And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
It was a misty, silent fall day. Yellow leaves from a cluster of white birch drifted on the slightest breeze.
I lifted my camera in an attempt to capture the barrenness of the enclosure that once held more than sixty thousand men. The fog blurred the distant perimeter as though it were trying to hide her shame. White towers looked down in a blind man’s stare. I stood at the gates – the gates of hell – the rusting gates of Dachau. The pictures hinted at a story too horrible to tell; the starved, the tortured, brutalized beyond imagination. I walked through a mass gas chamber and turned away from red brick ovens in the crematorium. At first, few questioned the mysterious odors emanating from the compound.
Three chapels stand to offer a place of meditation for Catholics, Protestants, and Jews. This place makes you think. It seems the ground itself cries out for a justice that cannot be rendered in a courtroom. “It’s been more than seventy years,” you might say, “Time to put it all behind us and walk away.”
But this place must never close her rusty gates lest another villain rise up to preach that God has lesser children; lest another fool dare stand in the place of God.
reposted with permission from onehope.net