Personal Narrative: My Night At Auschwitz

My first taste of Auschwitz began in the snow. While walking in with My umbrella, receiving the cold, icy breathe of the wind through my millions of layers, hearing nothing but the sound of my boots walking on the stones beneath my feet and seeing hundreds of buildings made of brick aligned in perfectly symmetrical blocks, with muddy, stoned pathways separating them, surrounded by double barbed wire and a wooden watchtower on every side.

Once arriving at the Warsaw Chopin Airport, my nerves finally took its path; I felt my heart beating faster and my legs beginning to shake. I was about to experience the atrocities of a city with my own eyes, and I had no idea if I was able to handle it. When taking my first step outside the airport into …show more content…
After arriving back from shull we requested from the receptionist if anyone was available to help us in the lift for those of us who keep shabbos while staying on the eighteenth floor and use our room key to turn on the electricity in the room (you put the room key in a pouch when you walked in the room to turn on the electricity), who replied to us relatively rudely, telling us that we can press the buttons ourselves and that we should have thought of these things earlier. It was clear she not enjoy having so many Jews in her hotel by now. It is clear in a city where Jews were hated there is still much anti-Semitism to …show more content…
While walking in with My umbrella, receiving the cold, icy breathe of the wind through my millions of layers, hearing nothing but the sound of my boots walking on the stones beneath my feet and seeing hundreds of buildings made of brick aligned in perfectly symmetrical blocks, with muddy, stoned pathways separating them, surrounded by double barbed wire and a wooden watchtower on every side. Except a small stroke of grass surrounded where the nazi men slept. Our tour of Auschwitz started with our guide telling us how each building had been untouched on the outside, however on the inside some had been renovated into a museum. Each building I walked into told a different storie. The first room showed thousands of prisoner’s pictures on the wall, taken like a mug shot in their striped pajamas. The room followed into one of Dr Mengele’s victims, a wall filled with mug shots of children, as well as under-dressed gypsy children to skin and bone. The other buildings we rushed through of the punishments the prisoners would receive if they disobeyed and the original rooms they would stay in, ones to be starved, others with a lack of oxygen and ones where there was only room to stand for days. The other rooms were showing the barracks they used to squish on to sleep, thousands of glasses piled up together, thousands of hair brushes stacked together, thousands of pots and pans the prisoners packed before leaving their homes, masses of hair