Last time I went to Europe, I visited Dachau, a concentration camp in Munich, a place of imprisonment. This time around, I visited Omaha Beach, a place of liberation. It didn't feel like that.
They paved the pathway to Omaha Beach. They brought order and peace and a path to the place where World War II began to end. There was no liberation at that beach today.
The waves quietly hammered away at the sand, but there was no military mission there today. The sun poked out from behind the clouds, then hid again, but I could only hear the sound of voices, not gunshots, today. Down the beach, umbrellas dotted the sand; this is where tourists come to remember, and to eat and tan.
They have an entire cemetery in Normandy, where the names of 10,000 dead are remembered individually on white stone crosses. They filled the fields with crosses, faceless names that stretched on for as far as I could see. World War II veterans paused by some crosses, tipped their hats, crossed their hearts. I wonder what they remember.
At Dachau, there is only one memorial to commemorate the loss of so many lives, a sign, a sculpture that says, "Never again."
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