January 30, 2013

Welcome to Budapest, Hungary! We arrived early this afternoon after a peaceful train ride across the border. This is a lovely country too—many buildings resemble the architecture of the ones in Vienna. Even in the misty rain, everything was just as breathtaking.

After grabbing lunch once we arrived to avoid keeling over from starvation, we walked across one of the bridges that goes over the Danuee River and connects the former cities of Buda and Pest. We took a trolley up to a beautiful castle that sat on the edge of the mountain, looking over the city. It was located in what used to be controlled by the Germans in 1944. After taking some super touristy pictures, we headed back down the mountain and took the subway under the river to where the Parliament building is located. The sun was quickly setting, the rain was falling harder, and we still had one stop down the street. Classy as always, we jumped the guardrails, giggling and laughing about God knows what, but fell silent as soon as we realized what we were looking at. On the edge of the concrete walkway, looking over the riverbank, were dozens of bronze shoes-- a memorial for Jews that were shot into the river by Hungarian police in the 1940’s.

There were men, women, and children shoes. Scattered in pairs, some with candles burning inside of them. Right on the edge. Where we were standing. Then it hit me; this wasn’t a memorial in remembrance, not a museum with pieces of their lives. This was a killing site. I was standing where so many innocent people screamed, cried, or took their last breath. I began to picture it. Gunshot. They’d fall into the river. Sink or float down shores, depending on what the weather would have been. Then I looked at the shoes. They could have been left. People could have been shot clear out of their shoes. And that’s all that’s left of them. A memorial of bronze shoes attached to the edge of a beautiful river walkway.

I was glad it was raining at this point. It seemed like the sky was crying for such a terrible tragedy. Or maybe I was. I guess I’ll never know. I was weak in the knees, and my stomach was in knots anyway. I wish I could go back in time and reverse what happened. But still, I can’t help but think of the police who shot them. Surely, this took its own toll on them. No one can be completely heartless to not feel pity, or even regret later on. No one could be that mean. Could they?

As powerful as this memorial was, it definitely was one of the best things we have seen since we arrived in Central Europe. In the midst of all of this sadness, it puts me at peace to see something meaningful for the first time in a while.