Update: To those arriving via link from majorityrights dot com:
You have failed in your attempt to post your shit-stained drivel in my comments section, but instead seen fit to post it on your blog. That’s your right and there’s not much I can do about it.
In fact, I hope you K-K-Keep on blogging. I may not agree with anything you have to say, but I’ll vigorously defend your right to expose to the entire world what stinking, vile racist scum you are.
Second post in a row on this theme, but…
Ceremonies are being held all across Germany today to mark the 64th anniversary of the liberation January 27,1945 of the Auschwitz death camp. Wreaths will be laid and speeches given to mark another year since the gates were swung open to reveal the horror within.
In Berlin, a huge plot of land in the city centre was set aside and hundreds of massive tablets erected in a memorial to the Jews murdered during that lurching descent into the grotesque and absurd known here as the Nazi times. Die Nazizeit.
The building of the memorial was controversial, but I have no problem with it. The capital city of this great land – Germans are reluctant to say that – this great land – should have a permanent site dedicated to the millions murdered and to those who died in the struggle to stop the madness.
But if you head down to southwest Germany to the little town of Sulzburg, tucked away in a narrow valley at the western edge of the Black Forest maybe a half-hour or so south of Freiburg, you can walk through a memorial that is arguably more authentic and timeless than any number of oblong blocks laid out in geometric rows in the cold heart of a tired city hundreds of miles to the north.
It’s a cemetery, the burial ground of a community of Jews who lived and died for at least 300 years among the Gentiles who lived and died along with them, until someone came along and ordered their fellow villagers taken away, packed in cattle cars to Theresienstadt, Dachau, Auschwitz, and yes, Richard Williamson, to the gas chambers.
The first person to be lowered among the pines to the sound of the rushing creek nearby was Rifka, daughter of Meir Sulzberger, in 1647. The last burial was Klara Neustädter in 1932.
This memorial is the real thing.
It’s not just the weather-beaten headstones that make you pause and reflect on the people and lives that once played out here, it’s the graves you don’t see. Empty swathes of ground set aside in terraces reach far back up the hill into the forest, bearing silent witness to those who never get a chance to die where they were supposed to, or to be buried by the people who loved them.
In 1970 a memorial was erected just inside the main entrance with the names of all those who were forcibly taken from Sulzburg.
I’m glad we got a chance to take a walk around this cemetery during our holiday in the south of Germany this past summer.
There are two Jewish cemeteries in Hamburg not far from where we live. When the little red-haired girl was about five or six, I remember boosting her up onto the low stone wall of the closer one so that we could both peer through the iron bars to get a better look at the blocky Hebrew writing.
Do you see that they’re different than the letters you’ve learned? I asked her.
Uh-huh. Can we go inside?
No, we can’t, I said. They keep it locked all the time.
Why? We can go to Opa’s grave any time we want.
Yeah, I know. But there are still bad people who want to push over the gravestones in cemeteries like this, spray them with paint or smash them.