Crossing Borders: Conceptualising National Exhibitions as Contested Spaces of Holocaust Memory at the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum

Abstract

This paper considers the presence and potential educational impact of national exhibitions within the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum in Poland. It takes a constructivist, personal-theoretical approach, drawing from autoethnography to explore possible visitor experiences at two of the national exhibits. Through detailed reflection on the French exhibition (Block 20) and the Dutch exhibition (Block 21), the author conducts a thematic analysis on the content in order to consider the constructions and possible intentions of the narratives presented. This is used to consider how the (relatively unvisited) exhibitions might contribute to visitors’ developing understandings of the complex history of the Holocaust. Particularly, the author considers how the national exhibits might contribute to the education of young people at the museum, and, by extension, at other sites, memorials, or educational spaces. The paper concludes that the inclusion of these complex national narratives is vital in young people gaining an understanding of the Holocaust as a multi-layered event. The paper offers a model for enabling inclusive Holocaust Education that embraces: (1.) divergent historical narratives (such as those in the national exhibitions), (2.) young people’s emotional engagement and responses to those narratives, and (3.) the Holocaust (and its representations) as a ‘contested space’ of history.

1. Introduction

Visiting the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum ‘provides a unique opportunity… [with] unrivalled potential’ for young people to learn more about the history of the Holocaust [1] (p. 45). While it is ‘the most significant memorial site of the Shoah [Holocaust]’, it is important to remember that ‘it is also the most complex: neither its shape nor location are fixed’ [2] (p. 232). Yet the collection of buildings that constitute the present-day museum welcomed in excess of two million visitors per annum for four consecutive years prior to the COVID-19 pandemic [3]. Most of these visitors (about 81% in 2019) were guided by official museum educators, delivering educational content in a range of languages. At the time, the museum reported having received ‘more and more’ enquiries from potential visitors who hoped to deepen their understanding ‘of the fate of communities from their places of residence’ during their visit, resulting in the museum delivering more than 700 such sessions for over 14,000 people [4] (p. 25). These people were coming, apparently, to learn more about the places they call home, but arguably ‘Auschwitz is the antinomy of home… there is hardly a more alien place than the camp’ [5] (p. 15). So it is that the museum is tasked with presenting them with a history that must be at once familiar and alien. Auschwitz has become perhaps the fulcrum of Holocaust memory [5], yet it ‘has come to symbolize different things at different times, for different audiences’ [6] (p. 79)). Established in 1947, the museum that occupies the ‘post camp space’ [7] at first predominantly told the story of the Polish prisoner experience [8,9]. Today the site at Auschwitz I contains various exhibits that tell a more Judeocide-focused narrative within a Polish geographical context. Various locations, such as the Appellplatz (roll call square), join with displays in Blocks 4–7, 10–11, and 20 to present information and artefacts telling the story of the Holocaust, while Blocks 13–16, 18, and 20–21 house self-contained national exhibitions. While the former sites and blocks are routinely filled with visitors and their guides, the latter blocks are often unoccupied. They do not form part of the regular tours conducted by the museum guides (mainly for reasons of pragmatic expediency during a standard three-hour visit). This paper considers how two of these national exhibitions are presented, and how they might be visited. In so doing, it acknowledges previous work in the field of museum studies that has considered visitor experiences at museums generally (see for example [10,11]), and visitor experiences at Holocaust-related museums specifically (see for example [12,13]). By considering under-visited exhibitions (within one of the most visited museums in the world [3]), and by applying Griffiths’ personal-theoretical approach to do so [14], this paper builds on previous scholarship by thematically analysing museum content as it might be experienced from an educational perspective. Further, this paper considers the location of particular exhibition spaces within the wider museum complex to reflect on how visitor experiences in them might be considered to be representative and symbolic of a wider discourse about the contested nature of Holocaust memory and representation (specifically from an educational perspective).

2. Rationale

2.1. Context

According to their website, the suggestion that a series of ‘national exhibitions’ would sit alongside the main display spaces was present in the very first organisational plans for what would become the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum in 1946 [15]. Although this proposal was not enacted immediately, it was later backed by the International Auschwitz Committee in the 1950s [16], and the first national exhibitions were officially opened in 1960 (first by Czechoslovakia, then later that year by Hungary). The intention was that the national exhibitions would tell the stories of the countries from which prisoners were sent, as well as telling something of their fates at the camp. Further national exhibitions were opened the following year by the Soviet Union and East Germany, and then by Yugoslavia, Belgium and Denmark during the remaining years of that decade. In the 1970s the Bulgarian, Austrian, and French exhibitions were opened, and in the 1980s the Netherlands, Italy, and Poland opened theirs (the latter country having established the original permanent exhibition ‘The Martyrology, Struggle, and Destruction of the Jews, 1933–1945’ in the immediate aftermath of the war) [15]. Over the years since they were first opened, most of these exhibitions have been revised, updated, or renewed to varying degrees. Azaryahu [17] (p. 1) has described this process as the ‘reorientation’ of memory, usually resulting from periods of political upheaval. What follows, she claims, is a ‘recasting of the presentation of the past in a modified commemorative mould’. The most recent example of this at the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum is the Austrian exhibition in Block 17, which had been closed to the public since 2013. Reopened on 4 October 2021, the exhibit (entitled, ‘Far removed. Austria and Auschwitz’) now presents a more historically authentic story than its predecessor. At the opening ceremony, Austrian President Alexander Van der Bellen reflected that ‘racism and antisemitism did not fall from the sky… when the Germans entered Austria [they] were welcomed enthusiastically in Vienna’, and this new exhibition tells the stories of both the Austrian victims and the perpetrators [18]––a significant development of the previous narrative, which presented all Austrians as victims of National Socialism, thereby absolving Austrian collaborators and perpetrators of any complicity. The revisions of these various national exhibitions over the years are illustrative of ongoing ‘battles of memory [that] surround any heritage site that touches a deep nerve in national consciousness’ [5] (p. 155), but they have also been the result of advancing historical knowledge, understanding, and academic research. As a consequence of concerns about the Polish-centric, non-Jewish narrative that prevailed in the first decade of the museum’s existence, the national narratives have characterised the subsequent ‘internationalization’ of the site [16] (p. 148) into its ensuing (and present) forms.

The national exhibitions today occupy most of the blocks across the middle row of the museum space at Auschwitz I. Their stated intention is to each tell the story of a particular country’s occupation as well as explore issues such as collaboration and resistance [19]. The currently open exhibitions tell the stories of Russia (Block 14), Poland (Block 15), Slovakia and the Czech Republic (Block 16), Austria (Block 17), Hungary (Block 18), France and Belgium (Block 20), and the Netherlands (Block 21). Additionally, Block 13 recounts the persecution of Sinti and Roma victims across Europe. Block 27 houses the ‘Shoah’ exhibition (created by the Yad Vashem Institute in Israel), with galleries detailing pre-war Jewish life, the rise of the Nazis, and anti-Jewish persecution, alongside memorial exhibits (such as ‘The Book of Names’, which details the names of every known victim of the Holocaust). The ‘Shoah’ exhibition opened in 2013—perhaps not coincidentally, the same year Austria chose to close their previous exhibition. While most of these blocks are obviously country-specific in their narratives, Blocks 13 and 27 ‘have a narrative perspective that transcends the borders of any given country’ [19] (p. 40). Together, this congregation of exhibitions creates both specific and collectivist narratives that deserve to be considered in their broader context, as well as in isolation, as this paper seeks to do.

