No words. No words.
To offset our discomfort about our upcoming visit to the Terezín (in German: Theresienstadt) concentration camp/ghetto, Emmett and I fall into making dark jokes.
Gallows humor.
“Do you think they still give free tattoos upon arrival?”
“Want to wear matching pajamas for our tour?”
Dark, ugly jokes.
Because reality is just too overwhelming.
The feelings are too overwhelming.
So we mask with dark humor to help us cope.
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The Mayer family chose Prague as our vacation destination this year.
Annie wanted someplace Instagram-worthy.
Jane wanted nothing too humid.
Emmett wanted a place with deep history.
I wanted to get there with frequent flyer miles.
Prague 2026
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As Emmett is curious about the Holocaust, I hire a guide to take the two of us from our Prague hotel to Terezín (Theresienstadt).
The Nazis staged this looks-reasonably-good-on-the-outside ghetto/camp/settlement to show international observers and to prevent them from seeing what was actually happening to the Jews.
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Veronica, our guide, meets us and introduces herself in perfect English.
“Dobrý den, jmenuji se Brian,” I say to introduce myself, despite having gotten zero positive feedback on my attempts to speak Czech.
Veronica laughs politely, points to the car, and asks, “Where would you like to sit?”
Dryly, I reply, “Inside.”
I take my seat next to my 19-year-old son in the backseat.
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As we drive, we talk about languages we have learned—me, Spanish and Hebrew; her, Spanish and English. Though her father and grandparents spoke German fluently, they wouldn’t teach it to her.
We talk about the 78,000 names written on the walls of Prague’s Pinkas Synagogue.
Jewish victims from Czech land arranged by last known town of residence, alphabetically by name.
I can’t get it through my head that each birthdate, date of departure, and—when known—date of death is a person.
We talk about the display upstairs, with 200 or so children’s drawings made in the Terezín camp on scraps of paper.
I can’t help but contemplate that there were little fingers, arms, and living, breathing, innocent children connected to the hands that made them.
I sense an alternative timeline in which my family and I are on the trains, and my children are the ones who drew transports, overcrowding, imprisonment, homes, family, and dreams.
I look beside me, at my son, looking out the window, listening to music.
I shudder.
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Terezín looks no different from many other Czech towns.
There is a town square. A church. A cafe. A bank. A small market.
Unless you know to make your way to the back of the town, you wouldn’t know there is a museum in this less-than-half-a-square mile former ghetto.
60,000 prisoners were confined by walls and fences that no longer exist.
33,000 died.
88,000 passed through before deportation to other ghettos, camps, and killing centers.
These numbers are too large to make sense of.
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The museum plays silent film footage of Jewish prisoners living what look like normal lives—playing soccer, cooking, eating, studying at tables, painting, looking attentive as musicians move instruments, and actors on a small stage move about.
All staged.
All what the Nazis wanted outsiders to see.
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As we walk through the museum, I find over and over—without realizing it— that I’ve put my hands over my ears.
At the time, I assume it is an unconscious attempt to shield myself from hearing any more.
Now, I wonder if it wasn’t also a signal of surrender.
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We continue into a room filled with art in display cases.
Subtle, but un-ignorable, a single strand of barbed wire crisscrosses the ceiling overhead—a reminder that while this is a clean, pristine museum—where we stand was part of a concentration camp.
On one side of the room, well-lit display cases hold beautiful art—Nazi propaganda—prisoners were forced to produce.
On the other side of the room, well-lit display cases hold haunting art prisoners made in secret to document the reality that was not seen.
I take one of the few photos I take all day.
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We leave the museum and make one more stop.
The crematorium.
An unremarkable brick building with an unremarkable wooden door.
We enter in silence.
It is holy ground.
Un-lit tealight candles and a box of matches sit on the desk of the expressionless security guard.
I put some money down and take two candles.
“Em”—one quiet, short sound comes out of my mouth.
I stretch out my hand.
He reaches, takes a candle from me.
The twin black metal furnaces command our attention.
They look like the out-of-place innards of two train engines.
My mind makes sense of what I’m looking at—twin metal-wheeled sleds that rolled along tracks to load corpses inside.
Right there is the pulley system that opened and closed the thick metal door.
Right here.
I’m right here with my son.
Right here.
I place my candle on a metal tray, light it, and softly close my eyes.
I feel Emmett do the same.
I lose myself inside myself for a long while.
No words.
No words.
