Horror and heroism featured at new Holocaust museum

'The air smelled of death,' survivor tells young visitors to Skokie museum

May 28, 2009|By Jeff Long, Tribune reporter

The junior high students listened intently as Agnes Schwartz told how she was only 10 when soldiers marched her grandmother to the banks of the Danube River in Nazi-occupied Budapest and shot her.

Her aunt and uncle were also among the thousands of Hungarian Jews and other "undesirables" whose bodies tumbled into the icy waters over the course of a few bloody months in late 1944.

"The air smelled of death," Schwartz told her audience at the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center in Skokie.. "I can still smell it."

The Northbrook Junior High students hung on every word of the grandmotherly figure whose early life was so different from their suburban experience. Their questions were direct, showing more of a desire to understand than disbelief that the world could be so barbaric.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" Schwartz was asked.

"All the time," she said. "I dream that I'm hiding my children from the Nazis."

The students were among the more than 10,000 visitors who have toured the museum since it opened last month. Their reactions have covered the rawest edges of the emotional spectrum -- from those who break down in tears as they examine artifacts that depict both horror and heroism to others who are numbed to silence or struggle to control their anger.

"I've seen people laughing nervously," said volunteer docent Bill Fisher, 66, whose in-laws are Holocaust survivors. "I've seen sadness. I've seen people overly talkative and others who showed no emotion."

Fisher recalled one high school student who began crying uncontrollably as she stared at a picture of a soldier about to shoot a young mother and child. He gently guided her into a discussion of what officials say the museum is all about -- remembering the past so that the future can be better.

"In a very small way, I want to contribute through education," Fisher said. "Teach children to stand up for their rights, and for others."

On a recent afternoon, visitors strolled the corridors, some of them lightly touching the rough planking of a Nazi-era rail car that might have transported people to death camps. They solemnly gazed at the forged documents survivors used to escape those camps.

Some whispered in small groups; others stayed apart to absorb the powerful images as they reflected on their own.

Marilyn Levin, 73, sat on a bench in the main exhibit with her husband, Lloyd, 80. As they watched a film that recounted the story of a rabbi who prayed over the bodies of children who had been gassed, her arm gently reached up to rest lightly on his shoulder.

The Jewish couple from Northbrook have no immediate relatives who were affected by the Holocaust, but that made their visit to the museum no less emotional. The impact was powerfully physical, Marilyn Levin said.

"I can't cry, though," she said. "As much as you see it, it's so unbelievable. In my chest, it hurts. You see these people, and you're moved by their stories."

Another visitor, Kiki Richman, 69, of Deerfield tried to assess her own emotions as she left the main exhibit.

"Sick to my stomach," she said. "The hatred -- why hatred on that scale?"

Pam Hoover, 26, of Chicago felt a personal connection as she examined a wall in the museum dedicated to the American forces that liberated the concentration camps at the end of World War II. Her grandfather, she said, was with the Japanese-American troops that were among the first to reach the Dachau death camp.

"You learn about it in school, in history," Hoover said. "But you don't have real faces to put it to, like you do here."

The personal stories of survival are what resonate the most, according to museum officials. They want visitors to feel a bond with the men, women and children who survived, the same kind of people one could meet on the street today, or 60 years ago, said curator Bethany Fleming.

"If all visitors do is leave here crying, we've failed," she said. "We want people to leave here with that personal connection. We want them to feel moved to do something in the world, and act as a better person."

During its short existence, the museum, officials say, has already become a sanctuary of sorts for Holocaust survivors. A private lounge has been reserved for them, a place where they can read, play chess, and just relax.

But survivors such as Schwartz, 75, prefer to be among the visitors, sharing their stories.

For decades Schwartz could not bear to talk about her experiences during the war, how she lost her mother at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp and so many family members. But her grandson, she said, helped her understand how important it is for younger generations to learn about what happened from those who survived.

Schwartz managed to survive by hiding her Jewish identity as she lived with the family's maid, a Christian.

After the war, she came to the U.S. to live with relatives and vowed never to return to Europe.

Her personal Holocaust story hasn't been softened by the passage of time and isn't easy to discuss, but the importance of the message keeps her going, she said.

"I pour out my heart and soul every time I talk to a group," she said.