This March break, 11 students and two faculty members are traveling to Berlin, Prague, and Krakow to explore the idea of monuments and memorials and their role in public memory, and learn more about the Holocaust and how Germany, Czechoslovakia, and Poland responded in the late 20th century and early 21st century to the study of Holocaust memory, public art, and their fusion in contemporary life. Please enjoy the blog post below from Carter ’28 and Shahana ’26 where they share their experiences in Prague and Terezin, reflecting on the city’s preserved beauty, the weight of Holocaust history, and the resilience and hope found in the stories and artwork of those who suffered.
Prague is a beautiful city. Those were my first thoughts as I stepped off the bus. Just one day prior, I had been drooling over the beauty of Dresden and its architecture, and once again, my jaw slammed down into the cobblestone ground. Prague, very fortunately, was not bombed to ashes like Dresden—this can be seen in the architecture from centuries ago that still decorates the buildings of the city. Various little squares are adorned with majestic castles that reach towards the heavens. Along the streets, candy shops and cute little markets filled with cheery children and adults infuse the city with a joyful atmosphere.
Our first stop in Prague was U Pinkasu, a restaurant where we ate quite a few potato dishes and celebrated a birthday. Afterward, we wandered the streets of Prague and stepped aboard a boat for a tour along the Vltava River—the longest river in the Czech Republic. Here, we saw the city from further away as well as some notable landmarks like the Petřín Tower, a loose imitation of the Eiffel Tower, and Prague Castle, one of the largest ancient castles in the world.
Although our time in Prague today did not exactly follow the theme of the Holocaust, through our journeying of the city, we saw glimpses of the Europe of the past through the lavish architecture of Prague. Today, March 15th, however, is the 86th anniversary of the Nazi invasion of Czechoslovakia, which the Czech Republic once belonged to. Although the planning of our arrival in the Czech Republic likely unintentionally landed on the anniversary of the Nazi invasion, I found this to be an important point of reflection. On this very date 86 years ago, the Nazis began the ruthless murders of over 250,000 Czechoslovakian Jews. Read that again, think it through, digest it, acknowledge it, and remember it. – Carter ‘
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Today began with our first and last breakfast in Dresden, where we gathered in quiet anticipation. Afterward, we left the hotel early in the morning, embarking on the journey from Dresden to Terezin, in the Czech Republic. For me, this visit was unlike any other. While we had visited places like the Wannsee Conference House, where Nazi leaders met to plan the “Final Solution”, and seen pictures of terror in museums, nothing truly prepared me for the reality of standing in the very place where so much suffering had occurred.
Terezin was a former military fortress that the Nazis transformed into a ghetto for Jewish people during World War II. The stories I had read about the ghetto suddenly came to life in a way that felt almost overwhelming. It was the first time I could physically feel the weight of the history. Walking through the rooms, seeing the spaces where people had once lived and suffered, and imagining the horrors they endured—this was where the brutality hit me hardest. The land beneath my feet felt charged with their suffering. It wasn’t just history anymore. It was real, it was present!
A bit down the road, we visited the Ghetto Museum, where one of the most poignant parts of the visit unfolded. From the audio guide, I learned about Irena Synkova, a teacher in the camp who gave the children hope by teaching them how to draw, read, do math, and even write poetry. When her transport number to Auschwitz was called, she wrapped the children’s artwork in her shawl and buried it beneath the barracks for safekeeping. After the war, the artwork was discovered and is now displayed at different museums. There, we saw drawings created by children who had been imprisoned in Terezin. These children had witnessed unspeakable horrors, yet their artwork was filled with symbols of hope. In the face of darkness, there were rainbows, flowers, butterflies, and superheroes. Some drawings depicted scenes of daily life—simple moments of joy, even in the worst of circumstances. It was as though they had taken their suffering and transformed it into something that could reach beyond the walls of their prison, a glimpse of the world they longed for. This made me reflect on a picture I had taken at the Jewish Museum in Berlin. The photo showed a narrow slit in a concrete tower, through which only a faint light penetrated. The heavy walls muffled any sounds from the outside world, leaving everything eerily silent. I wondered if that small, dim light could symbolize hope—the hope that Irena Synkova had for her students, or the hope those children found in their drawings. Even in the darkest of places, there was still a spark of light, however faint, guiding them through the despair. (See below for the image)
Last but not least, I thought about Franta Bass, a young poet who lived in Terezin and whose work has stayed with me since our visit. His poems, written as a child in such a horrific environment, have a haunting beauty. In “A Little Garden”, he writes about the fleeting innocence of a child’s life—innocence that is cut short by the brutal realities of war. I was deeply moved by the poem, and it inspired me to write my own in response.
A Little Boy’s Dream
His fingers trace the endless sky,
A rainbow stretched through ashen light.
Yet where the flowers dare to rise,
His shadow lingers—lost from sight.
In petals soft, in whispers deep,
The boy’s dreams bloom where none can weep.
A fragile hope, a memory sown,
A garden where he’s not alone.
He’s gone, yet here—his voice remains,
A quiet echo through the pains.
Not just a name, not just a past,
Remember him. Let him outlast.
-Shahana ’26