2.2. Visiting the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum

Despite their physical location in the centre of the museum site, the national narrative blocks are ‘sadly bypassed by many visitors’ [20] (p. 279). They do not form part of the usual guided tour taken by so many of the museum’s visitors. They are instead typically guided from the infamous Arbeit Macht Frei gate to the permanent exhibitions at the back of the site (Blocks 4–7), then on to Blocks 10 and 11 (the sites of medical experiments, the camp ‘jail’, and the site of the so-called ‘Death Wall’ in the courtyard in-between). Then they are led to the Appellplatz and the site of the camp gallows, before moving finally to the camp perimeter where they view the reconstructed gas chamber and crematorium, and the site of former camp commandant Rudolf Höss’s execution. This route—‘from Arbeit macht frei to the gas chambers’—illustrates what Cole calls the ‘mythical’ version of Auschwitz that has come to be emblematic of the Holocaust as a whole [21] (p. 106). The skewed figure-of-eight route this itinerary traces closely circumnavigates—but completely ignores—the national narratives housed in Blocks 15–21. As such, the national narratives are highly visible, yet wholly unseen by most visitors. Duindam [22] (p. 10) claimed that ‘in situ sites of memory’ such as the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum ‘conceal their very construction by both staging and emphasizing their authenticity’. Indeed, the present day, constructed reality of the contemporary site at Auschwitz has been accused of being little more than ‘a manipulated tour’ of ‘Auschwitz-land’ [21] (p. 110). Yet, it is also arguably a pragmatically necessary simplification of an incredibly complex site (both geographically, historiographically, and memorially). The national narratives are overlooked largely because of time constraints during a guided tour and the (reasonable) choice to engage instead with the overarching narratives shown in the other permanent exhibitions. Nonetheless, the common itinerary is both a consequence—and illustrative—of the contested nature of Holocaust memory in broader terms, and at the site in particular.

Much has been written on the topic of dark tourism generally (see, for example, [9,23,24], and in relation to Holocaust sites specifically [25,26,27]. This paper acknowledges the work of those who have tried to better understand the development of such sites, and how visitors interact with them. These include considerations of ‘in situ’ [22] (p. 10) Holocaust-related sites, such as those at the former Nazi death camps of Belzec [25], Auschwitz [28], and Sobibor [29], and related Nazi-era sites such as the rally grounds in Nuremberg [30]. Others have focused on visitor experiences at comparably complex non-Holocaust historical sites, such as ‘The House of Terror’ in Budapest [31,32] and the ‘Memorial to the Victims of Communism and to the Resistance’ in Romania [33]. Several of these authors have written about the potential impact such museums have on visitors (see, for example, [34,35]. Of particular relevance to this study is work that has focused on the experiences of younger visitors in particular (see, for example, [36,37,38])—members of what Hirsch has termed the generation of ‘postmemory’ [39]. As the ‘era of the witness’ [40] becomes the era of the post-witness, researchers have begun to focus on whether these young people engage in qualitatively different ways with Holocaust narratives (see, for example, Richardson’s work on their engagement with testimony [41], or Manca’s study of how Holocaust museums are attempting to use social media as new memory ecologies [42]). The hope of the current study is to contribute to the diverse fields of museum studies, memory studies, and site-based Holocaust Education, by reflecting critically on the national narratives in Blocks 20 and 21 as sites of ‘official histories’ [43] and as educational spaces.

2.3. The National Exhibitions as Contested Space(s) of Holocaust Memory

This paper builds upon my previous work locating the Holocaust as a ‘“contested space” of history and of memory’ [44] (p. 173). Drawing from the discipline of Geography is key here, as indeed it is to our understanding of the Holocaust generally [45]. Many historians have explored the influence of geography on the events of the Holocaust, and vice versa (see, for example, [46,47]. My extrapolation to see Holocaust memory as a geography, drew on authors such as Lawson [48] (p. 13), who alluded to the ‘memorial landscape’ in London, for example. The topography I envisaged is not straightforward, however; it is a contested space. Again, the concept of ‘contested space’ has been widely explored in the field of Human Geography (see, for example, [49,50]), but has also been applied to disciplines such as sociology [51] and childcare [52]. The memorial milieu of the national narratives is the result of decades of ‘conflicts between different memorial groups’ [53] (p. 124) and influences from ‘different and often conflicting political and social factors’ [5] (p. 156), all illustrative of the contested nature of this space. How the different responsible committees have constructed and revised the histories presented in the national exhibitions is a consequence of this. Morrissey and Gaffikin [50] identified two types of geographically contested spaces, based on ‘pluralism’ (the struggles between rival groups for power) and on ‘sovereignty’ (the struggles between different ethno-nationalist groups for authority and legitimacy). On a micro level, the national narratives are demonstratively contested spaces of ‘sovereignty’ (since they represent different ethno-nationalist narratives), but on a macro level they also sit within a ‘pluralist’ contestation (sitting as they do within the wider museum narrative of the various different victim groups). They are both illustrative of the ‘territorialization of memory’ [50] (p. 875), and the museum’s creditable attempt to overtly avoid Poland-centric parochialism.

I use the word space in this paper in the sense of a social construct [54]. I consider the physical buildings at Auschwitz as spaces—just as the administration of the museum identifies itself as existing within the ‘post camp space’ [7] (p. 23). The ‘Auschwitz’ we visit today is a social construct within a physical and historical space; ‘Auschwitz is a stage’ [1] (p. 52) and visitors need to understand they are interacting with a mediated and contested space [6]. Furthermore, they need to discern their own sense of ‘place’ within this contested space [55]. Since I am taking the word place here as showing ‘how we make the world meaningful’, my understanding of place here ‘is space invested with meaning’ [56] (p. 12). This paper asserts through a personal experience methodology that the national narratives are contested spaces, invested with meaning, through which visitors are presented with constructed histories in which they are invited to find their sense of place.

