I wanted to go, and at the same time I didn’t want to go. I imagined that it was one of those experiences that I would remember, or that would move me, but wouldn’t necessarily be fun. I hadn’t planned to visit a concentration camp; the opportunity snuck up on me. In my limited understanding of world history, I assumed all the concentration camps were in Germany. While perusing tourist opportunities here in Prague, I came across an ad to visit Terezin, the Czech concentration camp. I decided to go.
We drove an hour north of the city. We entered a museum of sorts, filled with memorabilia and documentation in Czech, German, English, and Hebrew. There were photos. Drawings. Diary entries. Yellow Star of Davids with “Jude” written in them. Video clips. Rosters. Quotes. Two floors of history. And a showing of a propaganda film, “The Gift of a Town.” I took all this in, interested, curious, realizing my knowledge of World War II has significant gaps.
Next, the cemetery. We walked down a long road flanked by trees losing their leaves. The first thing we saw was an oversized menorah, surrounded by hundreds of identical tombstones. The day was cold and grey, fitting for visiting a cemetery. I walked among the tombstones, noticing that small rocks had been placed on top of many of them. The tour guide called me to join him near a building.
“We’re now entering the crematorium,” he said as he walked ahead of me. Oh, wait. Crematorium? I didn’t remember reading that on the brochure. I hesitated. Was this really something I wanted to do? Not sure, I followed.
As I entered, I felt as though the air had been sucked out of my lungs. Even after 65 years, death was present. I quietly walked around, lit a candle, said a prayer of remembrance, then waited outside.
Our next stop was the Small Fortress. This was where political prisoners, Jewish and non-Jewish, were imprisoned. Because I was the only English speaker in our French tour group, I had my own guide, Camille. She led me through various blocks, group cells, solitary confinement cells, the sick room with only 12 beds (more people were sick than that, she explained, but most stayed in their group cells, infecting the others), and the arch which read “Arbeit Macht Frei” – work will make you free. She leaned over to me in a confidential stance. “Of course,” she whispered, “that was a lie. Once you entered the Small Fortress, you were never free.” We continued walking.
We walked through more blocks of cells, then came to an opening in the wall. We stopped. “This is a happy place. This is where three prisoners were able to escape.” Camille then explained that others attempted escape, were caught, and were executed, in addition to a few prisoners selected at random, to act as a warning to the other prisoners not to attempt escape.
“Are you claustrophobic?” I shook my head no and she motioned for me to descend stairs to a tunnel. The ceiling was barely six feet; I could feel how close the top of my head was to the rough stone. “Walk,” she said. I walked; she followed directly behind me. I assumed that at the end of the tunnel there would be another staircase leading back outside. Instead there was a turn. And another long tunnel. And another. After about ten minutes of walking in silence, I began to second guess my confident answer claiming I wasn’t claustrophobic. This would be the ideal place to commit a murder. Camille wouldn’t kill me, though, right? I mean, surely the Frenchies would notice I was missing. The tunnel became more and more narrow.
Why wasn’t she sharing tour information with me? She had been quite chatty up until that point. “So, what were these tunnels used for?” “The Germans blocked them off. They weren’t used for anything during WWII. Before, however, when this was a fortress, they would lure enemies into the yard outside then shoot them through the small gun holes.” Oh. After what felt like an eternity, we emerged from the darkness. Into the execution yard.
Stories of execution were followed by a tour of the officers’ quarters (they even had a swimming pool and a cinema) then another cell block. Towards the end of the war the Germans didn’t want any prisoners near the advancing front, so they transferred prisoners to an already crowded Terezin. Group cells that were meant for 50 people contained up to 400. 
And with that, the tour was finished. Not fun, but forever etched in my memory.
Prague = music.
Everyday here I have been surrounded by music. A chamber concert in a beautifully restored hall, complete with art deco stained glass windows and an intricately painted ceiling. Dixieland jazz, on the river front. Showtunes on the grand piano as I dine, savoring Czech delicacies. And then tonight, an impromptu performance with an accordion player on the sidewalk.
The streets were eerily empty as I walked home from dinner. I heard an accordion playing in the distance. As I walked, the notes grew louder. The musician, along with a friend, appeared, coming round the corner, walking towards me. The first few notes of Dream a Little Dream of Me eked out, the musician half-heartedly singing along. We passed each other as he played the chorus. I joined him in song, “But in your dreams, whatever they be…” We passed, then turned round to face each other, singing, “Dream a little dream of me….”
I’ll miss you, Prague.
“What is that? Are you sending SMS’s to your friends?” the waiter asked me as he pointed to my Kindle.
“No, it’s a Kindle. For reading.”
“For reading? Those are the books you wrote? On that?”
“No (though secretly wishing the answer was yes). It’s like an electronic library. I download the books when I’m at home, then I can read them when I travel.”
“This, I think this is a good idea. I like this Kindle.”
When I arrived, my airbnb host, Dragan, pointed to a structure on the hill across the way. “That is the Eiffel Tower of Prague,” he said. “You can climb to the top and see a beautiful view.”
So, we did. This climb was 299 steps to the top, but the turning diameter wasn’t quite as tight as the South Tower, which prevented on onslaught of dizziness. The view from the top was spectacular. Even though it was a hazy day, you could see across the city, spires and turrets dotting the skyline.
And on the way out of the park, we passed a Magical Cavern! I didn’t get too close to discover what made it magical. I’m guessing trolls and such.
Walking through brightly colored fallen leaves makes me happy.
