Many people look at some memorials as beautiful works of art. Many look at some memorials and wonder why they were even created. And many look at memorials and cry.
These can be tears of joy, remembering the good things invoked by the one being remembered. These can be tears of sorrow for the atrocities others had to endure.
When I say that memorials are necessary, it is to remind us that if we don't look to the past, how can we look to the future? If we don't think on the atrocities others have had to endure, then how can we possibly grasp the significance or desire to help end suffering for those around us now?
And when I say that memorials are unique, it's to say that I believe each one (even if similar in design or construction) has a unique relationship transaction that has caused someone or some group to commission it's creation.
We can look at memorials when we travel or in our own home towns and simply admire (or not) the artfulness of it. But, there are those that you will come across that in some way move you, intellectually, emotionally, religiously, etc. And you might not be prepared for that moment. This latter was my experience on our last morning in Budapest this past Saturday.
Last year, I had hoped to locate and view and take pictures of The Shoes on the Danube Bank memorial. With the tour bus, and with the walking trips I took, I never found it only to realize on our return this year that on two different occasions last year, I was only about 5 minutes away from it.
This year, I was determined to see it. But, I didn't see it until our last day there. This was not an emotional decision, rather purely a physical one. The full day we had to tour together, I was too tired and achy by the time we would have walked to it. And Tim didn't have any more free day time until our last morning, so I waited to go when he could go too.
Along our walk to it, we were talking and laughing, enjoying our time together. As we arrived upon the memorial the crowd along it was large and a bit claustrophobic and all I could think of was sitting for a couple of minutes to gather my energy to "deal" with the large crowd of strangers, all just wanting their chance to get close enough for a tourist picture. Then a small gap opened in front of me and what I saw was nothing spectacular in it's physical form, but something that attacked my emotions in a tangible way. There, just 8 feet away from me where 5 bronze shoes, part of the memorial that lines a 20 foot section of the Danube bank on the Pest side near the Parliament building, with 60 pairs of shoes in total.
Two men shoes, two women shoes and 1 baby shoe. As I stood to join the throng of tourists, I was thinking, "surely not the babies too", but yes, the babies too. As my mind struggles to grasp this, my eyes are telling me it must be true. As I search on my phone to find out, I dread what will show up for me to read and to my dismay, I find that this memorial is just a small representation of the atrocities that occurred in Hungary during World War II.They estimate 3500 were killed along the Danube, forced to strip naked and remove their shoes before being shot in the back at close range so that their bodies would fall into the river and be washed away so that the soldiers wouldn't have to dig to bury them. They had to strip and especially remove their shoes because they could sell the clothes and shoes and make extra money.
As everyone else, we did take our pictures, but unlike most as we walked away we found the nearest bench (but not the one that is part of the memorial) to sit and reflect. We needed to. I couldn't have continued walking at that moment. Not because of being tired or achy, but rather because my mind couldn't communicate to my feet to carry me any further until it had processed what I'd just seen and read. I think Tim may have been feeling similarly.
In my just-under-50 years, I've experience loss and some of it tragic. But, I've experience nothing like these people just 70 years ago experienced. Mothers and Fathers removing their children's clothing and shoes, then their own, knowing all the while that they and their children and going to be killed for no other reason than their heritage.
This memorial is a reminder to me to be grateful for each day, each freedom I have, my children, my husband, my family and friends whom I have many opportunities to fellowship with, laugh with, cry with and share memories with. This memorial is sobering and thought-provoking. But as I think back on it, I realize it is also a reminder of the promise that the atrocities of this world do not have the final say. This memorial reminds me that we have hope and grace and nothing in this fallen world can take those away.
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