An Essay by Jessica Golden
         

                      I stepped up into the railcar. The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet. I traced my fingers along the rough wood, closing my eyes to enlarge this confined space. There is no light, no sound. It is this silence that makes the most noise, it speaks in volumes; rings out with the cries of a disillusioned past, a standing memorial to the six million lives lost. I see them: huddled, alone, scared. I feel the heat of compressed bodies, the smell of an overused latrine, a mere bucket in the corner. There is no window for relief. I hear the moans of the sick, and the cries of the young. I cannot speak. There is nothing to say. I pay my respects. I silently leave the cattle car.
         
As I glanced back it stands there, haunted, a hollow skeleton. This is only one of many exhibits in the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. For two hours I walked with my classmates past infinite reminders of this unbelievable tragedy. Countless shoes, innumerable photographs, and authentic audio accounts from victims all left their lasting mark. I was raised as a Catholic, but my grandfather is Jewish, so I've always been interested in the Holocaust. When I was younger, 1 used to read incessantly on the topic, my fascination inexhaustible. But that was nothing to experiencing it firsthand. The Holocaust became real. It was no longer just a chapter in history class, briefly discussed, then forgotten. It was more than the books I had read. I was

looking at my own history, my own past . . . my own people. My emotions overcame me as 1 walked through the displays. Tears filled my eyes; I could see the fullest extent of human cruelty. How could human beings commit such heinous acts? More importantly, how could people just stand by and say nothing? I wanted to change what I saw; to go back to help, even just one person, despite the limiting constraints of time.

The Holocaust Museum was more than I had expected. I have never been on a school trip that impacted me so much. My whole perception of the world was altered in just a few hours. I am Jewish; I take more pride in that now than ever before. My respect for these courageous people increased with each exhibit I passed. The traumas they had to endure are something most others cannot comprehend. Seeing what they have survived and overcome inspires me. What they had to do day after day just to stay alive made my everyday problems seem frivolous. I have been blessed with a wonderful life, which I realize more clearly. I also see that it is my obligation to remember and cherish the bravery and sacrifice the Jews showed throughout the war. It has been over sixty years since the Holocaust occurred, but its memory remains strong. And as the memorial to the martyrs of the deportation in Paris reminds us, we must, "Pardonne, n'oublie pas."