Bagsy
Sachsenhausen
It rained on only one day when I was in Germany. This was the day I traveled to Oranienburg, a suburb only about fifteen miles away from Berlin. The camp was a must-see on my trip.
The town is easily accessible by S-Bahn, though one can take the Deutsche Bahn for a few extra euros to save time. I opted for the former, catching the S7 from the Nordbahnhof station not far from where I was staying.
There was hardly anyone on the train that Saturday morning. It was a little chillier outside, which I liked after a warm front on the previous days.
The train ride lasted about forty minutes. I then walked two kilometers to the camp site, imagining how unsettling it must feel for the residents to have a concentration camp in their backyards.
The site is popular and well-preserved. The entrance looks like it could belong to any other historical museum. I went inside to grab a map but, unlike at all the other historical sites I visited in Germany, opted out of an audio guide. You can also buy books here that encompass the history of this camp as well as others; the topics ranged from a general history to more niche subjects such as women-specific experiences. Not to mention the range of languages offered.
I only had to walk several hundred meters before I encountered the camp.
All of the buildings at the camp are small museums or reconstructions of the former camp barracks. The first museum I entered revealed the identities of the men who worked the camp.
I then zig-zagged through the mass graves dedicated to camp victims from various countries and social groups.
Tears were shed at a small ceremony hosted at one of the graves, which I did not have the chance to see up close.
The main entrance to the camp was unmistakable.
I roamed the site and took my time in each barrack. Most of the interiors are replicates but were constructed from original material.
The camp also housed a large number of political prisoners.
I appreciated the original documents on display such as this one confirming that Russian prisoners of war were executed in this camp.
Truthfully, I was not familiar with the details of this particular camp before I visited. History lessons from grade school tend to focus on the more infamous camps like Auschwitz and Dachau. I knew of Sachsenhausen but did not want to spoil my experience by reading too many online anecdotes beforehand.
Approximately eleven-thousand to eighteen-thousand Soviet prisoners of war were killed. Most victims were shot immediately upon arrival, but others eventually perished from illness and starvation amidst harsh conditions in the camp. Gas chambers played a role albeit a smaller one relative to other camps.
These details were the heaviest for me to not only learn but also imagine as I circled the execution site and trench. Here countless Soviets were shot in the back of the neck through a crevice in the wall while they were being fitted for a camp uniform. Like Jews, Slavs were deemed Untermenschen.
The faces in those photos are unforgettable. Neither is the banality of evil.
Unfortunately and ironically, the Soviets established their own Special Camp No. 7 after the war at the former concentration camp site. Thousands of German inmates, anti-communists, and Nazi sympathizers perished here by 1950.
Trodding the footsteps of thousands of victims through the concentration camp grounds is heartbreaking. Equally so is realizing that humanity has not learned from these past tragedies. Humanity continues to wreak havoc on many marginalized communities – Ukrainians, Uyghurs, and Darfuri, to name a few – while the rest of the world watches.
Throughout the camp I felt simultaneously hyperaware of my personhood and oblivious to it: realizing at one moment that this could have easily been my personal fate had I not been so lucky to have been born only twenty-five years ago, while also acknowledging that such an experience is not individual but rather collective.
Yet I am oblivious, forever unable to wholly understand how victims suffered and continue to suffer. Suburban German homes enveloped me as I left the camp feeling out of touch with reality as I left the camp. Soon enough I was back at the train station to return to Berlin.
