Wednesday, July 4, 2012 | Krakow, Poland

I did not have the chance to write from Oswieciem this time around. This visit to Auschwitz and Birkenau was quite different. It was much, much harder than last time. I think it's partly because I went alone. I walked through the Birkenau death camp alone because I knew I had to. But the vastness of the camp affected me differently than last time. It ate me. It brought me to my barest senses, nearly knocking out my consciousness, leaving behind only my instinct to cry and my instinct to pray, to recite Yizkor for the souls that need it there. The place is filled with unfufilled souls. And I do believe they need it there, much more of it, with certainty. As usual, a lightning storm began and it rained huge raindrops as I sat on the ground alone and prayed. But I got up--the rain felt good; it was the one predictable thing about my second visit to Birkenau.

I have been asking everyone I can here about why they visit Auschwitz. Here, it's an ordinary tourist destination, but the sort that comes with a moral obligation, so to speak. "Well, it's an important part of history," they say. Or, "I'm here, don't I have to?" Having grown up in the community I did, I've never heard these answers before. Usually people say to me, "Why are you going there?"

And after this trip, I'm not really sure.

Aurite and I each essentially experienced Auschwiz individually so that we could take from it what we needed independently. This was at once necessary yet immensely tough. But along my solo journey through the museum exhibition that the Auschwitz labor camp has become, a strange thing happened, and I thought to myself how strange things always happen in this place.

A man and a woman, clearly married, both around the age of 60, were hurrying past my tour group, looking frantic and concerned. The man called to me guide twice, "Where's the exit?" Because she was using a microphone that broadcast her voice into about 40 people's headsets, my tour guide clearly could not offer a comprehensive explanation about where the exit was, so although she gestured, the couple had to tag along with us for a little bit.

I approached them because they were holding roses. Last time I visit my grandma's barrack in Birkenau, I found a rose there in her bunk. I didn't realize this was customary, but I found comfort in knowing I was not alone in honoring the 16 women who slept in the middle tier of the last wooden bunk on the right side of women's Barrack number 9. This time, I wanted to be the one to bring the rose, so I could maybe offer someone else that feeling. But I hadn't come across a place to buy the flowrs in either Krakow or Oswieciem. So I went over to the couple and said, "Excuse me, but where did you get the roses? Did you buy them here?" I tried to explain that I wanted to place one in Birkenau in honor of my grandma and her sisters, but my voice was slowly breaking, and anyway, the man interrupted me.

"Take mine," he insisted. "We're leaving."

"Take mine too," said the woman. "We can't go. It's too emotional."

With both roses suddenly thrust into my hands, I hardly knew what to do, feeling guilty about taking away something precious from these people I didn't even know. "Are you sure,?" I said. "Because I only need one--"

The woman stopped me. "Take them." All right. And then, "Are you Jewish?"

What a question. "Yes," I said. I realized that over the entire course of my travels through Eastern Europe, no one yet had thouht to ask me that upon first encounter. She was the first.

She said, "I knew it. You're Jewish. I could tell. So your grandma was here?"

"Yes, both my grandmothers."

"They were Polish?"

"No, Czech," I managed.

"Ah, my mother was Polish."

We had reached the exist.

"Have a good day," I ventured, not knowing what else to wish them.

Already halfway out the exit gate, she said, "I'll try."

And then, "I'm here."

And finally, "Am Yisrael Chai." And then they were gone.

I had two roses. I did not expect to have any roses, but now I had two. Returning to my group, I now realized that I was the only person carrying roses. And that this was precisely why I had returned to Auschwitz. Because most people cannot.

But somehow, with some unknown strength or energy, I don't know why--and sometimes I wish, honestly, that I couldn't--but I made it back. I went, and the barrack was locked due to preservation issues, so I couldn't go inside. And so I had no privacy. Trudging through the rain, I cut under the ropes that closed off the women's camp and placed the roses by the door, not knowing what else to do. And then I collapsed on a concrete block, grasped my umbrella which was boldly labeled "Krakow Day Tours" and which I'd been given exclusively for my solitary journey to Barrack #9, and hoping it didn't blow away, as it seemed to be hailing by that point in Birkenau.

Every article of clothing I am currently wearing is inside out. We booked the wrong bus ticket out of Poland and had to buy another. I lost the Krakow JCC director's business card. We aren't sure if the lockers in this hostel work, since aurite found a Peruvian passport and a camera inside hers. I don't know what these hints mean. I don't know if anybody means to hint at anything to begin with. But we are going back to Budapest tomorrow, and to Ljubljana the day after that, so I'll think more once we're back on our oh-so-reliable Orange Ways coach.