Oh, the crowd goes to church every Sunday. They love to sing the hymns and hear the stories of God. But how is this possible? Have they not seen the photos? Am I the only one? How can one see these photos and live? How can one see these photos and love? How are we not destroyed? How can we move forward? I do not ask these questions to spark a conversation. These images are beyond human conversation. I fear most the lack of fear. These photos cannot be hidden. They speak silently a truth that screams! I cover my ears to save myself in despair. Their voice penetrates the thickest shield.
How can I say I am human? Yet I am. I must now say “we.” Am I not one of them? The photos are out. All has been revealed. I can no longer pretend. I can no longer say, “It was them.” Are these not my family photos?
How do we write a history of such acts? Is there time that can absolve me of this awful blood? Are there enough yesterdays, tomorrows? Can this blood be quantified? Can it be described? It will be short-sighted to pass this off as evil. It is of a different kind of action. The face of evil is not captured in these photos. Evil cannot accomplish the holocaust. Evil is a much weaker force.
How do we write a history of such acts? A history can’t be written but we must write one nevertheless. No, a history will not allow us to move on. How can we move on? I must understand them, those who created the reality imaged in these photos. No, I must go further into their madness. I must experience the normality of these acts. I must experience them without being their victim. This will be the most dangerous act. Many have gone there and not returned. Can my soul survive this journey?
Almost one hundred years have passed and these photos remain an enigma. Are they an evil enigma? No. This understanding is imperative. It is not evil with which we contend. We are in a different realm? Is it knowledge? No, knowledge is the tool of evil. Am I to become one of them? I don’t see how I can and survive! But can I understand them without such closeness? I don’t see how such thoughts are possible, yet horror paralyzes me in the though that thinking is so easily possible. Such thoughts shake my body in spasms. Who is the one who fomented such hate? To whom will we point? Such a weak and selfish action.
So shall we pontificate and ask, What is thinking? Shall we hide behind a question? Can a question be our salvation? That is the issue; how shall we be saved? How far such questions miss the issue! How do we look at such photos and ask: “What is thinking?”
Do not the acts represented in such photos replace the possibility of faith, transcend human thought? Who is the one who inspired these deeds? Is this the place we should begin? Do our answers lie elsewhere? I look at the photos again. They destroy the sacraments. They have replaced the possibility of faith.
Who is this man so filled with hate and with so much love for his people? What was the madness that settled into his heart? How did his hate dominate him? Can love and hate coexist? Can love affect hate? Does hate affect love? These are important questions to be considered. How do a people conspire to hate? How can this be so easily achieved? Has there ever been a people who achieved as much love as these people have achieved hate? Why is love more difficult to achieve than hate? We have conspired to hate a people. Could we as easily aspire to love them? Would the consequences be as great? Is hate an emotion or a state of the soul? What about love? If a condition of the soul, would it be better to not have a soul?
What is the little man with a mustache? We must ask ourselves how you got into our hearts. Was it you or us? We blame you, little man. We give you much more credit than you’re due. We exclaim, “We were seduced!” These awful photos are not ours. Yes, we are in them; we were innocent by-standers. We did not know. These deeds are beyond our imaginations. We are not geniuses.
Who is the little man with the mustache? We have never seen this man. We do not know this man. Your name sizzles on our tongue burning through our tender flesh. Our thoughts launch themselves from our aching mouth. We have seen your kind before. This is not our first fall. Will it be our last?
Who is this little man with the mustache? His mustache captivates our minds and hearts. Our seduction falls short of our responsibility. Our seduction lies with another. We maintain we do not know. What are these photos? We do not know them. It is the mustache that we adore. It gives us courage and hope. We were whittled down to a bare stick. We no longer recognized ourselves. We had nothing more to lose. There was one thing we could call ours; this mustache we had left us. They had whittled us down to this mustache.
What is this mustache? From what realm does it come? We have seen mustaches before, but we have never been so transfixed. We have never been so transformed. Our hearts had always been ours until now, until this mustache appeared. What is this power that irresistibly commands us? Why cannot we resist? Our lives have become a question mark we cannot answer.
This little man in a mustache, have we seen him before? There is something about his movements that calls to something deep inside us. We sense we have heard this call in years before; we might have recognized but we were too enthralled. Our reality has become too heavy; he lifts it from our weary bacs. He wins our gratitude.