I was reading a book last night telling a story about a death house in France that has been preserved as a historic site because many members of the Resistances had died there. You can see what went on there.
This what the writer says
I found a photo displayed on a wall. Actually, there were a lot of photos of the Holocaust on the wall but this one never left me. It was black and white and it showed a woman walking down a wide path between towering electrified fences. By the look of the light it was late in the afternoon, and in the language of those times she was dressed like a peasant.
By chance there were no guards, no dogs, no watch-towers in the photo, though I’m sure they were there — just a lonely woman with a baby in her arms and her other two children holding tight to her skirt, stoic unwavering, supporting their tiny lives – helping them as best as any mother could – she walked them towards the gas chamber.
You could almost hear the about silence, smell the terror. I stared at it, both uplifted and devastated by the stark image of a family and a mother’s endless love
We moan because we had to spend four devastating weeks at home worrying about the effects it will have on the economy.