A Pilgrim's Tale

Twenty steps outside of the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site, I kneel on the hardwood floor of a little chapel. Flickering candles cast shadows across the walls and seep into my closed eyelids; I swear, in the shapes of the shadows I can see the corpses of 32,000 innocent people. The faintest scent of ash lingers in my nostrils. Or am I imagining it? I think I hear the steady drum of rain against the church's roof beginning to slow. The floor creaks noisily as I rise, overwhelmed and utterly drained but when am I ever going to be here again? I have to let myself see and feel and hurt for every second my feet tread the dirt of this horrific place.

Twenty steps until I'm back under the North Guard Tower and inside the official memorial site. One. The drizzle tousles my hair, but I am not bothered. To be "bothered" seems so minor, so trivial in a place like this. Two. Three.

Four. It seems lighter out, an oddity since it's nearing 5:00 on a bone-chilling December day. I look west; the sky is laden with vibrant orange streaks and pink clouds hanging low over the barracks. Rainy days always bring the most glorious sunsets. Tiny water droplets still prick the bridge of my nose. Five, six, seven. Just inside the camp, a large man in a gray parka holds an iPhone at arm's length, obviously trying to capture the moment. Eight. Nine.

Ten.

This time it has surely gotten brighter; the evening air warms the trees, turning their branches novel shades of bronze and glowing coral. The sun shows her face for the first time all afternoon, shining through the misty rain, when the gasps start. First they are a whisper, barely distinguishable from the sweep of the wind through the camp. Then, louder. Deeper. A single language of awe-inspired wonder seizes Dachau as Germans, Frenchmen, Americans, Italians, Poles--all inhaling in sharp, shocked unison. Eleven. People are pointing eastward, poking their companions on the shoulder and digging in their pockets for cameras.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. My boots thud heavily against the ground, sloshing slightly in the mud. My breathing picks up, pounding in my ears. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. I can nearly see over the Guard Tower. I can't miss it, whatever it is. Nineteen.

Twenty.

Two glittering, radiant rainbows stretch triumphantly over the camp, illuminating the barracks, the grounds, the crematoriums. Dachau glows a magnificent gold, branded by hope. Darkness has surrendered.

Hope always wins.