends with my 20 year old nephew.  William wants to go to Dachau but he is afraid this interest in this bleak moment of history for Germany will offend my friends.  I assure him that they view this time as a very sad moment as well and they won’t be offended.  So we go off on a cold, wet, windy, snowy day.

William tells me we can wait for another day, for better weather.

“No, let’s go today and get the full effect. Let’s try to imagine how awful this place was for them on a cold, snowy day.”

We got to the gate and I told William to take the time he needs. 

“When should we meet?” he asks. 

“When you have had enough,” I tell him. We part company at the entrance and I don’t see him until the end of the day, when the museum is closing. 

Since my visit, almost 25 years ago, so much more documentation has been added, so I stayed inside the museum and read every letter, every directive, every memo, every newspaper article displayed.  And after all of that, I still can’t get an inkling of understanding as to how one man could have convinced so many people to prey on the spirit and souls of so many innocent people. 

I am numb by the time I run into William.  He is wet and cold and dumfounded by the day’s experience as well. On the train ride home, I ask him what he thought of the gas chambers.

“What, I didn’t see them.  Where were they?  Damn, I didn’t see them.”

Later in the evening, we mention the chambers again and again, he laments that he missed them.  It’s as if this journey is now incomplete in his mind.  There are unanswered questions.

“Then let’s go back tomorrow to see them.” I offer.

“No, that’s ok.  We don’t need to do that.”

But I can tell this oversight is bothering him.  So I convince him that we should go back so he can see what he needs to see.  “Take the time you need to soak in this horrible moment.”

I go with him to the chambers.  It’s a big cement room with shower faucets up too high on the wall.  There are several entrances and both of us don’t dare to actually step inside the chambers.  It’s too ugly, too scary, too sad.  We stand in silence for some time and then he says, “Ok, I’m finished.” And we leave.

An American Tragedy

An American Tragedy

 Some families experience unspeakable violence.

As a high school principal, I often call the local police.  They would come at my request to handle student fights, and petty theft and small drug deals.  But when they called on me, it was because of something much more serious in nature.

So when I see a police officer making his way to my office this morning, I held my breathe.  Did I lose a student to death? Who had been arrested?  Was there a terrible accident?  The officer enters the main office and acknowledges me with a facial gesture; I wave him in to my office.  I close the door and he draws a breathe. “Steve Norton’s mother is dead, we just found her and I need to talk to him right away.”

Each year, I have a ½ dozen students who lost parents to death.  But the police were never involved. So this is very, very unusual.

“What about the father” Where is he?” I ask.

“Sorry, I can’t talk about him.  We are under investigation.”

That is enough said.  I understood the police think the father murdered the mother.  I call my assistant principal in and apprize him of the situation. I instruct him to call for Steve’s guidance counselor and then I want him to go and get Steve and escort him to my office.

Gary too asks about the father and I don’t hesitate to tell Gary of my suspicions. “The father may have murdered the mother.”  The police officer neither confirms nor denies this accusation but he flinches. Maybe because he had not been secretive enough and now the cat is out of the bag. Or maybe he is relieved that I spoke the truth and he wouldn’t have to be so evasive.

Within minutes, the guidance counselor is at my door and I don’t recognize her.  I forget that Denise left today on maternity leave and we have a substitute in for the next 12 weeks. There is no time to ask for her name which I knew last week but right now I completely forgot because the door opens up and in comes Gary.  Steve is trailing right behind.  I ask Steve to take a seat and he is intimidated by all of these adults in the room.  The police offices had his back to Steve and this perplexes him.

“Did I do something wrong? “ Steve asks worriedly.

I look to the police officer but he doesn’t turn around.  It is clear to me that I am going to have to deliver this awful blow to Steve.

“No Steve, you aren’t in trouble. Have a seat, sit down. I have terrible news to give you.”

He sits down and I blurt out the news, nervous and saddened that this boy has to hear this from strangers.  He is shocked, speechless.  He doesn’t cry. He just puts his head in his hands and shakes his head in disbelief.  He rocks himself. And we just stand there, dumbfounded.

I continue to mumble on because I don’t think I could take the silence. I tell Steve how sorry I am but my words seem so shallow.   I tell him he can come to any of us for help and I begin to introduce his new counselor, but of course, her name has not yet come to me.  And so I stumble over this introduction with an awkwardness that appears thoughtless, insincere.

Then Steve asks me, “What about my dad. Does he know?”

The police officer does not respond.  I ask Steve if he knows where his dad is.

“He should be at work”, Steve quickly replies.

“Where is that?” I ask nervously.

Steve gives the name of the company where his dad works.  The police officer writes this down.

“Steve, do you have a cell number for your dad.” I ask.

“Yea” and Steve whips put his cell phone. “I’ll call him right now.”

“Wait”, I tell him.

“Why?” He is confused.

“Steve”.   I draw a deep breath, “I think the police think your dad may have caused your mother’s death.”  I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth. I want to throw up. No one else speaks and we are all silent.  Steve is stunned.  He doesn’t know what to do or say.  He just wants to get out of here.

The police officer finally tells Steve that they are gathering his younger brother and sister and bringing them to the police station.  There is another sister, who was sent home from school earlier today, due to illness.  She was the one who found their mother, dead, straggled, on the floor.  She is already at the police station.

The police officer wants Steve to come with him to tell the younger siblings. He is not really coherent; he isn’t crying but he is visibly distraught.  He doesn’t want to leave school in a police car but he wants to break away from here.  So Gary offers to take him.  He wants to go to the middle school and get his brother.  So Gary and Steve take off.  The police officer finishes up scribbling notes and then he leaves.

Casey, the counselor, and I are left alone and we don’t know what to say to each other.  We are filled with sorrow and horrified by the ugliness of what just happened.  After a few, long, painful minutes, I say to her, “well, welcome to Springfield.  Nothing like a baptism by fire.” It is all I could come up with.  I have no words of comfort for her, this stranger on my staff.  We sit in silences for a few more minutes and then she nervously excuses herself.  I tell her she can go home for the day. She doesn’t go home but I check on her later in the day. She is numb and I tell her that tomorrow should be easier. But she knows I can’t guarantee that.  And I just hope that she will return tomorrow.

Within the hour, the story broke and I am getting phone call after phone call from reports.  I do not speak to any of them.  The Nortons live a block from the school.  So by the end of the school day, the house had been corded off with police tape.  Reporters and their trucks are stationed right outside and the house had an eerie, deserted look to it already.  All of my students charge over there and start their own investigation.  And everyone is abuzz about this family’s misfortune.

By the end of the day, the father turns himself in.  He is filled with regret.  They had been fighting again and he had had it with her.  So he started to chock her.  But he claims he never meant to kill her.  Now he is terribly, terribly sorry.  He cries into the television cameras.

To add to this drama, one reporter went to Mr. Norton’s father.  With no shame, no thought of his grandchildren, Mr. Norton Sr. claims that the mother deserved it.  ”She was a real bitch”, he thoughtlessly says, “She drove him nuts.’

That night, I spend the evening, alone, in the darkness, dazed, trying to comprehend what happened. I berate myself for not having been gentler. For not having the right words to comfort this child in my care.  But I know that there are no right words for this ugly kind of tragedy.

Yesterday, four children lived in a home with two parents who fought all of the time.  Today, they lost both parents: one to death, the other to jail.  They also lost their innocence, their sense of security, stability, their home, each other and a multitude of other emotions which will haunt them forever.