(Part One of a more detailed account of my time in Nis, Serbia.)
Crveni Krst looks like it hasn't been touched since it closed in 1944. The one employee simply collected the $1 entry fee, let me in and went back to sleep. He offered no tour, no advice and no explanation. Not a single other tourist came during the hour I spent there. All the signs were in Serbian Cyrillic so I could only make vague assumptions of what happened. I was alone with my own private concentration camp.
I did not feel a cold chill as I walked into the camp; rather I felt extremely hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. My American brain has problems with metric conversions, but that scalding Serbian summer cemented in my mind what 40 Celsius feels like: really fucking hot (or 104 Fahrenheit.) Any prisoner who had been there during the summer between 1941 and 1944 would be sweating bullets for more reasons than one. Ironically, stepping inside the prison building was relieving.
The lack of any English in the building confounded my attempts to learn the history. I squinted at the exhibit signs and desperately hoped to understand them, but I did not magically gain the ability to read Cyrillic. One wall had pictures of various prisoners, so I started counting them until I lost track. Human skulls were in a display case and I could only assume they were from dead prisoners. The entire experience left me feeling more lost and alone, until finally I found a room full of artwork that put the camp in perspective.
The artwork was graphic, disturbing and was clearly drawn by children. In the United States these drawings would get a child sent to the school psychologist for counseling and a call to the parents. Here they appeared to be a project approved by the school itself. I was able to discern that there had been various acts of torture against Jews, Gypsies and Communist prisoners. Several pictures depicted a large unarmed revolt. Many prisoners were escaping over the walls, but many others were shot dead while tangled in the barbwire.
I wish more history was told this way. If I could have read the adults' Cyrillic signs, I'm sure they would have tried to impress me with elaborate stories involving phrases like "astounding heroism," "incredible atrocities," and "never again in our lives." These fancy words are always accompanied by various facts, figures, graphs and numbers. Do we need numbers to prove that war is bad? The childrens' drawings get to the point.
Some people live.
Some people die.
The first floor was a museum. The second floor was just a large attic with prison cells; nothing more. The cell doors were open, so I went inside one and sat down. I didn't think. I didn't want to think, because I would start coming up with all those florid, elaborate, "adult" phrases that I hate. I stared at the door. Then I stared at a wall. Then I picked another wall and stared at it. I stared at different walls until I found myself staring out the shutter window that was in the roof.
I started thinking. What if I couldn't leave?
(Of course I'm an adult, so I had many thoughts, and later I fact-checked everything with my Serbian friends and the Internet. But I'm not some douchebag who works for Lonely Planet, so I won't write it here.)
I've been to Auschwitz in Poland.
It hit me in the gut. I felt sad at the mass atrocities that had happened. I felt relieved that my great-grandparents from Poland had left in the 1890s so they had avoided the horrors of the war. I felt angry and felt like punching some asshole tourist when I saw him filming and taking pictures of the interior of the prisons and cells in direct violations of the rules. I generally hate rules, but...don't you have any respect? Asshole.
I had many strong feelings. But they were stronger at Crveni Krst Concentration Camp in Nis, Serbia.
Why? At Auschwitz I stood in a line for a ticket, followed a tour guide around in a line, watched other tour groups walking through various parts of the camp and finished the tour at a souvenir shop. All the exhibits were clean and shiny and well-kept. The whole thing felt like a creepy, well-maintained ride at The Walt Disneyland of Death.
Crveni Krst looks like it hasn't been touched since it closed in 1944. The one employee simply collected the $1 entry fee, let me in and went back to sleep. He offered no tour, no advice and no explanation. Not a single other tourist came during the hour I spent there. All the signs were in Serbian Cyrillic so I could only make vague assumptions of what happened. I was alone with my own private concentration camp.I did not feel a cold chill as I walked into the camp; rather I felt extremely hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. My American brain has problems with metric conversions, but that scalding Serbian summer cemented in my mind what 40 Celsius feels like: really fucking hot (or 104 Fahrenheit.) Any prisoner who had been there during the summer between 1941 and 1944 would be sweating bullets for more reasons than one. Ironically, stepping inside the prison building was relieving.
The lack of any English in the building confounded my attempts to learn the history. I squinted at the exhibit signs and desperately hoped to understand them, but I did not magically gain the ability to read Cyrillic. One wall had pictures of various prisoners, so I started counting them until I lost track. Human skulls were in a display case and I could only assume they were from dead prisoners. The entire experience left me feeling more lost and alone, until finally I found a room full of artwork that put the camp in perspective.
 |
| Kids draw the damnest things |
I wish more history was told this way. If I could have read the adults' Cyrillic signs, I'm sure they would have tried to impress me with elaborate stories involving phrases like "astounding heroism," "incredible atrocities," and "never again in our lives." These fancy words are always accompanied by various facts, figures, graphs and numbers. Do we need numbers to prove that war is bad? The childrens' drawings get to the point.
Some people live.
Some people die.
The first floor was a museum. The second floor was just a large attic with prison cells; nothing more. The cell doors were open, so I went inside one and sat down. I didn't think. I didn't want to think, because I would start coming up with all those florid, elaborate, "adult" phrases that I hate. I stared at the door. Then I stared at a wall. Then I picked another wall and stared at it. I stared at different walls until I found myself staring out the shutter window that was in the roof.
I started thinking. What if I couldn't leave?
(Of course I'm an adult, so I had many thoughts, and later I fact-checked everything with my Serbian friends and the Internet. But I'm not some douchebag who works for Lonely Planet, so I won't write it here.)
First, you are nice guy. Your goverment is bad, but you are nice guy.
ReplyDeleteSee, I live right next to this nazi camp, and I've been there 3 times, first with my father, then with my friend and then with 3 other friends. And every time I was deepely scared, cause father of my grandpa was there one week.Lately he was sent to Bergen Belsen, and he was lucky to stay alive until British came.
My 2nd time in this camp was scariest, it was July and my very good friend and I entered there alone(just like you did, guide was in the small house don't giving a fuck) and we were alone in the main building. Wind was strong and door at the entrance had been making noise every(lets say 20sec) and then made some strange noise.
We were so scared but we didn't want to accept the fear, we knew it was not the door cause we were alone there.
So all I want to say, there is bad organisation... I'm sad about that. :(
I was in Serbia for about 3 weeks and really I enjoyed the 'bad organization' because I was able to do crazy things there that would probably cause problems if I did them in the USA ;-)
DeleteSorry for your great-grandfather. My grandfather fought in WWII in France and was lucky to return alive. Thanks for reading and I'll let you know when I'm in Nis again!