Traversing crushed gravel generates noise. So does walking on a platform. Eyeing departure dates, destinations — Lodz, Theresienstadt, Auschwitz — and tallies doesn’t, but wind gusts and intermittent storms do, as does a nearby train, which still runs 80 years after 10,000 German Jews negotiated cobblestone and ascended Track 17.
Few people talked after we arrived at the Grunewald Station memorial. There was no tour guide, no one to voice the site’s significance, but steel plates and railroad ties speak.
As rain fell and handouts tore, that harmonious pair, speech and silence, kept reappearing.
Several individuals recited passages celebrating dignity, democracy and a “respect” for human life. Most people stayed quiet. One participant, a rabbinical student, read the Jewish memorial prayer. Everyone answered amen. Some of us sang Hebrew songs. All of us stepped closer and embraced.
Moments later there was no announcement signaling our visit’s end. The bus was nearby so we walked there, over crushed gravel, and entered opened doors. We placed our feet against the private vehicle’s carpeted steps. The slightest sound emerged.