Hanging on a bus with the same group of people for a week.
You really get to know them.
(And they get to know you too.)
One night at dinner we went down taboo avenue.
Talking religion.
AND politics.
I learned that I was the only one who voted for Obama.
Or so I thought.
The next morning, one of the moms quietly walked up to me.
Like we were buying a Gucci purse in Chinatown.
And she whispered -- “I voted for Obama too.”
Shhhh.
(Why is that such a bad thing?)
Anyhoo...
We also had a long talk about my Jewish upbringing.
And the lack of religion currently in my life.
There were a lot of different beliefs represented in our group.
Which I always welcome.
But I learned quickly that I was the only who stopped at the Old Testament.
If you know what I’m sayin.
So when we made our final stop of the trip, my feelings were the center of attention.
The stop was at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.
Or the USHMM for short.
Not exactly ending with a smile.
But one of the most powerful experiences.
And learning experiences.
You could ever ask for.
The museum is loaded with incredible images.
And videos.
And displays.
From the worst of times.
Like every other museum we had seen, this one was well thought out.
And presented with tremendous class.
But unlike most every other museum.
This one grabbed me by the throat.
And the gut.
I had been to similar museums in LA.
And in Israel.
And I have learned quite a bit about the atrocities.
But clearly not everyone at the museum had.
I rode up the elevator with a different tour group.
A group that was talking.
And joking.
And in some cases laughing.
It told me they did not know where they were.
Or what they were about to see.
But when we got off the elevator that all changed.
In a hurry.
The room fell quiet.
So quiet, you could hear your heart drop.
As I walked around, I saw people looking at the pictures.
AND reading the stories.
Children were staring.
As if they had seen a real life ghost.
I told my daughter she was going to view things she had never viewed before.
Not exactly the museum of modern art.
And as we sat in a room listening to audio accounts from survivors, I saw the confusion of her face.
How in the world did this happen?
How did the world let this happen?
But the fact is, this did happen.
And the more people who visit this museum.
And other museums like it.
The more they will learn about it.
There were new things I learned about the Holocaust during this latest visit.
But there was plenty I already knew.
Before we entered the building, one of the parents in our group asked if anyone from my family was in the Holocaust.
“No,” I said.
“My mom and my dad had no brothers and no sisters, so we had a very small family.”
But I shared the story about the mother of one of my closest friends.
She grew up in Europe.
And as a young girl she watched.
Watched as the Nazis entered her house.
And watched as they exited with her father.
Never to be seen again.
Unfortunately her story was far from one of a kind.
I think I heard six million of them in the museum.
One more heartbreaking than the next.
Disgusting.
Outrageous.
Revealing.
Scary.
Sad.
Pick a word.
For me it was all of the above.
Plus one.
Light Bulb.
Actually that’s two.
It came at an exhibit of pictures.
Pictures of arms.
Jewish arms that were tattooed by the Nazis.
They tattooed numbers on the arms as a form of ID.
And to make it worse, Jewish people are forbidden from getting tattoos.
When I saw the exhibit a light bulb went off in my head.
A light bulb that showed me a picture of my great aunt.
My dad’s aunt.
His mother’s sister.
I was very young when she passed.
But seeing the pictures almost instantly reminded me.
Reminded me of the tattoo on her arm.
I remember seeing it there.
But we never talked about it.
I was too young.
I don’t know if she ever talked about it.
But it was there.
I had forgotten it was there.
But it was there.
Never forget.
I shared the story with my daughter.
That was the least I could do.
Never forget.
