Some years ago, I think it was 1995, I was in Germany returning from a visit to my fathers birthplace in Poprad, Slovakia. Soon after we entered Germany, in Bavaria, we saw road signs for Dachau. I had always thought Dachau must be like Auschwitz, way out in the boondocks somewhere. To my surprise, I found Dachau is a pretty Bavarian village and the concentration camp is right smack in the middle of town. Life, for the 'good' Germans, went on as usual, while others were sorted into orderly identifyable groups-Jews, homosexuals, political prisoners, mentally ill, Gypsies, Jehovahs Witnesses, etc. Each group had it's own distinguishing marking, which was sewn onto their prison uniforms. You know-yellow stars, purple triangles, etc. If you belonged to more than one group you had more than one ID patch. Well, visiting that place of death was like being punched in the stomach. People, including busloads of German school children, wept openly. Many had difficulty catching their breath. I was traveling with my cousin, a retired army colonel, and that night we stayed at an armed forces recreation reservation. The hotel was originally built as a retreat for Hitler himself, on a high promenade with a wide balcony overlooking an idylic lake far below. From the balcony the vista was beautiful and compeletly quiet.
The next day my cousin and I rode almost silently on the autobahn on lanes clearly designated for different speeds, past perfectly manicured fields and spotless towns and villages. It suddenly occurred to me that everything was perfect! There was no litter, no disruption of order at all. From that moment on I knew I would never again complain about noisy Harleys, a tissue dancing in a dirty alley, a pot hole, or anyone who is 'different.' I would revel in it and thank God for it.
