Of all places – it happened
two months ago in Dachau. A trip which everyone had advised me against. Nazi
concentration camp. Torturous roll calls and gas chambers and medical
experiments that should never keep
the human race beyond the realms of Hell. One of the grimmest places on the
planet.
And yet I had to see
it, after a sleepless night and a non-existent breakfast and some energy drink
bought at the station.
Of course it was all that and more. Outside, a black sign
plate advising children under 16 not to enter. Inside, a thin layer of snow and
scattered groups of German students wandering about. You only have to close
your eyes to see it all in your imagination and in your mind’s eye. 1942. It’s
devastating.
Devastated, six hours
later, you make your last round inside the museum. And then you see it. A black
cat. It’s only now that you notice
it, noiselessly creeping through the stands and the doors and the legs of those
who had dared to come. Through your
legs. This black cat is like a form of some tragic art that will always
prevail, despite the hardships and the misery. A reminder. Everyone’s broken
conscience. And a symbol.
There is no shame in
seeing it. Even if it doesn’t exist and you are blind and it is only a symbol. And
then you stand at the bus stop, listening to the final part of Gorecki’s Third Symphony, and there is this cat
again, black and lean and aggressive, trying to steal a sandwich from the cold
hands of a hungry student.
