By: Kate Belmont
The Washington D.C. Holocaust Memorial Museum opened in 1993, and I was one of its first visitors, I was thirteen. As a public school student, my knowledge and exposure to the Holocaust began as I am sure most students’ did, reading The Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank. At that age, I assure you, most students had no idea of the immensity of what they were reading. Throw in a few Global Studies classes on World War II and there you have it – the Holocaust in three easy steps. My younger sister had a similar experience. Actually, we have it on film. Instead of writing a book report, my sister acted, directed, and produced her own version of The Diary of a Young Girl – she sat in the attic and read excerpts of the book. She got an “A.”
Fortunately, my education was not limited to what I was taught in the New York Public School System. A close family friend was an Austrian Jew who spent months in hiding to avoid capture by the Nazis. Along with my reading of The Diary of a Young Girl, my parents suggested that I speak with their friend, Claire. Claire’s story was real to me. I was not listening to a teacher reading in monotone, I was hearing the truth from a survivor. The horrors of the Holocaust seemed almost possible.
At thirteen, I already had a perspective unlike most my age. When the Holocaust Museum opened in Washington D.C., I was eager to see it. I suppose I was eager to connect the dots, to put together what I had read, what I was taught, what I had learned from Claire, and to see the actual truth. I can tell you what I remember (it was 15 years ago…). I was angry, and did not like the experience. I was expecting to feel pain, real physical and emotional pain from the severity of the truth in the exhibits and the gravity of the information presented. Instead, it was like Disney World in gray. It was gimmicky – take a passport and follow the yellow-brick road, walk through an empty box-car, look into this cauldron and check this out. Kids were running around everywhere. The actual building itself also failed to convey any significant meaning. Yes it was big, yes it was cold, yes it was industrial, but it was also shiny, modern and new. It had no feeling. Whether it is a piece of barbed wire, a bar of soap, a shower head or a pair of discarded shoes, there is feeling and meaning in every part of the Holocaust. Words fail to describe the feelings – revulsion, horror, desperation, and profound sadness are among the few one might have when reflecting on the atrocities that occurred.
As Primo Levi suggests, the words are too small. If the words are too small, does that mean that they should not be uttered? Or, should they be spoken with the utmost respect and honesty? The museum used words that were too small, pictures that were too big, and exhibits that were too plastic.
When I think about the museum today, I am still frustrated. Millions of people will visit this museum and not get it. The Holocaust is not supposed to be fun, it’s not supposed to be cool, or interesting, it is supposed to be horrible and painful and disgusting and beyond comprehension.
Discussing the relationship between art and atrocity, many students argue that a story must be told in order to educate as many people as possible, for the good of humanity. Well, “a” story is not good enough. Those who died, those who survived, they all deserve the absolute truth be told and nothing less. We do not need to dumb down the Holocaust. The Holocaust should not be taught or portrayed in any other light than what it was – one of the darkest times in civilization. If art in any medium does not attempt to accurately portray this, a great injustice is done to those who survived, and to the eleven million people who did not.