Auschwitz, Poland

Through the centre of the camp is a railway, the very one from which they came, staggering not only with their belongings, but also with the fear of those who have lost everything.

Auschwitz is barren; the sky downcast and grey to the point of black, a lone deer walking stately though forests of crumbling brick and rotting wood, and in the distance wind blows Emily’s hair lightly against her cheek.


Imagine, the smell of sweat, the tears of defeat and the cries of anguish, echoing though a crowd of thousands. Through this I walk, the ghosts almost brushing against my coat, crossing the railway to the steady Click of a camera shutter behind me.

My friend is beside me, the American marine who has swapped gun for a camera and stands, near emotionless by a pond containing the ashes of thousands. Click, he brings the camera to his eye and freezes the image but not the feeling, the moment of utter hopelessness, staring ahead, unsure of what to do, feeling awful.

As I turn, looking down an avenue of ruins, past the bombed out gas chambers and the communal latrines I catch sight of her, Emily. Angel in the darkness, some life in this place of death, an Australian student, looking at me with tears in her eyes. She stands on one side of the wire, me on the other and I can see her hair fluttering lightly in the breeze, her face drawn from the effort of being here, seeing all that has been lost and that never can be found.

Later, walking hand in hand through the gate, the words “work will set you free” passing above our heads I think that maybe, just maybe some good has come out of this place.

In the square that night, in a tower far above our restaurant a trumpet player suddenly stops half way through his tune, the age-old ceremony to remember the wars Krakow has lost and recovered from. Emily sits opposite me, the candle lighting up her face as she tries to explain, to salvage something between us after my failed attempt to kiss her. We manage, sitting and eating, the thoughts of the death camps still echoing though our heads, as I pay the waiter and walk her home.

That night, fuelled with the memory of my failure and that of the world to stop a holocaust, I go out. We walk in a cluster, our whoops and yells carrying through deserted streets, the locals wise enough to leave room for this group of wild Britons. Like barbarians of old we barricade one club after another, the security chasing us back as we run off laughing, not some load of football hooligans but most of us students, transformed into these dervishes by alcohol and adrenalin. Memories now, a grinning Roland mooning the security office, the Polish-speaking blonde trying to get into a club with my library card as I.D. The beers clanking together, wild laughs and finally silence as I collapse into bed and wait for morning, glad not to be sleeping on a train.