One powerful site in Paris is also one of its most unassuming, at least from the outside. A passer-by might easily overlook the small patch of land partially hidden by hedges as he or she hurries off to Notre Dame, which is a mere stone’s throw away. But the Mémorial de la Déportation, located at the edge of Ile de la Cité, is far more compelling than one could expect.
The memorial, dedicated to French victims and survivors of the Holocaust, actually lies at a lower level, down some steps from the little park above. I had arrived during the lunch-break hour, so I waited at the park for the memorial to reopen. I initially wasn’t even sure I was at the right place, despite having read the small sign by the even smaller gate. I had expected to find a skinny black brick building, inside of which would be lined with pictures of the Holocaust and some placards of history. With its lovely, serene view of blue skies and the surrounding Seine, this park above—and whatever waited below—was at odds with that image.
Just before the steps is a signboard for visitors, describing the history and purpose of the memorial. I read it as I waited. A row of triangles, consisting of various styles and color, lined the bottom of the sign. One has to be truly stoic of heart not to feel a lump in the throat on reading the meaning of each triangle, and to whom each symbol is sewn on to: German Jews, French Jews, homosexuals, stateles persons, gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, anti-socials, “deviants”. . . .
Those who don’t, according to some definition, “belong.”
A triangle to brand you, to label you, and to forget about you. |
It is a troubling, frightening concept. One could attempt to distance oneself from such thoughts, but really, how far away can we get? It wasn’t that long ago when it happened, after all. And when we really think about it, what makes us so certain it will not happen again? We may prefer to think that such hate cannot possibly exist in the world, or if it did, then it can only exist once. But the truth is, history can and always repeats itself. And it is truly terrifying to ponder what human beings are capable of.
I looked down at those triangles and thought, there are still those today who want to eradicate the not us, the them. All that’s missing today is a demand to wear a star, and it may be morbid of me, but I can’t help but think that’s not very a far-off possibility either.
The memorial’s narrow entrances and construction of barred cells are designed to convey claustrophobia and uneasiness to visitors. Indeed, I couldn’t help feel that way on entering the concrete structure. And even more so on finding Deux cent mille Francais sombres extermines dans les camps Nazis scratched out on the wall: Two hundred thousand French citizens died in the Nazi camps. When one considers that this is just a percentage of the whole picture, that there are countless more from multiple nations who have suffered and been lost in the camps, it almost boggles the mind to visualize the sheer number of lives gone.
Unlike some prisons or ex-prisons like Alcatraz, visitors don’t get to enter the cells themselves to look around; they can only peer from the outside in, through the bars or through the tiny windows, which are also barred. I almost felt guilty looking through them. There may be nobody in the cells now, but it was still an invasion of privacy.
This juxtaposition in viewpoints was a new one. I didn’t like being placed in the position of the guard, of the interrogator. It would’ve been easier to be able to enter the cell and look out through the eyes of the captive. It’s what’s expected, after all. But this twist, this making us look at everything from the jailer’s point of view instead—including staring through cell bars from the outside in—was as disturbing as the triangles all over the memorial.
The main focus of the memorial is a lighted corridor, in which each quartz pebble on both walls represents a French citizen who died in the camps. This is from the Jewish custom of placing stones on the graves of the deceased. Two hundred thousand stones reflect light in that corridor, and again, the idea looms of the sheer number of lives taken. Again, as well, it is a mere percentage of the whole picture, an incomprehensible but factual one.
In the center of the corridor lies a tomb. Ici repose un deporte inconnu, read the scratched-out words on stone: Here rests an unknown deportee.
For my part, the most resounding, and overwhelming, theme at the memorial were the “scratched” words on the walls. The letters are actually chiseled in, but made to look as if they had been scratched into the wall with bleeding fingernails. The imagery was haunting as I ran my fingers over the impressions and into them numerous times. I imagined my nails digging in. I imagined more. I was quiet.
It was a powerful visit in its simplicity. When I left, I actually felt guilty about going out into the open air and sunlight. It felt almost like a betraying retreat. That was what the park above was for, I realized. It was to refresh, to contemplate, to breathe. It was to realize how easily we can be given something, and how easily it can be taken away.
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