By Jason Worlledge

Exhausted and out of breath, I leaned my head against the cool window. My Aussie mate and I had barely made the bus to Oswiecim. We had both overslept and had to run to get to the station on time. I pulled my jacket tighter around my body as we left the city and drove into the snow-crusted countryside.

After unloading the bus, we walked down a long cobblestone path separating an industrial complex and a series of early twentieth century brick buildings that once housed a Polish Army garrison. We turned a corner and stopped, looking up at a metal archway that welcomed all who entered. "Arbeit Macht Frei," was twisted in rot-iron across the top. "Work Means Freedom." A chill ran through my body as we walked under it towards the visitor center. We had just entered Hell.

Halfway between the cities of Krakow and Katorwice is the small Polish village of Oswiecim, better known by its German name, Auschwitz. It was here that Hitler and the Nazi regime decided to construct and perfect their machine of death, systematically killing 1.5 million Europeans, most of whom were Jews.

At its peak, Auschwitz consisted of three main camps and nearly 40 sub-camps, but now all that remains are the original garrison buildings used to house the first camp, and Birkenau, the larger, second camp.

I spent an hour walking in and out of buildings filled with shoes, clothes, pots and pans, toothbrushes and combs; all of which had belonged to the prisoners who arrived and never left. The halls were lined with pictures, much like mug shots, taken in the early years of the war until the Nazis decided it was too costly. Along with these are personal accounts of the horrific conditions that they had to endure. Outside, the barbed wire fence that separated them from freedom was guarded by 40 foot towers with replicas of the machine guns used to mow down anyone attempting to escape.

Before leaving the garrison compound, I stopped at the first crematorium and gas chamber that the Nazis had built. It was here, that Cyclon-B was used for the first time, killing a group of Soviet prisoners and adding fuel to Hitler's Final Solution. As I walked in, all noise from the outside world was cut off and the only sound that could be heard was the crunching of dirt under my shoes. Candlelight flickered and slowly danced on the wall, as I looked down in horror wondering if it was ash I was walking on and not dirt.

This was a place of endless cold, so much that the bleak wintry-countryside was a welcome relief after exiting the building. We quickly turned away from the compound and walked down the trail linking the two camps.

Only the wind dared sound, whistling as it blew across the barren fields of snow. After a while, I looked up from my fixed gaze towards the ground and was stopped in my tracks by the sight. Through the fog and drizzling snow, I could see an endless barbed wire fence stretching out in front of me. Behind it was a field countless buildings, many of which lie in ruins with only their chimneys as proof that they ever existed.

This was Birkenau-Auschwitz II. Once the first camp was full, the Gestapo ordered the construction of this 425-acre camp, which housed nearly 100,000 prisoners and was fitted with four crematoria and gas chambers with two more makeshift gas chambers. Inside the fence, the scene was more terrifying.

The railway line had been extended through the main entrance, so that prisoners could be quickly unloaded from the boxcars and lined up for immediate extermination. Men, women and children alike were marched in, gassed, and cremated only after clothing, jewelry, and other valuables were stripped from their bodies. Even gold teeth were removed from the victims' mouths.

I sat down on the cold marble of the Monument to the Victims of Auschwitz and tried to understand how something like this could have happened. How could someone do this? Darkness clouded my thoughts and a feeling of complete hopelessness overwhelmed me. I buried my face into my hands and began to weep. I wanted to leave and never come back. I could not understand why I had ever wanted to come here.

As the tears continued to stream down my cheeks, a soft, sweet music began to rise above the wind. I wiped my face and nose and stood to see where the music was coming from. Standing on the ruins of K-III, the third crematoria, was a large group of people, holding hands and singing. As I neared, it was not sadness and tears that covered their faces, but smiles! Even the song sounded happy.

I climbed up and took a place standing next to a man who was also watching. After several minutes of the song, I turned and asked the man, in broken Polish, "Do you speak English?"

He replied, "Yes, a little bit."

"Do you know what they are singing about?"

He said, "It is Hebrew, a song for hope and happiness in a time of darkness. They sing the song to remind them to have strength and hope for the future, even when things look bad."

I stood listening for another several minutes before turning to leave. As I walked back to the bus station, I thought about all that I had seen. I thought about how I had only been there for three hours, twice as long as most prisoners who arrived for termination. I thought about the gas chambers and the machine gun nests. But as I looked out the window as we pulled away, one thought was stronger than the rest. I thought of hope.

(Editors' note: Jason Worlledge is a Durangoan, who is currently traveling abroad, and sending occasional submissions to the Telegraph.) ☯