Subject: Kafka == tears (was: Re: Have this one no me)
From: jason varsoke (jjv@caesun.msd.ray.com)
Date: Tue Mar 28 2000 - 13:49:09 EST
Charotte wrote:
> paul,
> thank you, thank you! i spent last night reading max brod's 'postscript to
> the first edition (1925)' in my knopf copy of 'the trial', weeping. (my
> husband kept pestering me as to why. men!) (sorry, guys) yes, your memory
> serves you well: the 10 notebooks are mentioned there. amid the tears, i
> couldn't help but think of an old man in cornish.
In 1996 I was backpacking through europe. In Prague I visited the
Kafka museam where I haggled the last English copy of Kafka's Biography
_K_. On the 13 hr train [read slow boat to china] I took to Auschwitz I
read most for the bio, which is pretty repetitive: Kafka had problems with
his father, Kafka had problems as a Jew, Kafka wrote, Kafka was friends
with Max Brod, Kafka hated his father, Kafka hated his father, Kafka hated
his father.
At the end of my train ride I had just skimmed a part about Kafka's
sisters and how, though he didn't make it to WWII they did. They were in
concentration camps.
The museam at Auschwitz shouted a strange message into the ears of the
visitors. The message was this, "The Holocaust REALLY happened!" To me
this was like someone trying to convince me that George Washington was the
first president of the US. I thought the rest of the world knew that
anti-holocaust people were just as sane as the flat-earthers. But here
was this entire museam proving the holocaust to me.
Most of the exhibits were rooms of tooth brushes, prosthetics, hair,
clothes, etc. I walked through at museam speed, strolling through the
isles, pondering, but not to hard. Gotta keep the line moving. But I was
caught in the luggage room.
Amongst all the suitcases, hat boxes, and cosmetic cases was one piece
of luggage that ran me through. On the side of a tan suitcase was a white
outline of Chekelovakia (sp!) with a star inside with the label "Prag"
(German spelling of Prague). Most of the suitcases had names painted on
them. This one read, "Marie Kafka."
I paralyized as if two hunder and twenty volts surged through my feet.
My hair literarly stood on end. I couldn't move, just stare. It was as
if so many degrees of seperation were made into three. He was no longer
this great writer I adored from afar. All the world for that moment was
Kafka, Marie and Me. I lost about 20 minutes somewhere in that stare. My
back was clamy and soaked when I left.
The rest of Auschwitz didn't affect me nearly the same way; nothing
ever has. I know this measly email doesn't come close to even the shadow
of the experience. It was as if the skeletal hand of old grimmy reached
out of the suitcase and clutched my heart in it's cold grip. It was as if
for a moment I understood the holocaust.
A month later I finished _K_ and found that Franz Kafka's sisters
didn't got to Auschwitz and neither was named Marie. I'm glad I didn't
know this at the time. (Since that time I've questioned the value of
facts as truth).
When I was there in `96 there was also a man who gave tours from the US
to Auschwitz. He was a survivor of Auschwitz - hid in a toilet. He gave
tours to Americans and explained the more human side of that black place.
I talked to him for a half hour on the bus. It's something I'll never
forget. I don't have his contact info, but I recommend his tour to
everyone.
go about your day. Be happy you don't know a hell like Auschwitz.
-jason
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