I was there, incidentally. I was there observing displays of Nazi propaganda on the fourth floor of the museum. I was there in the dark, cool room. Nazi-era video trumpeted in the background. Hitler’s distinctive voice roused crowds as he pounded on a podium and shook his fist – but that was decades ago, a lifetime ago for many. On a clear day in June, 2009, at least one elderly extremist was still listening. I was there.
“There’s been a disturbance! There’s…a situation at the front of the building. Shots were fired at the front of the building,” the panicked security officer exclaimed as he herded people away from the platform which overlooked the lobby.
Another guard tried to console us, and alleviate our concerns. “Everything is going to be okay. If you would like, you can continue looking at the displays on this floor. We should have the situation resolved shortly.”
But soon after, we were backed against the far side of the building. “Proceed very carefully and quietly down the emergency exit stairway.” Sounds of a Nazi parade prevented absolute silence. One of the guard’s two-way radios crackled and spoke in fragments about “securing the basement.” Behind me, an elevator stirred to life.
Did the guards have weapons, I recall thinking. Have they detained the gunman (I never doubted it was a man)? Are we sitting ducks in here?
Down the stairs, quickly, quietly. We emerged to see helicopters circling in the sky, with snipers hanging from their sides. Police sirens wailed. Car engines roared as emergency vehicles bolted from intersection to intersection. More and more police cars arrived.
“Take cover!” I heard someone shout. Police were forcing us back, back across the street, back into the field, farther and farther from the building. I saw panicked school teachers urging their children to stay together. I saw families separated in the chaos, searching desperately. Nearly everyone had some sort of recording device, camera phones, camcorders, capturing the scene. Others smiled nervously, confused. “This is like a movie,” someone exclaimed. Fear struggled with curiosity. Some tourists left the area, some stayed. “I want to see what happens.” Police blocked the streets. Two officers forced an eighteen wheeler truck to turn around. The annoyed driver U-turned the truck at an impossible angle, but pulled it off somehow. “I taught him that,” one of the officers said. The other grinned.
Blood spilled that day, at a memorial designed to appeal to our common humanity. Blood spilled, for reasons unimaginable to most- but to some, all too reasonable. Blood spilled for a way of thinking said to be dead, dying – in its “last throes,” if you will. In two weeks, three people acted independently, decided to take lives in separate incidents to make a political statement. In a matter of hours, millions are made witness to their ugly ideology. Most turn away. But some take another look. They don’t represent America – not all of it, anyway. But they don’t have to. With a gunshot, they’re made famous. America stares, stares at the grotesque, appalled, mortified, yet curious – too curious to look away.