Upon the recommendation of my airbnb host, Dragan, I spent the afternoon at the Rudolfinium Gallery engaged in Controversies – A Legal and Ethical History of Photography. It was one of the most well-curated and thought-provoking exhibits I’ve been to in a long time. As I entered the first room of photographs, I was given a metal clip. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, then noticed that each photograph in the exhibition had a stack of papers beside it. The history of the photograph and the reason it was included in the exhibit was included in Czech on one side and English on the other. The papers had holes punched in them and stacked neatly on the clip, so that by the end of the exhibition I had my own exhibition memoir. Just another thing that Prague does so right (in addition to ceilings, beer, castles, and heated towel racks).
The first piece in the exhibit highlighted the Portrait of the Count of Cavour by Mayer and Pierson. The photographers discovered that others were reproducing their portrait and took them to court, claiming the other reproductions were fake. Legally, in order for something to be considered fake, the original had to be a work of art. Was photography art? The Parisian courts ruled yes and photography gained the status of art in 1862.
From there, the exhibit focused on what is considered art, particularly around socially controversial topics (i.e. child nudity, nudity in general, alternative lifestyles); when subjects should be compensated for being photographed; what constitutes plagiarism in use of photographs or ideas; and the use of photographs for propaganda.
The last point, using photographs to further propaganda, particularly resonated with me. Images move me. I see a picture and a lasting impression is made. What then, when the image isn’t representing what it claims?
The most impressive example of this was the photo taken by Robert Maass in Timisoara, Romania. I remember when this photo was published, and feeling naively horrified that such brutality continued to occur in the world. The photo was meant to convey the atrocities that took place during the dictatorship of Ceausescu. Later it was learned that leaders of the revolt had staged the photo session, and the man crying over the woman and baby in the mass grave wasn’t related to either. The woman was purported to have died of cirrhosis, and the baby (not hers), of SIDS.
Over a hundred photographs later, I was exiting the museum, still pondering the questions raised by the exhibit, and feeling simply in awe of seeing original prints of iconic photographs.
One highlights of the day included exploring St Vitus Cathedral and marveling at the scale and the intricacy of everything. From the outside, the building is intimidating – huge blocks of carved stone, eerily dark. Once inside, however, there’s an abundance of light. In the stained glass windows, in the vaulted ceilings, in the light reflecting off of the gilded surfaces.
After the cathedral, I wandered around, getting lost in alleys and reading my map incorrectly. I figured it didn’t matter, though, as I was inside a walled area so I couldn’t get too lost, right? I love the cobblestone patterns, as well as the manhole covers. Works of art!
As I was looking to find my way out of the castle compound, I stumbled upon this poster. Robots? Why yes, please. Along with teddy bears, dollhouses, Christmas ornaments, wind-up toys, and a 50th anniversary tribute to Barbie.
I love the cobblestone streets and sidewalks here. I look at them from one angle then another, seeing different patterns from various perspectives. The designs are so intricate; I’m amazed such care was invested to create something people walk or drive on every day. Cobblestones aren’t easy to walk on, so they force me to slow down and see more of what’s around me.
I followed the cobblestone path up to the Prague Castle this afternoon. I was greeted by multitudes of enormous buildings and palatial courtyards. I ducked into St Vitus’ Cathedral and admired stained glass windows and vaulted ceilings. I eavesdropped on English-speaking tour guides explaining the history of the church. I saw a sign boasting excellent views from atop the South Tower, along with a warning sign there were 287 steps to climb. 287 steps? Not a problem.
Not a problem unless they are 287 steps in a circular stairway about two-feet wide, with people ascending and descending at the same time. Much to my surprise, I learned that I get dizzy very easily. It was impossible to see more than a couple of feet in front (or behind) as I climbed, so meeting others was a surprise, causing each of us to squoosh to the inside or outside of the narrow staircase.
I arrived at the top, breathing heavily, to which another tourist told me, “Only one more flight to go,” then laughed at the expression on my face. I was at the top and it was stupendous. I looked down at the courtyard in which I was recently standing, tourists scurrying around like tiny ants. I saw the river and multiple bridges. I saw waves of endless red rooftops. I saw spires of cathedrals. Well worth the climb.
Looking up at the South Tower
287 steps higher, looking down at the courtyard
What would a trip to Hungary be without experiencing the baths?
After negotiating the awkward “Oh, men and women are in the same area to change into their swimsuits” with my work colleagues (in separate small “cabins”, but still a surprise since we entered through separate entrances) we made our way through the maze of baths. We wended our way through small baths, medium baths, mineral baths, warm baths, cold baths, exercise baths. And then. Oh, my. And then we stepped outside into the chilly air. Where we were met by three palatial pools, misty steam rising from the surface.
As my toes broke the surface of the water, I let out a long “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” And slipped down further into the hot steamy water. I enjoyed delightful conversations with my co-workers as I floated, stood, and sat in the pool. Another group told us about the pool on the far side of the courtyard, exclaiming excitedly about currents. Hesitantly, we arose from the hot water, walked for a few minutes, then re-entered the other pool. The highlight was a circular area in the center of the pool, where bathers seemed to be frolicking in a water-based conga line. I joined, and was told to stay close to the edge. There the jets were more powerful and propelled us around and around, somewhat forcibly. It was virtually impossible not to laugh as we were tumbled about, bumping into others and laughing, “Sorry!” in multiple languages. It was impossible not to feel happiness, not to exude joy as you were pushed around. Eventually, the jets turned off, and we returned to the soothing hotness of the original pool. Another great day in Budapest.
LoriLoo 