3. Methodology

As stated above, this paper considers how two of these national exhibitions are presented, how they might be visited, and how their location within the museum complex is representative and symbolic of a wider discourse about the contested nature of Holocaust memory and representation more broadly (specifically from an educational perspective). It does so by considering the national exhibitions through the observations and experiences of the author. As such, it takes a constructivist approach [57,58], building on previous first-hand accounts by authors such as Dalton [59] and particularly on Griffiths’ [14] (p. 3) first-hand consideration of visiting the museum on an organised tour, and her call for more ‘access-form analysis’ of tourist encounters with the site. Following Griffiths, this paper ‘takes a personal-theoretical approach framed by my own first experience’ with the corresponding dual aims to ‘evaluate… in terms of both form and content’ the exhibitions and potential visitor experiences [14] (p. 3). The collection, interpretation, and presentation of the data draws on an auto-ethnographical approach—taking ‘autoethnography as a genre’ [60] (p. 11)—and specifically employing Adams, Holman Jones, and Ellis’ [61] (p. 3) definition of autoethnographic research as engaging ‘three characteristics or activities’—self, culture, and representation/writing. Taking this approach, it is key to acknowledge ‘the role of the author in creating and forming the account’ in explaining the cultural phenomenon [61] (p. 3). In considering potential visitor experiences, I reflect on my own (re)constructed memories of encountering the exhibitions [62]—as a visitor and as a professional educator—and my impressions of the spaces [63]. The constructivist epistemology underpinning this study justified drawing from autoethnographic approaches, since ‘the researcher [in this study] positions the self in ways that are epistemological’ [60] (p. 13). As with Griffiths, this study ‘attempts to expand the scope of Holocaust tourism scholarship’ [14] (p. 3) through foregrounding the individual visitor experience, whilst embracing Dalton’s concession that ‘these responses are as unique and personal as the thousands of people who visit Auschwitz-Birkenau each year’ [59] (p. 211).

This research was carried out during two day-long visits to the exhibition spaces at the museum. I had never visited the national exhibitions before, with the exception of Block 27. Consequently, the research design was intentionally ‘inductive rather than following a strict sequence or derived from an initial decision’ [64] (p. 2). The two exhibitions under consideration (Block 20—France, and Block 21—The Netherlands) were chosen partly at random but also for their convenience (being located adjacent to each other and opposite Block 27) [65], and partly because the author has spent considerable time in the Netherlands in the last ten years (which must be acknowledged in terms of the role of the researcher’s ‘self’ in the data interpretation). An inductive approach such as this might be considered a limitation, as might the personal-theoretical approach employed (with their inherent potential biases). The author considered a larger-scale empirical study as a means of yielding a more representative dataset. However, such a study would be equally limited by the sample (for example, if the participants were under- or over-familiar with the national context of the particular exhibits). It was felt better to embrace the potential limitations in favour of adopting a robust methodology [14] and acknowledge the author’s role in constructing the findings. These data ‘are assembled using hindsight [66] (p. 275) and the author accepts ‘the importance of contingency’ in this [66] (p. 282). The data presented (below) recognises these limitations but offers evidence for further consideration and discussion within the field.

The research was conducted with due regard to the British Educational Research Association’s ethical guidelines [67] and with the knowledge of a senior member of staff at the museum during the visits. Drawing from Braun and Clarke’s method of Thematic Analysis [68], the physical content of the exhibitions will be considered in terms of the themes of content presented to visitors, as seen and interpreted by the researcher. This study does not aim to be a definitive analysis or retelling of the content, or to define likely visitor experience from a large sample. Rather, the content and experience will be considered in terms of the selection of narratives and their presentation and placement within the wider memory landscape of the museum. It is hoped that the application of this methodology will add to previous work in the field of visitor experiences at the museum (see, for example, [1,14]), and the location of the national narratives within it [16]. Drawing from autoethnographic approaches enables this data ‘to present alternative perspectives’ [60] (p. 12) to add to these important, ongoing conversations about Holocaust memory and representation, particularly at museums such as (but not limited to) the one on the site of the former KL (Konzentrationslager–Concentration Camp) Auschwitz Birkenau.

4. Findings

The findings are presented below in two sections. First, the content of the two exhibitions is considered as themes that emerge from the visitor-facing text and images displayed in the spaces, as they were experienced by the author (unattributed quotes are directly from the exhibition text). These themes are contextualised within the relevant literature, as appropriate. This is followed by a reflective consideration of the whole visitor experience by the author within the broader literature corpus. It would be naïve to consider what is presented in these exhibition spaces (and how they might be experienced) without acknowledging that they are subject to multiperspectivity—‘the epistemological idea that history is interpretational and subjective’ [69] (p. 496). As such, the reflections (below) are offered in the hope that ‘we can gain some understanding of a phenomenon by inquiring into how a thing is perceived’ [70] (Ebook Ch2 para 4)—in this case, by the author—to contribute to a wider discussion around the exhibitions and their location in physical space and in collective memory.

Themes

The following themes were identified, and were common across the two exhibitions: (1) entry points, (2) pre-war life, (3) life under occupation, (4) deportation and the camps, and (5) liberation, post-war, and commemoration. Each of these named themes encompasses a variety of sub-coded items, exhibits, and curatorial choices, which are explored in greater depth.

• Theme 1: Entry points

Visitors’ encounters with the ‘physical dimensions of any site’ are ‘wholly integral’ to their experience and how their understanding is shaped [71] (p. 77). This process begins at the various threshold points they encounter, and museums often have multiple thresholds [72]. At the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum, the iconic initial threshold is the ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ gate, which has become ‘a fixed point in our collective memory’ [2] (p. 237). Therefore, entering the blocks housing the national exhibitions involves a process of re-thresholding for the visitor as they are orientated into a new, largely self-contained, environment. From the outside, the two former barrack buildings that were once Blocks 20 and 21 appear to be ‘intact’ giving a sense of ‘tangible actuality’ [2] (p. 357). The two-storey, red-brick structures are at the end of a row of near-identical buildings, close to the perimeter of the current museum site. Both blocks have unassuming entrances accessed via small sets of stone steps and substantial double doors embellished with minimal signage. The exhibition within Block 21 is not immediately obvious; downstairs does not form part of the Netherlands exhibition and visitors are directed instead up a set of modern stairs to the left. The light wood and cast-iron staircase doubles back on itself, creating a stairwell with a double height ceiling. The immediate impression is one of lightness and space, therefore. By contrast, Block 20 presents an immediately dark and oppressive atmosphere. It is difficult to clearly see in the distance due to the lack of light and the tonally dark colour scheme with low-level lighting. Life-sized shadowy figures painted on the walls suggest both animation and obscurity—human and realistic in form, yet only in silhouette and just beyond recognition, they appear to be hurrying about their business, avoiding the gaze or direct interaction with the visitor. The rooms immediately to the left and right present museum exhibits (similar to those in the non-national exhibit blocks), telling something of the block’s history as the former camp ‘hospital’. The décor of the rooms suggests they are in their near-original, post-war condition, and the information provided details the many murders that took place here by phenol injection. Beyond these, a sign to the left indicates Room 1 (titled ‘Portraits’) and introduces a key feature running throughout the French exhibition—engagement with five individuals. Each is presented on a freestanding, translucent panel showing a large portrait alongside autobiographical details. The individuals are: Polish immigrant and Communist activist Jean Lemberger (1924–1993), politician Pierre Masse (1879–1942), Viennese-born schoolboy Georges Halpern (1935–1944), philosopher Charlotte Delbo (1913–1985), and home-maker mother Sarah Beznos (1879–1943). By contrast, the Netherlands exhibition draws no such individual focus. The only prominent individual from the entrance is—perhaps unsurprisingly—Anne Frank, author of what arguably ‘has become the central “Holocaust” text’ [21] (p. 24). As well as a small panel later in the exhibition (see Theme 2, below), her words are inscribed on the wall above visitors as they climb the stairs in Block 21. Fittingly, their lofty positioning removes the words from the visitor’s physical path, yet literally hangs the text over them with impending prophecy:

I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness,

I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us, too,

I feel the suffering of millions.

