A Special Episode: Walking Through the Holocaust

Dear Readers,

Normally, we gather here to "What's Going on in the Political Circus?" to mock the absurdity of modern politics. But not today. Today, we take a different kind of journey—a walk through the darkest alley of human history. No satire. No escape. Only truth. This is a visit to the past that demands to be remembered. This is the Holocaust.

Come. Walk with me.

The Descent into Darkness

It begins with whispers. You hear them in the streets, in cafés, in parliament halls. The Jews are different. The Jews are to blame. You see the posters, grotesque caricatures in shop windows. You read the laws—laws that say Jews cannot own businesses, cannot marry non-Jews, cannot be citizens. Your neighbors, people you have known all your life, now walk with eyes lowered, their existence narrowed to quiet desperation.

Then the streets erupt. Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. You watch as windows shatter, flames swallow synagogues, and uniformed men drag people from their homes. You hear the screams. Fathers trying to shield their children, mothers sobbing as their families are ripped apart. The next morning, the city smells of smoke. Shards of glass sparkle in the gutters like frozen tears.

The world looks away and the trains begin to move.

Into the Gates of Hell

Step closer. The iron gates of Auschwitz loom before you, mocking in their deception: Arbeit macht frei—Work sets you free. But freedom does not exist here.

You feel the air shift, thick with the stench of burning flesh. Guards bark orders as prisoners stumble from overcrowded cattle cars, dazed and suffocated by the journey. A mother clutches her infant, her grip tightening as a soldier approaches. A gesture to the left. She hesitates. He rips the baby from her arms and sends her right—to the gas chamber. She does not know it yet. But she will soon.

Bodies move in lines, stripped of belongings, stripped of dignity. Heads are shaved. Their names erased, replaced by numbers seared into fragile flesh. If you are strong enough, you work. If not, you vanish into the smoke curling from the chimneys.

The Factories of Death

You hear the screams before you see the chamber doors close. Zyklon B canisters are dropped in. The banging on the walls lasts only minutes. Then, silence.

Crematoriums roar day and night. Ash settles like snow on the earth. The sky is never clear. The workers, Sonderkommandos, are prisoners forced to remove the bodies. They whisper among themselves, always waiting for their turn. Every few months, they too are killed—replaced before they can speak.

You see a man holding his son’s hand, both skeletons wrapped in striped uniforms. They march side by side, knowing they will not return. You pass piles of shoes, mountains of hair, discarded spectacles. Each item whispers of a life cut short. A little girl’s red mitten lies in the dirt, a final trace of innocence swallowed by darkness.

The Echoes of the Forgotten

It does not end in Auschwitz. The horrors stretch across Europe. In Treblinka, Belzec, Sobibor, and Majdanek, entire communities are erased. Their homes looted, their voices silenced, their prayers unanswered. Mass graves fill the forests, the soil heavy with secrets. The ghettos are emptied. The silence grows.

And then, the war is over. The gates are forced open. The survivors step into the light—hollow, broken, alive. But liberation is not the end.

For many, there is nowhere to return to. Their homes are occupied by strangers. Their cities are rubble. They search for family members, moving from town to town, camp to camp, waiting for lists of names to be posted, praying for a miracle. Some find a sibling, a cousin, a childhood friend—others find nothing but cold, empty absence.

And the world, still weary from war, offers little sympathy. Many survivors face rejection when they seek to rebuild their lives. Borders close. Doors shut. Nations look away, uncomfortable with the ghosts standing before them. Some survivors are met with disbelief. Others, with indifference. They do not seek revenge. They seek only to be heard.

And so, they speak. They write. They whisper their testimonies into history’s reluctant ears.

Some listen. Others turn away.

You Were There. You Saw It.

Now, step back into the present. It is 2025. The world remembers, but not well enough. Antisemitism rises again. The echoes of old hatred find new voices. Lies spread like rot, gnawing at the truth. Some call it an exaggeration. Some deny it ever happened at all.

But you were there. You saw it. You walked through the ashes and felt the weight of history pressing against your chest. The dust of forgotten names clung to your skin. And now, you have a choice. To look away, or to speak.

The victims of the Holocaust cannot return to defend their truth. The survivors who once bore witness grow fewer each day. Soon, only history will remain. And if history is rewritten, if it is erased, if it is ignored, then the seeds of the past will grow once more.

Remember their names. Speak their stories. Guard the truth like a flame in the dark. Never again is not a promise—it is a duty. Nie wieder ist jetzt.

Learn. Remember. Speak Out.

Do not rely on whispers. Seek the truth.

• United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

• Yad Vashem: The World Holocaust Remembrance Center

• Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum

• Read "Night" by Elie Wiesel

• Read "The Diary of Anne Frank"

• Read "Still Alive: A Holocaust Girlhood Remembered" by Ruth Klüger

This is history. And history, if forgotten, repeats.

Never again is now.