I am finding it difficult to write a blog about Treblinka. It has left me floundering for words, difficult to describe because it is overwhelming, its very dark, its disturbing, its silent, it feels like there are a million people there, but its empty, its heavy, its everything it should be.
It was strange driving toward Treblinka on the little country roads because, although we knew we were very close, the scenery was beautiful. Thick with luscious green trees, leaves shimmering in the soft breeze, it looked like Connecticut. How could we be close with all this beauty around us, how could we, in a matter of minutes, be in that excruciatingly ugly place. Pretty little houses spotted the roadside, clusters of houses just three minutes before we reached that place, old houses, they were there then. Could the walls of those little houses still smell the stench of human flesh burning? Almost no signage, strange.
Everything about Treblinka was hard. It was hard to find the place, no visual effort to direct visitors. It was hard to deal with all the flying insects aggressively and constantly attacking us. It was hard to walk on the cobblestone path that hurt my feet through the soles of my shoes, up to the memorial. It was hard to deal with the heat and humidity that hung heavily in the air. It was hard to look at the picture of the camp commandant, franz stangle, who was “promoted” to this position because of his skill not only in following orders but also in implementing them more effectively than his competing colleagues.
Everyone sent to Treblinka was killed. No selections. No labor force*. Death. It was not a concentration camp, it was a death camp. I walked along the symbolic railroad tracks, one track at a time and heard the chugging of the train carrying its human cargo. My chest was heavy, hard to breathe, nauseous, ears ringing, don’t faint! Took a picture. Insects flying in my mouth. Breathe. Climbed onto the “station platform”. I saw the bags, the clothing, the last of their belongings piled behind them on the platform. The lies. “You are going to have showers after your long journey! Take off all your clothes!” I saw them walking, naked, covering themselves with their hands, even their modesty violated instantly. I choked, sobbed, and walked from the “station platform” to the memorial on the place of the gas chamber. It took less than five minutes to get there.
We said Kaddish for our family who didn’t know till the moment they breathed the gas into their lungs that their final destination was Treblinka. We recited their names together, out loud, for them to hear.
Our grandfather, Solomon was 56 years old.
Our grandmother, Regina was 44 years old.
Our aunt, Elsa was 19 years old.
Our uncle, Freddi was 11 years old.
Our great uncle, Moise was 36 years old.
Our great aunt, Marie Michelle was about 34 years old.
Our cousins, Oscar and Beatrice were not teenagers yet.
Our great aunt, Binuta was about 50 years old. Our cousin,
Avramico was 21 years old.
Our cousin, Matilda was about 18 years old.
Our great aunt, Linda was about 50 years old.
Our great uncle, Chilibi was about 58 years old.
Our cousins, Inez and Colombo were both under 25 years old.
Our great grandmother, Ne’ama who died on the train was 80 years old.
We walked out of the camp, passed the stones, past the memorials, and I tried to find them, to feel them. I focused on each of them, I searched my thoughts and being for them. I couldn’t find them. I focused more, I needed to find them, to connect with them . . . . . . and I realized, they are not there. They are gone from that place. That place is empty.
*There were a small number of prisoners who were kept alive for the sole purpose of providing labor for the death machine. A handful of these souls survived.
a soul's calling 1943 
Treblinka
We drove out of Warsaw through the Polish countryside. As we drove into the small town of Malkinia, Mickey reminded us that the trains had to have passed through this area, en route to “their” end. Then, a green road sign with the word Treblinka shook me into the realization that I was about to see the death camp where Dad’s family perished.
All of a sudden through wooded areas in the middle of nowhere, hidden from sight, a sign, Treblinka Memorial, I felt trepidation!
Nothing remains of the death camp today, just symbolic representations out of blocks of stone marking sites. Jutting from the ground, pillar like, stone memorials marking the countries from which Jews were deported: Greece, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Macedonia, Poland, France, Yugoslavia, Belgium, Russia, Austria and Germany. A huge stone memorial at the site of the gas chambers with the words: “Never Again.
I walked along the site of the train, the gas chambers, the cremation grids, the burial pits and the thousands of smaller pillars of granite stones engraved with place names.
Mickey captured it well when he said :
“The Nazi Regime’s plan with the Jews of Thace and Macedonia was not only an intention to eradicate their physical existence but also to erase any memory of their history and culture.”
For me, this, was the saddest place on earth. This was Treblinka- My mind carried me back to 1943, vivid images of the horror, the terror, the torture, the cruelty. My family, among the 800,000 innocent lives lost. My grandfather Solomon, my Grandmother Regina, Aunt Elsa and Uncle Freddie. They took you away and savagely brutalized you.
Together we said Kaddish and placed stones at the site marking the cremation pit. You are not forgotten!
Before leaving Poland, we held hands and sang The Hatikvah…….
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