(Anne Frank’s Diary, 15 July 1944)

Both blocks therefore represent ‘embedded entrances’ and complex access points (such as these) are imbued with the ability to both ‘complicate… the physical act of visiting, as well as the process of narrative meaning-making’ [73] (p. 167). The overriding impression from each exhibition is starkly different, however. The Netherlands exhibition (Block 21) is a light and airy space, with little for the visitor to engage with until they move into the exhibition proper on the first floor. By contrast, in Block 20, the impression seems oppressively dark, with low lighting and a grating soundscape in the distance from the outset. Collective memory (of the Holocaust) is shared between France and The Netherlands, but each nation also has a distinct recollection [74] (p. 3). The thresholds within these blocks seem effective in delineating the ‘supranational’ (locating the blocks within the wider museum) from the particular (their specific stories). Visitors are not ‘passive’ participants in exhibitions [10] (p. 104), and ‘spatial arrangements’ have a demonstrable impact on visitors’ choices [10] (p. 133). Each block establishes the distinct tone of each exhibition space and the curatorial choices within them from the beginning. One raises you up towards the light and airy space above, while the other leads you into a darker, more foreboding space. These entry points are places where visitors ‘may have to work quite hard’ [75] (p. 52) in order to make sense of them and to see the potential benefits of continuing their visit. While Block 21 has obvious appeal, Block 20 offers little information to entice the casual visitor upstairs—it seemingly both lures and repels them.

• Theme 2: Pre-war life

Both blocks dedicate space to the pre-war life, composition, and integration (or not) of their Jewish populations. Such an exposition of pre-war Jewish life is unsurprising, since it has the educational advantage of establishing an emphasis on the victims’ agency, not just their victimhood [76]. However, it is evident that of the two, there is greater diversity and subtlety evident in pre-war Jewish life in the Dutch block. At the top of the stairs in Block 21, you enter an exhibition hall that is lightly coloured, with yellow walls, and unobstructed windows that let natural light flood the space. Photographs celebrate the diversity of Jewish life in the Netherlands over many centuries. Settling from the late 16th Century, we are told that these Jewish incomers enjoyed more religious and civil freedoms than in many other countries. This apparently nurtured a sense that they ‘felt themselves Dutch first and foremost’, and by 1939 the community felt safe and secure. Illustrative images of Amsterdam’s synagogues are interrupted only by a panel abruptly cutting off the visitor’s passage. On this partition is a large, pre-war image of a smiling Jewish girl eating matzah. The inscription asks the visitor to consider how it was, then, that only 5,500 Dutch Jews survived (from an original population of 140,000). This question jarringly interrupts the apparent celebration of Jewish settlement in the Netherlands, which resumes behind the panel. A collection of photographs titled ‘Jews in the Netherlands’ show further everyday images of life before the war. At the end of this first, large exhibition space there is a map showing the locations of the Jewish communities of the Netherlands in 1930, surrounded by many more photographs of everyday life, giving the visitor the impression of being surrounded by life. There is a sense that The Netherland’s Jews were not ‘outsiders’ in society, while reminding us that few would survive the war. The overall impression challenges the visitor to remember the life and agency of this Jewish population, rather than viewing them merely as ‘victims’ in the later narrative of the war [77] (p. 19). Surprisingly lacking in prominence amid the narrative of pre-war Jewish life in Block 21 is the Frank family, save for Otto Frank’s immigration record (dating from 1933 when the family fled from Frankfurt) and a small collection of family photos (including one of Anne Frank on her 10th birthday with friends). ‘Anne Frank is ubiquitous’ in our collective memory [21] (p. 23), and the publication of Anne Frank’s diary in 1947 was ‘instrumental’ in helping the wider world come to terms with the ‘sheer scale’ of the tragedy of the Holocaust [78] (p. 1). However, an over-emphasis on the Frank family’s story can inadvertently lead to an over-simplified understanding of the myriad experiences of the Dutch Jews [77]. The curators of Block 21 have chosen to focus on many individual stories, emphasising that the Franks are just one family, no more or less significant to the story of the fate of The Netherland’s Jews than any other.

In Block 20, ‘the situation of the Jews in France in 1939’ is more briefly explained as being that of a community that was largely well-established and integrated, with many French Jews having by that time a well-established and extended French heritage. While these histories are told positively, the exhibition spaces remain dark and enclosed (in keeping with the rest of the block). This seems incongruous at first, but serves to present a hopeful past, set within the context of a wider hopelessness—a curatorial choice that ultimately helps the visitor ‘to make sense of events through structure and arrangement’ [71] (p. 158).

Both blocks consider their nation’s response to the refugee crisis caused by the Nazis’ anti-Jewish laws and restrictions, including the Anschluss in 1938, which caused what became ‘a mass exodus’ of Jews from Austria [79] (p. 99). France was for most of the 19th Century a place where its Jewish population ‘could be themselves and at the same time be recognized as citizens with equal rights’ [80] (p. 19)—and the text in Block 20 is quick to assert France’s credentials as a welcoming home to fleeing Jewish people. Images show (amongst others) a group of Jewish tailors in Paris, as well as a poor Austrian refugee making clothes in a garment workshop. The Dutch attitude to the influx of refugees (in Block 21) is presented as being more tempered, however. A revolving display by the window tells how the Dutch government ‘set strict entry requirements’, with some of those denied entry being handed over to the Geheime Staatspolizei (State Secret Police) in an effort to stem rising unemployment in the country. There were border patrols, and the establishment of a ‘work village’ (to provide training in agricultural skills for young Jewish refugees) is illustrated by various photographs. We are told they received no financial aid from the state—a 1937 poster asking for help for the Committee for Jewish Refugees illustrates how private groups fundraised and donated to support them instead. Such funds paid for the construction of Camp Westerbork (shown in another photograph) as a refugee camp for newly arrived Jews in 1938—which the Nazis would later use as a transit camp for Jews prior to their deportation to extermination camps. In the French exhibit, amidst the images depicting integration and support for the incoming Jewish population, the antisemitism they encountered is explicitly addressed. The welcome Jews had received in France in earlier decades had markedly disappeared in the late 1800s [80] and the exhibit reflects this in acknowledging the ’violent’ antisemitism immigrants sometimes encountered. While protestations against Jewish refugees by the Dutch Churches early in the occupation were ‘by no means unanimous’ [81] (p. 22), the exhibition in Block 21 makes little mention of rising antisemitism. Contemporary examples of antisemitic propaganda in France are shown, such as a poster for the Parti Socialiste National, which protests how citizens should die for the homeland but never for the ‘international Jew’. The silhouettes on the wall towards the end of these first few rooms appear to have packed bags with them, giving visitors the distinct impression of a people readying to flee the place they had come to call home. We know that ‘the Shoah happened and it happened in a Christian country’ [82] (p. 1) and across a predominantly Christian Europe. As such, reflecting on how pre-war Jewish life has been portrayed in the exhibitions in the two blocks, it was notable that the nation that hailed itself for its historic welcome of Jewish refugees (France) was also the one that most readily confesses its greater contemporary antisemitism.

