On our final day in Poland, my wife and I rose early. I could barely tie my shoelaces with my trembling hands. Unable to eat breakfast, we got on the road at daylight. I grew increasingly nervous as our destination approached. By the time we arrived, my knees were shaking. How would this day take shape?  How would it feel to walk the grounds of Auschwitz?

My wife, Robin, initiated this journey. In the face of an intimidating milestone birthday, she refused to celebrate or even discuss it. “I just want to crawl in a hole,” she said in existential anxiety. I begged her to let us find a way to honor the moment. In the end, there would be no parties, but she relented to the idea of a trip, just the two of us. 

“Anywhere you’d like to go?” I asked. “Japan? Australia?"

“Poland,” responded my beloved. A devoted student of World War II, the Holocaust, and all things Jewish, she wished to go to the country she’s read about for decades, has nightmares over, and which holds a vague sense of familial roots and one grisly memorial. Robin wanted to see Auschwitz.  

On departure day, our flight, originally scheduled to leave at 6:30 PM, was delayed multiple times and finally took off after 2:00 AM. We missed our connection through Amsterdam and could only book a new transfer several hours later. We arrived in Warsaw 12 hours later than anticipated, well into the evening, and dragging our bags. What seemed like a royal pain was quickly put into perspective by all that came later.  

In Warsaw, we visited the........

© Time