On the second day of our trip in Poland, bodies still weak from the early morning flight, we arrived at Majdanek, arguably the most sadistic of the six extermination camps. 60,000 weak Jews were exterminated on arrival, and those who were fit would carry the bodies of the fallen to the crematorium for a gruesome mile and a half in the cutting, frigid Polish Winter. I can only be reminded of Elie Wiesel draining the pus from his bum foot as he labored…All the while, the Commandant played and ate and lived in comfort with his family, only yards from the slaughter site of the innocent. At the front, before the gate, stood a towering monument, two pillars upholding a massive carved stone- a representation of the weight of the Holocaust on the world’s shoulders. If the preparations were carried out with little fault, the camp could be up and running within a day.

Timidly walking into the gas chambers, I examined my surroundings. The streaks of the aqua Zyklon-B running like railways over our heads, and the leftover chemical tins vertically lined up in roll call fashion- a wall of annihilation. The building’s sheer presence was so powerful, I almost felt as if I myself were being asphyxiated. Some of us refused to go any further than the entrance. Some went through reluctantly, tears falling onto the rough, frigid cement. I did not emote; I could not emote, for I knew in my mind and heart I was obligated to bear clear witness to the ultimate tragedy.

We departed from the building of departure and made the same pilgrimage to the furnaces that our Jewish brothers had made so long ago. To our right, the red bricked cremators, still covered with Jewish ash, stood proportionally aligned in a statement of efficiency. To our left was located a bathtub, so that the Commandant may wash himself with the heat generated by the bodies of his cattle. Again, some stayed outside, some cried. Again, I did not emote.

Directly adjacent to the crematorium was a looming, concrete dome erected over something gray and dirty that, at the time, was blurred by distance. As I approached, I realized what it was; not a pile of dirt, but literal tons ashes of those who had perished. No, they were more than ashes: This was a culture, a way of life that has been exterminated off the face of the Earth by pure, engineered malice to the maximum degree. As our group cried out into the howling winds the anthem of our people, Hatikvah, I shed a single tear behind my wool cap. I am still not sure whether the tear came from the cold or if I truly was crying over the remains of the fallen. But one thing is for certain: Above their mutilated remains read words that will be forever etched into my mind in blood and fire: “Let our fate be a warning.”