By now， fourteen years after the last batch of prisoners was herded naked into the gas chambers by dogs and guards， the story of Auschwitz has been told a great many times. Some of the inmates have written of those memories of which sane men cannot conceive. Rudolf Franz Ferdinand Hoess， the superintendent of the camp， before he was executedwrote his detailed memoirs of mass exterminations and the experiments on living bodies. Four million people died here， the Poles say.
And so there is nonews to report about Auschwitz. There is merely the compulsion to write something about it， a compulsion that grows out of a restless feeling that to have visited Auschwitz and then turned away without having said or written anything would somehow be a most grievous act of discourtesy to those who died here.
Brzezinka and Oswiecim are very quiet places now； the screams can no longer be heard. The tourist walks silently， quickly at first to get it over with and then， as his mind peoples the barracks and the chambers and the dungeons and flogging posts， he walks draggingly. The guide does not say much either， because there is nothing much for him to say after he has pointed.
For every visitor there is one particular bit of horror that he knows he will never forget. For some it is seeing the rebuilt gas chamber at Oswiecim and being told that this is the “small one.”
For others it is the fact that at Brzezinka， in the ruins of the gas chambers and the crematoria the Germans blew up when they retreated， there are daisies growing.
There are visitors who gaze blankly at the gas chambers and the furnaces because their minds simply cannot encompass them， but stand shivering before the great mounds of human hair behind the plate- glass window or the piles of babies’ shoes or the brick cells where men sentenced to death by suffocation were walled up.
One visitor opened his mouth in a silent scream simply at the sight of boxes—great stretches of three-tiered wooden boxes in the women’s barracks. They were about six feet wide， about three feet high， and into them from five to ten prisoners were shoved for the night. The guide walks quickly through the barracks. Nothing more to see here.
A brick building where sterilization experiments were carried out on women prisoners. The guide tries the door—it’s locked. The visitor is grateful that he does not have to go in， and then flushes with shame.
A long corridor where rows of faces stare from the walls. Thousands of pictures， the photographs of prisoners. They are all dead now， the men and women who stood before the cameras， and they all knew they were to die.
They all stare blank-faced， but one picture， in the middle of a row， seizes the eye and wrenches the mind. A girl， twenty-two years old， plumply pretty， blond. She is smiling gently， as at a sweet， treasured thought. What was the thought that passed through her young mind and is now her memorial on the wall of the dead at Auschwitz？
Into the suffocation dungeons the visitor is taken for a moment and feels himself strangling. Another visitor goes in， stumbles out， and crosses herself. There is no place to pray in Auschwitz.
The visitors look pleadingly at each other and say to the guide， “Enough.”
There is nothing new to report about Auschwitz. It was a sunny day and the trees were green and at the gates the children played.
32
The True Heroes
真正的英雄
We come together today to mourn the loss of seven brave Americans， to share the grief we all feel and， perhaps in that sharing， to find the strength to bear our sorrow and the courage to look for the seeds of hope.
Our nation’s loss is first a profound personal loss to the family and the friends and loved ones of our shuttle astronauts. To those they have left behind—the mothers， the fathers， the husbands and wives， brothers， sisters， and yes， especially the children—all of America stands beside you in your time of sorrow.
What we say today is only an inadequate expression of what we carry in our hearts. Words pale in the shadow of grief； they seem insufficient even to measure the brave sacrifice of those you loved and we so admired. Their truest testimony will not be in the words we speak， but in the way they led their lives and in the way they lost those lives—with dedication， honor and an unquenchable desire to explore this mysterious and beautiful universe.
The best we can do is remember our seven astronauts—our Challenger Seven—remember them as they lived， bringing life and love and joy to those who knew them and pride to a nation.
They came from all parts of this great country—from South Carolina to Washington State； Ohio to Mohawk， New York； Hawaii to North Carolina to Concord， New Hampshire. They were so different， yet in their mission， their quest， they held so much in common.
We remember Dick Scobee， the commander who spoke the last words we heard from the space shuttle Challenger. He served as a fighter pilotin Vietnam， earning many medals for bravery， and later as a test pilot of advanced aircraft before joining the space program. Danger was a familiar companion to Commander Scobee.
We remember Michael Smith， who earned enough medals as a combat pilot to cover his chest， including the Navy Distinguished Flying Cross， three Air Medals—and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Silver Star， in gratitude from a nation that he fought to keep free.
We remember Judith Resnik， known as J. R. to her friends， always smiling， always eager to make a contribution， finding beauty in the music she played on her piano in her off-hours.
We remember Ellison Onizuka， who， as a child running barefoot through the coffee fields and macadamia groves of Hawaii， dreamed of someday traveling to the Moon. Being an Eagle Scout， he said， had helped him soar to the impressive achievement of his career.