• Theme 3: Life under occupation

The invasions of each country receive comparatively little attention in either block—in Block 21 it is considered after the celebration of pre-war Jewish life; lamenting how swiftly the country fell. This probably reflects how for many Dutch people the event was ‘something of a velvet invasion’ [83] (p. 2)—the Nazis seeing it as more about ‘administrative control’ [81] (p. 4) than war. In Block 20 we are told how swiftly ‘France collapsed’, reflecting the historical truth that ‘France had been thoroughly beaten’ [84] (p. 63).

Both blocks instead choose to focus on the anti-Jewish measures introduced by the invaders. Block 20 addresses the issue of the role played by the French authorities in collusion with the Nazis, particularly the collusion of the Vichy regime. Illustrations of the wearing of a visible Star of David (from May 1942) are shown alongside images of signs proclaiming public facilities that became ‘interdit aux Juifs’. In Block 21 the introduction of anti-Jewish measures is framed by protests against the pogrom in Germany in November 1938. The exhibition makes it clear that anti-Jewish measures were introduced in the Netherlands subtly at first (such as employment restrictions, or the banning of ritual slaughter)—in a manner that has been described as ‘somewhat haphazard and apparently unstructured’ [78] (p. 54). Antisemitism in The Netherlands is mentioned for the first time here, perpetrated by organisations such as the Dutch National-Socialist Movement (NSB—Nederlandsche Nationaal Socialistische Beweging), although it is striking that no images of such actions are shown.

While consideration of anti-Jewish measures in Block 20 shares a single room with a presentation considering the French national psyche in relation to the occupation (see below), Block 21 continues to explore the Jewish experience specifically in far greater depth. We are told of Dutch responses in defense of the Jews, such as the resignation of some academics at the sacking of their Jewish colleagues (although the facts are presented in a balanced manner). We are given an explanation as to how Jewish areas became increasingly restrictive—for example, there was never a ghetto as such in Amsterdam, although clear signs signalled the area most Jews lived in. Gradually, unemployed Jews were forced to work at labour camps—and this is where the re-designated Westerbork camp is first mentioned. We see images of various razzia carried out by the occupiers against the Jews, but there is also a prominent image of a dispute between the NSB and groups of Jewish and non-Jewish Amsterdam residents. Moore argues that such ‘provocative activities’ by the NSB were instrumental in ‘the process of identification and isolation’ [78] (p. 66) experienced by the Jews in The Netherlands. The requirement to wear a Star of David—a Jodenster—was introduced in April 1942 and images show stars being sewn onto garments and being worn in various portraits.

Both blocks consider occupation more broadly for their respective populations. Block 20 shares stories of collaboration, specifically mentioning the French police’s role in roundups such as that at the Vélodrome d’Hiver in July 1942, the complicity of the Church, and telling the story of ‘the French state’ (Vichy France) under Marshal Pétain. The panels try to find a balance between obvious culpability, and a recognition that ‘Vichy legislation was not driven by the same logic’ as it was in Germany [85] (p. 136). However, the silhouettes around the room are noticeable here for the way in which they seem to be standing calmly, just going about their daily lives and watching, waiting (mirroring nearby text about the French national psyche in defeat). An antisemitic propaganda poster reminds us that, ‘people remained mostly indifferent to the various anti-Semitic [sic] measures’ they saw being introduced.

In Block 21, the initial space telling the story of pre-war Jewish life and (briefly) invasion opens to a much larger gallery towards the back of the building. Two curved walls sit in the middle of this space. Following the natural path of the exhibition to the left a large image occupies an entire wall, illustrating the devastation caused by bombing raids on 14 May 1940 that ‘demolished central Rotterdam’ [83] (p. 2). Further images show Reichs Commisar Arthur Seyss-Inquart’s appeals to the Dutch people to ‘accept’ the handover of power calmly. A revolving display considers the subsequent impact on civil administration in the country and how an uneasy co-operation developed between Dutch civil servants and the occupiers (although ultimately Dutch National Socialists took over many key posts ‘over the course of time’ [81] (p. 4)). Evidence of the plundering of day-to-day objects is particularly impactful on the viewer, such as bicycles, church bells, and radios. Cars and trams were also taken in 1944, illustrated in a large picture and an accompanying information panel headlined ‘robbery’. Stark images of ‘the hunger winter’ (1944–45) are shown slightly out of kilter from the flow of the exhibition—positioned somewhat behind the visitor, out of their natural sight line. Due to this harsh winter, ‘people began more and more to worry about everyday life’ [86] (p. 34) and chronic food shortages resulted in around 22,000 deaths from hunger. There was also cultural starvation, we are told, through the gradual take-over of Dutch institutions—the press was restricted, radios were eventually banned, and a Cultural Chamber was introduced to control artists. Examples of posters designed to encourage Dutch nationals to serve alongside the German forces ‘tegen het Bolsjewisme’ (‘against Bolshevism’) are displayed on large revolving panels, as is a poster encouraging men who were called up to work in Germany. We are told that these men did so reluctantly, for fear of reprisals. However, no mention is made that the practice of ‘forcing’ unemployed Dutch citizens to work in Germany for fear of losing their benefits had been ‘a tradition, stretching back into the 1930s’ [78] (p. 54).

Perhaps unsurprisingly given the country’s association with the Frank family, the theme of hiding is evident here in Block 21. Illustrated amongst the broader occupation narrative on display (although still only in a very brief, illuminated panel), the focus is on the Franks, the van Pelts, and the others in hiding with them. The story of their ‘unique’ [86] (p. 138) multiple-family hiding place is told alongside photos and pictures of the annex. There is a physical sightline here to the images of the pre-war Frank family (perhaps explaining the seemingly inconspicuous positioning of that panel earlier in the exhibition). The gulf of the occupation narrative presented in between separates their pre-war life from now. The Franks’ story sits in the middle of the central curved walls, in a space reserved mainly to tell stories of hiding and resistance (symbolically physically enwrapped by the walls, at the heart of the occupation and before the deportations). Further illuminated panels tell the stories of individuals such as Frits Slomp (a Dutch pastor who at first facilitated hiding for those refusing military service in the Wehrmacht, before needing to go into hiding himself).

We discover stories of rescue and resistance alongside those of the hidden in both blocks. Panels in Block 21 tell visitors about rescuers connected with the efforts at the Hollandsche Schouwburg, which has been noted as ‘one of the most emotionally charged, contested, and meaningful sites in the Netherlands’ [87] (p. 9). Those highlighted through portraits and text panels include Walter Suskind, Virginie (Virrie) Cohen and Nathan (Notto) Notowicz. Visitors are told that ‘[d]ozens of resistance groups’ were involved with forging papers for resistance members and those trying to evade forced labour, such as the Identity Cards Centre (Persoonsbewijzen Centrale). In Block 20, similar individual rescuers are highlighted, such as Andre Bettex and Marianne Cohn. Both were linked to the Maison d’Izieu [88]—a former children’s holiday home that became a refuge for Jewish children between April 1943 and April 1944. The Maison d’Izieu links directly to Georges Halpern (one of the five key figures present throughout this exhibition block) since he was deported from the house in April 1944. The silhouettes around the panels accordingly suggest children playing, carefree. Those French citizens who were named as Righteous Amongst the Nations are recognised here also (rather than in the post-war sections of the block). The surrounding silhouettes adopt sturdy poses that suggest a defiant strength of character, forming a protectionist narrative alongside the childhood figures. Various photographs and panels highlight particular Righteous people, such as Jean Deffaught (the Mayor of Annemasse, who was instrumental in rescuing 28 children from the Gestapo in 1944).

