Braving the cold in croatia’s largest concentration camp electricity merit badge pamphlet

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We stepped off the train into a ghost town. Next to a roofless ruin of bricks covered in vines and carpeted in empty beer bottles sits the nominal Jasenovac Station, whose doors have been spray painted and locked and whose windows lay in shards of glass on the icy ground. Staring in confusion, my wife and I have no idea what happened here, but the image foreboded our visit: we were in Jasenovac to see Croatia’s largest concentration camp.

Jasenovac is reviled as one of the electricity kwh usage calculator darkest spots in Croatia’s history. No one can pinpoint exactly how many people died here during the camp’s four-year reign, but the modern consensus falls between 80,000 and 100,000, including 13,000 Jews and 20,000 electricity in the body causes children. Most victims were Serbian — a reminder that the widespread terror, which extended to Africa, Asia and the Balkans, ignited regionally specific crimes against humanity in every country.

Jasenovac was the largest camp his regime built, strategically located near an industrial plant and a small town called Novska, where two of Croatia’s major railways intersect. My wife and I stayed in Novska at an inn called Pansion Babić. While checking in, the owner — an elderly man with 76 gas station locations little English — looked up from him computer and asked me, apropos of nothing, “Catholic?”

We left Babić early the next morning for Jasenovac, a pleasant 10-minute train ride south. There is nothing much to see in Jasenovac between the rail station and the camp. Peeking above the low pastoral scenery we noticed the bulbous spire of the Diocese of Pakrac-Slavonia, a Serbian Orthodox church, but beelined instead to the concentration camp, crossing a wooden footbridge and a dreary concrete elementary school that sits immediately next to the camp’s museum, over the same earth where tens of thousands of people were once slaughtered.

He unlocked the museum door and asked us to wait in the lobby, where I noticed the guestbook. No one had signed it in the last week. When the employee returned, he pointed out the museum’s ceiling, where, on dozens of layers of hanging glass panes, the names of thousands of camp victims were inscribed. He then instructed us to start in the room to the left, where the first objects we saw were an axe, a mallet, a hammer and b games car a knife once used for killing prisoners.

The Ustashe were famous for not using massive gas chambers in their genocide, instead murdering by every other barbaric method: slit throats, starvation, dehydration, poison, hanging. Sometimes they would tie prisoners together electricity youtube with wire, slice open their guts and throw them in the Sava. (This horrific scene had the bonus consequence of contaminating the river, the inmates’ only water source for bathing and drinking.) The Sava river flows quietly along the camp’s remains. (Michael Fraiman photo)

During our visit in December, the sky was a cool grey. A family of ducks lifted up off the river and flew toward trees that swapped their leaves for chunks of snow. In the distance, the Stone Flower — a tall concrete memorial by renowned Serbian architect and urbanist Bogdan Bogdanović — stood powerfully still, unmovable by nature. The Stone Flower, a monument to the dead. (Michael Fraiman photo)

We walked a half-kilometre down the road to get a closer look at the monument, passing an old defunct train once used to cart prisoners to the camp. We saw a mass grave, blanketed by snow, holding thousands of buried remains. Across the river, mere metres a gas is a form of matter that away, we saw Bosnia and Herzegovina, where the Donja Gradina memorial commemorates the same atrocities.