Resnais: Night and fog

In 2000, or 2001, I travelled around in eastern Europe. I spent a few days in Krakow. When I arrived, I happened to meet a young man who studied to become a priest. We wandered around town. We talked and had a coffee. He dragged me along to a castle that I cared nothing about, but I pretended I did. He was talkative, but there were some things about him that made me wonder. I confided to him my doubts about visiting Auschwitz. For some reason, he didn't really want to discuss it (and maybe I understand him). Instead, he was eager to offer me practical advice about how to get there, the bus routes, the time tables. I spent a restless night at a strange place. Eventually, I decided to go.

I found the right bus stop. It was not difficult, as there were groups of tourists waiting. A group of people were carrying McDonald's bags. On the bus, the stale smell of burgers & chips made me feel sick in my stomach. The ride took about 1 1/2 hour. The sun was shining, and I observed the small, quite neat-looking, villages that surround the concentration camp. I wandered around the area in silence, having declined the offer of an audioguide. There were enough voices in my head. Is this a museum? No, and yes. No. I looked at the mountains of glasses, hair, and kids' shoes that were on display. The barracks. At one point, I was overwhelmed by it all and my head started to spin. I sat down on a doorstep while a never-ending stream of people walked by. Some were quiet. Some were talking incessantly.

Another bus took me to Birkenau. It was a trip of about 15 minutes. On that bus, there was dead silence. Most of the tourists came in groups, but they were not so many. It was quite windy, and the sunlight had the bleakness of late afternoon. The first thing I noticed was the tower and the entrance. I walked. I walked fast. I walked through the open fields, the nakedness of the landscape forcing itself upon me, until I reached the edge of the woods. That felt like a relief, somehow. Looking out on the fields, the place felt huge, the railtracks worming their way into eternity. Most of the buildings are gone. Many were destroyed by the Germans in 1945. In the woods, there were some rusty rubble, a wooden table, a spooky glade. I felt empty inside, and turned back. An American, elderly woman passed me by. "I noticed you a while ago. You're really having a walk," she said, cheerfully, as if we were on a hike together. I nodded, and found my way to the bus stop, which was situated outside the camp, maybe 500 meters away. All the same, it was an altogether different world. I sat down on the asphalt. There were a lot of kids on the bus. They were not tourists, they were living in the area, going to town. I listened to the sound of their happy voices, and maybe I fell asleep for a while. Back in Krakow, I headed straight to my shabby lodging, and spent the night looking at the wall in front of me. It was a nunnery that accepted foreign (not religiously affiliated) tourists. At 2 am, a group of noisy Americans stumbled in. Their steps and their voices resonated in the whole building. I think I took comfort in a book, but I can't recall which one.

I just watched Night and fog by Alain Resnais.