Finally, resistance is explicitly explored in both blocks, but with subtly different emphases. A panel in Block 20 explains for the visitor the different forms that resistance took in France—including sabotage, reconnaissance, rescue, and resistance in exile. There are images of illegal printing presses and copies of the underground ‘Resistance’ newspaper, surrounded by wall silhouettes of armed figures wearing para-military fatigues now. The panels further explain the development of the Resistance and its ultimate role in France’s liberation. There is a framing of the Resistance as having ‘redeemed France from the stigma of collaboration and complicity with the deportation of the Jews’. In Block 21, resistance is shown as having grown ‘slowly, with difficulty’ and through pre-existing networks of trust (such as religious or political organisations). We are told how resistance focused on supporting those in hiding, and on the illegal printing of identity documents and newspapers. There are images of such printing presses and information about some of the individuals involved—including Gerrit Jan van der Veen—a ‘Hero of the Resistance’ [86] (p. 144) and founder of the Identity Cards Centre who was involved in various raids to assist the printing of forged papers.

Other resistance attempts of note in Block 21 include the work of Radio Orange (‘the voice of the Dutch Government in exile’ [81] (p. 147))—particularly Queen Wilhelmina’s broadcasts the station facilitated from London. In one such broadcast the Queen is quoted as referring to ‘the fate of our Jewish fellow countrymen’—an explicit show of unity with them—and, accordingly, a number of Jewish resisters are highlighted in the exhibition (such as several involved in the rescue attempts at the Hollandsche Schouwburg). The theme of Jewish resistance is also evident in Block 20, where a panel focuses on ‘Resistance inside the Camp’ and highlights the efforts of the International Committee for the Resistance Movement (Kampfgruppe Auschwitz) and the Budy Rebellion, both of which involved French citizens. The artwork of Auschwitz Sonderkommando survivor David Olère [89] also receives prominence here, particularly a reproduction of ‘La Révolute du Sonderkommando d’Auschwitz-Birkenau’. Resistance by individual Christians or Christian groups is highlighted only in Block 21. Here, visitors are told about the actions of the Dutch churches (both Protestant and Catholic), including the story of German-Jewish born Catholic nun, Edith Stein [90]. Stein’s story perhaps epitomises the difficulties inherent in attempting to represent ‘the huge variety of experiences’ [78] (p. 13) of life under occupation; in many cases, the narrative is not clear cut. National experiences of invasion, occupation, or the experiences of individuals under Nazi rule, are not singular histories and trying to stitch them together in a coherent narrative for the visitor is a challenge [10] in both blocks.

• Theme 4: Deportation and the camps

Given these inherent (and physically manifest) challenges, ultimately the exhibitions in both blocks turn to focus on deportations to the camps and the process of extermination. In Block 21, four large images of Jewish people being rounded up and put onto trains take up the entire back wall, overwhelming the visitor’s field of vision. The scale of these photographs evokes Williams’ [71] (p. 53) observation that such artefacts have the power to ‘make our act of viewing more self-conscious’, especially since no further details are given. In the Dutch context a panel explains how the new National Socialist police commissioner persuaded Amsterdam police officers to pick up Jews (and a photograph shows a deportation being enacted by volunteer police in May 1943), thereby linking deportation more explicitly with collaboration. A particular focus is given to Camp Westerbork, explaining how it evolved to become a significant point of transit from mid-1943, to various death camps.

In Block 20, movement through the rooms on the left of the building reaches its natural conclusion at the back of the block. Visitors pass through the ‘constrictive space’ [91] (p. 169) of a claustrophobic, narrow corridor. The silhouettes crowd around the visitor, symbolically shuffling through the tight space with us. Floor-length banners provide deportation lists and further information about the five individuals we have followed from the start. In the final room, stark lighting, black and white projections, and asymmetric wires strung across the room disorientate the visitor. The silhouettes bunch together now and German words such as ‘schnell’ and ‘halt’ are projected onto the wall in large letters, giving the impression of overwhelming oppression and control. The room that focuses on Auschwitz Birkenau presents a full-wall image of the Birkenau guard tower building across one boundary. ‘Multisensory perception is complex’ in museum spaces [92] (p. 214) but the overall effect of these curatorial choices is to make the visitor feel as though their senses are being assaulted.

While the deportations seem to be a bleakly inevitable point of visiting in Block 20, the neighbouring exhibition introduces them through a more complex threshold [72]. The visitor first notices letters embedded in the flooring—displayed as though they have been left by accident (or dropped) by those boarding trains, near to a picture of one of the last trains to the east. There is a bench nearby, from which visitors can watch film footage of daily life at Westerbork (filmed by German-Jewish refugee Rudolf Breslauer). The camps themselves are given little prominence in Block 21 (the space is given to recording the names of the victims, rather than their places of persecution and murder). There is some detail about Westerbork throughout the exhibition, as well as Camps Amersfoort and Vught, but the overall impression for the visitor is an overt avoidance of the ‘comparatively easy’ device of telling the story ‘through Nazi eyes’ [93] (p. 83). In a similar vein, in Block 20, quotations from former prisoners are projected onto the image in various languages (including from Charlotte Delbo, whose story the visitor has followed throughout). The silhouettes now appear to be prisoners in submissive poses (kneeling at one end, working in a labour detail at the other) behind real barbed wire. Banners in this room tell us more about the camp experiences of Jean Lemberger and Charlotte Delbo and about living conditions in the camp, together with a map which serves to sharply remind us that the building itself was part of that reality.

• Theme 5: Liberation, post-war, and commemoration

Both exhibitions sit within ‘a huge and complex memorial site’ [53] (p. 124), so, unsurprisingly, both draw focus eventually on liberation, memorialisation, and the legacy of the Holocaust. In Block 20, this is the first room where there are chairs for visitors to rest, symbolically providing them with physical respite after the intensity of what they have viewed. Initial panels illustrate the Death Marches, the liberation of the camps, the evacuation of survivors, and refugees post-war. The silhouettes here are clustered in small groups, distant from one another, the vacant spaces between them suggesting those now absent. Visitors can read about the post-war efforts of the Ministry of Prisoners, Deportees and Refugees to repatriate French citizens from Displaced Persons camps across Europe (including 2500 French Jews who survived from the 76,000 deported). Surrounding images show survivors convalescing, Prisoners of War returning home, and people searching lists of survivors and refugees. Among those shown recuperating are Jean Lemberger and Charlotte Delbo—each has a separate banner in this room; their panels’ vibrant colours returned here, as if returning them to life. Their Auschwitz tattoos are shown, with the numbers 172,448 and 31,661, respectively. Block 20 also has a space to reflect on the ‘memory of Auschwitz in France’, which includes details of Charlotte Delbo’s post-war writings, Claude Lanzmann’s 1985 film Shoah, and how the round up at the Vélodrome d’Hiver stadium is remembered. Recorded survivor testimony can also be heard here for the first time, contributing to the ‘mosaic of evidence’ [94] (p. 21) placed before the visitor.

