ABSTRACT
From Weimar, through forests, on soggy, marshy ground, a ten-kilometer road winds its way toward Buchenwald. Paved with asphalt, mixed in with the sweat and blood of thousands of victims who there breathed the last gasp from their tormented souls. From the distance, the silhouettes of the marchers become clearer, part of a larger mass of thousands of bareheaded people, many carrying rucksacks and even suitcases on their backs. One man bends down to tie his shoelace, are shot, and fall with the uncompleted words of the Shema prayer on his lips. To the left and right of the rock are two gates, each guarded by SS men. Next to the right-hand gate is the main guardhouse and on the left is the post office. The gates swing open and we are greeted by wild screams and the thud of rifle butts hard against our bodies.
