The Tennessee Holocaust Commission (THC) recently sponsored a trip to Poland. The trip had a very specific purpose: to both honor and inspire a carefully selected group of teachers from across the state of Tennessee, each of whom teach about the Holocaust and want to do more. Also joining this journey were Rabbi Michael Danziger and Cantor Tracy Fishbien (The Temple), Rabbi Mark Schiftan (Chair of THC), Alyssa Trachtman (THC Executive Director), several staff members and seven Christian clergy.
I was honored to be asked to join this group with a specific role—to prepare material and facilitate conversations throughout the trip. With Zoom calls we prepared the group, the itinerary was set, our excellent tour leader and docents selected and everyone—often coming on different flights—arrived in Krakow on time.
Our second day was one of our longer days in so many ways. A full day at Auschwitz-Birkenau with much to absorb and process. Later in the afternoon, gathered next to what had been described as the “Killing Wall,” our group stood in the sun as I was to facilitate a discussion of our shared experience. I was prepared. I had my journal of carefully selected readings, thoughtful questions and somber quotes to launch our conversation. I was prepared. Except I wasn’t.
I stammered, stopped, and blundered through a few awkward thoughts and then lost my voice.
To be clear, I have been facilitating tough conversations since the sixties when I put up posters on campus, scheduled a room in the student center, and amped up the dialogue on the civil rights movement. I did not even know it had a name— “facilitation”—at that time. And for more than fifty years I have designed and facilitated conversations on some tough subjects in far-away places; never once did my vision blur or did I lose my voice. You would think, having been to Yad Vashem three times, the U.S. Holocaust Museum four times, the Children’s Holocaust Museum in Paris, I would be ready for this day, this group, this moment. Except I wasn’t. I could not talk.
Around 4 AM the next morning I got up, looked down at my shoes I had worn the day before, picked up my iPad and wrote the following:
My Shoes
I have Auschwitz on my shoes
Doesn’t everyone?
Birkenau muck on my soles
Fine bone ash covers the rest
My shoes remember the journey…
Routed by fear
With a cruel conductor for a crowded carload and
Low-class/no class tickets for all on board
Which shoes were mine?
The Jewish Observer is published by The Jewish Federation of Greater Nashville and made possible by funds raised in the Jewish Federation Annual Campaign. Become a supporter today.
My shoes remember the journey…
Lost luggage upon arrival
With a pillaging cultural thief and
A pleading plaintiff at lost and found
Which shoes were mine?
My shoes remember the journey…
The wrenching separations
With vicious dogs guiding my love one way and
Cudgels and whips forcing me in another
Which shoes were mine?
My shoes remember the journey…
A suite reserved, cement pillow and some straw
With a scowling front desk clerk and
A weary, worried traveler checking in
Which shoes were mine?
My shoes remember the journey…
An a la carte menu, a crumb and thimble of sour soup
With a smirking master-class chef and
A desperate, groveling diner
Which shoes were mine?
My shoes remember the journey…
Fingerprints on the oven door
Left by a clutching, gasping guest or
A mechanic polishing the death machine
Which shoes were mine?
My shoes remember the journey…
Neighbors knew or guessed the foul smoke
While inside efficiency became a craft and beyond
Silent witnesses became complicit
Which shoes were mine?
I have Auschwitz on my shoes
Doesn’t everyone?
_______________
Ron Galbraith
--The morning after a visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau 2025