Liberation was a more gradual process in the Netherlands, arguably because much of the country was left in ‘complete chaos’ after the immediate cessation of fighting [81] (p. 535) and the exhibition in Block 21 reflects this. Amongst those Dutch citizens remembered here are those Jews who had been in hiding [81], and the 102,000 who had been murdered. The final wall in the main exhibition space is occupied by a vast image of a train arriving at the unloading ramp at Birkenau, which at first seems an incongruous point of arrival at this physical point of exit from the exhibition. However, there are three Dutch men clearly visible in the foreground of the photo including Jacob van Gelder (Ben Dror) who was instrumental in smuggling intelligence photographs from the Netherlands to England. Thus, the photo actually serves as a reminder to the visitor both of the victims and the survivors.

The memorialisation of victims is not confined to the end of either exhibition. In many respects, from the visitor’s perspective, individuals have been memorialised throughout in the various panels that tell their stories. In Block 20, the death certificates of Georges Halpern and Sarah Beznos are displayed in the rooms dealing with the camps and the panel at the end of the building asks not to forget the ‘almost 76,000 Jews, including 11,000 children’ who were deported from France (most of them were sent to Auschwitz, and only 2500 survived). The 3000 Resistance members deported to Auschwitz are also specifically mentioned here (of whom 969 survived). From here, visitors look back down the corridor towards the light from the entrance doorway—symbolically, light is furthest away at this point.

Across the corridor in this block, visitors enter a room that is almost entirely white in its colour palette. Around the glass walls are lists and information about the various deportations from France. The inversion of lighting (from darkness to stark whiteness) is disorientating for the visitor, contributing to the sense that the numbers are both clinical and overwhelming. By contrast, in Block 21, there is a greater emphasis on recording the names of individuals murdered. The vast wall of names dominates the last quarter of the total exhibition space (and physically mirrors back-to-back the first quarter, where pre-war life was celebrated). Nearly 57,000 Jews were deported from the Netherlands and murdered at Auschwitz Birkenau. Various experiences are highlighted, including those of Jews, Sinti, and Roma deportees, the Death Marches, the deportations to Sobibor, and the fate of political prisoners and women (in particular). There are also more than a dozen floor-to-ceiling panels listing the thousands of names—in print, so necessarily tiny they are only distinguishable close up, whereupon the individual names become visible amidst the enormity of the disaster. Two thirds of the way along the panel, there is a gap through to a small room in which family portraits hang on the walls in clusters. Each cluster tells a family story, and books on the tables below tell stories of individual people. Where the wall of names is in a room painted in pale yellow, this room returns the vibrant, warm yellow of the pre-war life sections at the start of the exhibition.

Individuals are commemorated in Block 20 in a separate room (after the room listing deportations), and the choice has been made that visitors focus on child victims here. The room houses over 1000 pre-war photographs of individual children or sibling groups; black and white pictures on stainless steel mounts in a seamless swathe around the room create a ‘powerful space’ [91] (p. 185). For the first time in a while in the building, visitors become aware that the windows are exposed. Yet, the view through the windows is of other Auschwitz blocks (specifically, Block 21). In the middle of the room, there are computer terminals at which visitors can search online databases to find out more about individual victims. A similar facility exists at the end of the exhibition in Block 21, alongside a visitors’ book in which people can write comments and reflections on their visit. What constitutes an ‘appropriate ending’ in a Holocaust exhibition can be highly contested [91] (p. 251). In their attempts, neither exhibit relies on either the hopelessness of the disaster nor the redemption of survival. Instead, the visitor is left considering both; the latter possibly providing some respite from the former.

5. Reflecting on the Visitor Experience

Discussion

This paper set out to take a constructivist approach to consider two national exhibitions at the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum through the observations and experiences of the author (with the aim of reflecting on them as potential educational experiences). The content of the exhibitions (explored through the themes identified above) present what is perhaps an entirely predictable narrative: beginning with an introduction to each space (theme 1), before going on to present what life was like in each country before the outbreak of war (theme 2), then life under occupation (theme 3), the effects and consequences of occupation (theme 4), and, finally, liberation, post-war life, and commemoration (theme 5). The predictable narratives are perhaps reflective of the exhibitions’ status as ‘official histories’ [43]. They have been formed and revised over several decades, each time sanctioned by bodies established by the nation-states they represent. Therefore the ‘official histories’ presented in these blocks reflect how ‘memory matters politically’ [95] (p.2). Political influence can be seen at work in the development of similar Holocaust-related memorials (such as the museum at Terezín [96]), and in the case of Auschwitz Birkenau, political influence (subtle or not) is further legitimized by its presence within the boundaries of a ‘State Museum’. Wansink et al. [69] acknowledge that historical narratives are the result of multiperspectivity. Specifically, they argue there are three key perspectives—(1) from the past (such as evidence and interpretations from contemporaries of the event), (2) from the time between past and present (such as those who have subsequently offered a perspective on it—typically historians), and (3) from the present (such as those who constructed the exhibitions as we now see them). Consequently, we must remember that what is presented is open to dispute—‘no memory… can be confirmed with absolute certainty’ [97] (p. 315)—rather it is the result of the multiperspectives of time and external influences, and interpretations by the visitor.

In keeping with this paper’s stated methodology, it is now apt to ‘consider the totality of the experience’ [10] (p. 23) in these spaces. In doing so briefly here, I hope to embody and accept the role of ‘the thoughtful visitor’ [91] (p. 227), aware that how visitors feel when they travel through spaces such as this affects them [98]. Museums are preoccupied with ‘teaching the people who use them’ [99] (p. 33), and I have acknowledged (above) that I am an educator, undoubtedly viewing my experiences (and the content) through an educator’s gaze. However, I was also (like most people) a first-time visitor to these particular exhibitions. My first impression is perhaps one of incongruity—that these exhibitions sit alongside (but are distinctly separate from) one another, inside the boundaries of the museum space, but outside the engagement of most visitors. As such, they both contribute to the collective and complex narrative presented by the museum, whilst remaining largely silent.

