The WWII Nazi camp on Dutch soil

“Can you see the ghosts?”

The two of us stood on a stretch of concrete between barbed wire fence and stout brick barracks.

My heart wrenched as I nodded yes to my mom’s question.

Yes, I could see the ghosts of Vught Concentration Camp.

The ghosts were despondent prisoners with drooping postures and hollow eyes. They flickered like shadows in the doorways; they walked past me murmuring. They were everywhere I looked, the Holocaust victims – faces from movies and photos from history books. And, tragically, they were in the news the week I wrote this article, after Hamas attacked Israel on October 7. More victims, more ghosts.

Evil permeates the air of concentration camps. I’ve always been told this, and I entered Nationaal Monument Kamp Vught expecting as much. But nothing could prepare me for the extent to which sin chokes every inhale of breath. The way tears threaten every exhale.

Over 31,000 prisoners – including Corrie and Betsie ten Boom – came through the gates of Vught in its 22 months of operation between early 1943 and late 1944. Also known as Herzogenbusch Concentration Camp, it was the site where 749 people died and thousands more were deported directly to death camps in Poland and Germany.

In 1990 the camp was turned into Nationaal Monument Kamp Vught. Although many of the original structures were destroyed after the war, what is left of the camp is preserved within the memorial site, including prisoner barracks, three guard towers and the original barbed wire fences. The camp’s execution site, where 329 men were murdered, is a short walk away.

Hard questions

The building in which the notorious Bunker Tragedy took place was destroyed after the war. It’s been rebuilt, however, in a section of the crematorium, allowing visitors to learn about the 74 women who were locked in with no ventilation; 10 women died. Buildings on the southern end of the old camp territory are now used by the Dutch military. And, in a cruel twist of irony, a maximum-security prison has been built where barracks once stood. Prisoners are now kept in the same place where Holocaust victims were imprisoned 80 years ago.

While I was there, it didn’t take long for the inevitable question to surface: How could God allow this to happen? But, as I left the memorial, I was faced with another hard question – one that is written on the doors above the exit: What would you do?

My perspective splintered, then rearranged. The question reminded me of my own vulnerability to sin, my own capability to commit atrocities. I still wondered how God could allow for such evil, but I was aware that I could just as easily be the perpetrator. At Nationaal Monument Kamp Vught, it’s impossible to avoid thinking about the consequences of sin.

Though audio tours are available, it felt most respectful to walk through in silence. There’s a sort of reverence that comes with being in such a sobering space. And yet the camp is far from silent. The air, so heavy with evil, murmurs with the sadness of victims. Sniffles and sobs from visitors are heard. And at the same time, the wind carries sweet bird song and the crunch of gravel on the public path over the barbed wire fence.

The birdsong wasn’t the only startling contrast; the entire setting is juxtaposed by glimpses of beauty. And it was these that made me realize a worship song had been stuck in my head the whole time: Look how my love remains, the artist gently sang in my subconscious.

A flower blooms between the cracks in the cement. A wasp buzzes in the windowpane of the crematorium. Ants claim the path where prisoners once walked. Birds sing praises. Hope springs forth, and God reminds us gently that his love remains.