This is not necessarily problematic, however. We know that ‘history is not a singular discourse’ [48] (p. 175), and at the Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum, we see in the various exhibition spaces ‘many competing agendas at work’ [1] (p. 49). If ‘historical knowledge… is necessarily shaped by both narrator and audience’ as Lowenthal suggests, then visitors should remain vigilant to the ‘multivocal’ narrators shaping what they see [97] (p. 338). However, Cole [45] (p. 71) noted that at the time of its operation, ‘Auschwitz was a constantly shifting linguistic landscape’ as new arrivals of prisoners came from across Europe. Similarly, the museum today is a dynamic conversation, not a static one. It is an ongoing dialogue that takes place both on a micro level (in the interactions it has with each of its visitors), and on a macro level (given the museum’s ‘universal significance’ [100] (p. 132)). I would argue from my experiences that the national exhibitions contribute to the creation of what Morrissey and Gaffikin refer to (in their work on urban policy and planning) as ‘dialogic spaces’ [50] (p. 877), which, in turn, have the ability to facilitate ‘emancipatory knowledge’ [101]. As such, rather than seeing these national exhibitions as country-specific eccentricities, they should be seen collectively as an antidote to ‘territorialized memory’ [50]. Azaryahu agrees that such sites do not (re)produce official memories; rather, they are conduits through which ‘legacy’ is created and formalised [12] (p. 17). Her contention is that this legacy is not (and cannot be) preordained—‘it is constantly co-created by the visitors’ within their own individual ‘space-time co-ordinates’ and ‘experiences’ [12] (p. 17). It is within this philosophical milieu that this paper has offered a consideration both of what is presented, but also how it might be experienced by a visitor. As such, I offer (I hope) a more optimistic conclusion than Griffiths [14], whose methodological approach this paper builds upon. Griffiths concluded that the usual tour route taken at the museum was ‘troubling’ [14] (p. 14) and that, therefore, the museum authorities ‘should cease to use the tour form as a means of educating travelers’ [14] (p. 14). Instead, I suggest a more pragmatic view—that education can (and should) be enriched through embracing the problematic or complex sites of the museum during tours.

‘Museums can change people’ [102] (p. 27), but so too can individuals affect the museum. Previous work on visitor motivations [103], dark tourism [23,26,104], and the role emotions can play in visitors’ encounters with sites [6,98] all exemplify that being a museum visitor is not a single condition, and nor can it be a singular experience. Lowenthal observed how ‘the past we construe is contingent on our background, our outlook, our own present’ [97] (p. 338), and, as such, the visitor brings their own multiperspectivity to the (already) multiperspective museum. Consequently, a visit to the museum does not just produce historical knowledge, it is also central to ‘the construction of emotional memory’ [98] (p. 163). Just as the site continues to undergo a ‘dialogical metamorphosis’ over time [98] (p. 163), so too must its visitors—any visit will be unique to a person’s personal history and context, of which their national identity will be just one (albeit important) part. Learning in such spaces ‘is potentially more open-ended, more individually directed, more unpredictable and more susceptible to multiple diverse responses’ [105] (pp. 4–5) than learning in formal classrooms. Accordingly, how visitors interpret what they have experienced and how they create for themselves a ‘legacy’ from their visit (imbued with both knowledge and emotion) will be highly individualised. Based on my experiences in Blocks 20 and 21, I assert that it should be the task of museum curators and educators at this museum (and elsewhere), to consider how best to include the diverse and complex voices of national narratives (such as those in these two blocks) to better support their visitors’ emerging understandings of the events of the Holocaust and the legacies of its memory.

6. Conclusions

This paper set out to consider how two national exhibitions are presented, how they might be visited, and how their location within the museum complex is representative and symbolic of a wider discourse about the contested nature of Holocaust memory and representation more broadly (specifically from an educational perspective). The findings presented above answer (I hope) the first two of these aims through the methodology and data presented. Having done so, it now becomes germane to address the latter of these stated aims.

Holocaust Education is ‘an assemblage of “contested spaces”’ [44] (p. 173). This includes disagreements over (amongst other things) curriculum, memory, pedagogy, and memorialisation. Since ‘there is no single version of the Holocaust’ [44] (p. 173), there will always be disagreement over what should (and should not) be included in any educational programme and how it should be presented. Further, much has been written about the recent ‘educational turn’ in museums, and how the need for accountability or ‘measurement’ has also started to influence content choices [105] (p. 2007). Specifically, within educational settings, the challenge now is how to acknowledge and embrace these contestations of content, pedagogy, and outcomes, whilst embracing the narrative complexity of the Holocaust (as illustrated in the presence of the national exhibition blocks).

6.1. Educational Implications

Given my own reflections on visiting these two national narratives, I offer the following suggestions for educators based on the evidence presented. When visiting a museum or memorial such as that located on the site of the former KL Auschwitz Birkenau, educators should embrace the complexity of the various narratives presented there. To fully recognize the contested nature of the narratives, they should include in their curricula:

• An acknowledgement that the topic of the Holocaust is a ‘contested space’ [44] and that the complexity of differing memory narratives (such as those in Blocks 20 and 21) have the potential to add richness to students’ developing understandings.
• A recognition that ignoring such complexities—to literally walk past these blocks—does a disservice to their students, and to the various actors within the Holocaust narrative. Doing so risks students being presented with ‘a partial narrative’ [48] (p. 182), lacking in necessary complexity or nuance.
• The provision of educational spaces that are both ‘reflective spaces’ [106] and that mirror the ‘dialogic spaces’ [74] (p. 877) of the physical geography (and memory landscapes) of the exhibitions, to enable better understandings by students.

6.2. International Implications

The implications of this study are wide-ranging for museums and educational programmes in other countries also. The Auschwitz Birkenau State Museum is uncommon in housing other countries’ state-sanctioned exhibitions (allowed albeit for a mix of reasons of international co-operation, funding, and memorialisation). I contend that it should be praised for doing so. I have already asserted (above) that ‘history is not a singular discourse’ [48] (p. 175), and that a museum does not just produce historical knowledge alone, but also contributes to ‘the construction of emotional memory’ [98] (p. 163). All of this happens within the ‘contested space’ of the Holocaust narrative [44]. Where better to do this than at the most visited Holocaust-related museum in the world? If other museums and educational programmes in different countries implemented similar approaches to those outlined above, their Holocaust Education programmes would be the better for it. Acknowledging that ‘memorial sites are… both open to different interpretations and malleable to the needs of state power’ [107] (p. 579) means that exhibitions should reach beyond state borders to address international (as well as national) multiperspectivity.

The challenge will now be for these memorial organisations to undertake further empirical research with different visitor cohorts to expand on the findings of this paper. Particularly, further work needs to be undertaken with groups visiting the national narratives to explore (1) their motivations for visiting, (2) their experiences within the exhibition spaces, and (3) their learning from the exhibitions and how this necessarily complicates their understandings of the Holocaust from different national perspectives. To facilitate this further research, as a result of this paper, I suggest a tripartite approach to Holocaust Education at sites such as this (building on my previous work [44]) (Figure 1).

This suggested model acknowledges the centrality of historical narratives, the individual’s emotional encounter with the space(s), and the contested context of the space itself. Recognizing that ‘each visitor is drawn to different aspects of these contexts and makes different choices about which aspects he will focus on’ [10] (p. 105), I contend that it is only by acknowledging and embracing all three that we can make learning and teaching about the Holocaust inclusive of different narratives and perspectives—and necessarily more complex and nuanced for learners. This will be the challenge for Holocaust museums and educators internationally if they are to continue to successfully engage with future post-memory generations.