Chapter Five: Heaven and Hell

Note I: This chapter was to have preceded "The King of Tréguier," but due to time constraints I was unable to pen it until now. Thus, we are actually jumping back in time just a bit.

Note II: Some of the content in this chapter depicts brutalities of a Nazi concentration camp. While it is not graphic, such may be disturbing and prove not to be suitable for everyone.

I have seen Heaven; I have seen Hell: Heaven in the beauty God fashioned at Penn-Ar-Bed; Hell in the blackness of our human condition revealed in a concrete compound. And all of this on "All Saints" vacation.

The end of October in France saw me leaving "Happy Town" to benefit from vacation due to Toussaint. This is the holiday celebrated widely in Europe to remember loved ones who have taken their last breaths in this life. Indeed, Toussaint means, literally, All Saints. It is celebrated on the 1st of November and prompts many families to visit cemeteries in order place flowers upon the cold stones which now stand in place of their loved ones. In fact, a recent article of Métro, a free regularly issued newspaper, noted that one out of every two Parisians visits the cemeteries to take part in this on November 1st.

I, however, being abroad chose to take this week and a half off of teaching to travel. What I did not expect, however, was to see along my journey Beauty herself revealed in such a sharp contrast to one of the most palpable manifestations of man’s penchant for evil the world has ever known.

My first destination was Finistère, the western region of Brittany. The name is a literal reference to "the ends of the earth." Furthermore, a Celtic cross posted near perhaps the most famous of the cliffs in this region clearly bears the title of "Penn-Ar-Bed," which in Breton means "the end of the world." In short, I had been wrong when I stated I was at the ends of the earth at the coast near Tréguier (see chapter 1). Indeed, the coast near my home base of Lannion is one of amazing rock formations and dramatic tides, but the cliffs of Finistère tower far above anything offered up by the Côte de Granit Rose.

Thus, it is at the veritable ends of the earth that I, accompanied by the Lycée Savina’s chief of documentation, Yannick, and Abraham, the Mexican assistant, beheld Beauty: a bit of Heaven on Earth.

Led by Yannick, a vrai Finistèrian, I journeyed to the westernmost points of France to gaze across the sea toward my distant homeland.

At the end of the world, I marveled at the contrast of sapphire blue against emerald green.

I jumped in alarm when thunder pierced the air only to realize it was merely waves crashing on the rock at the base of the cliffs.

At the Pointe du Raz, I learned the mythology of lighthouses. According to maritime tradition, there are three types: Heaven, Purgatory and Hell. Lighthouses stranded alone in the midst of the sea are "Hell." "Purgatory" can be found in those upon islands. And, those which are on land next to the sea are "Heaven."

I listened to the breeze rustling through golden stalks of wheat.

I turned in every direction to find cliffs...

...cliffs....

...and more cliffs.

I looked downward to observe fisherman braving the mighty waves of la mer.

At the Presqu'île (Peninsula) de Crozon, I watched a blanket of white mist hug the coast...

...and gradually lift to reveal an almost tropical landscape.

I laughed when Yannick bestowed upon me the name of mountain goat as I climbed the rock walls, yearning for a better view.

I stood atop the rocks, thrust my arms outward to embrace the salty sea air and proclaimed myself "King of Bretagne!"

I stumbled upon a hidden cove.

I allowed myself to be mesmerized by the melody of the sea.

And, then we viewed man's attempt to follow God's creativity by fashioning objects of art with his own hands. Brittany is often referred to as the land of churches, which is due to the fact that its landscape is dotted by tiny villages each of which has a chapel, or a cathedral, or a basilica, etc.

Thus, we visited the ruins of a monastery surveyed by a Madonna of white.

I watched the sky peering through the ruins and tried to imagine what the monastery must have been like in its glory days.

I considered the towering spires of a cathedral in another village and decided that, mountain goat or no mountain goat, climbing these towers was beyond my realm of possibilities.

Yet, my eyes lingered over the subtleties of the stained glass windows.

And, then the sun began its lazy retreat toward its celestial bedchamber.

The golden orb kissed the sea, smearing the horizon with hues of orange and yellow...

...dabbing the sleepy clouds with shades of pink...

...and leaving the sky in violet shadows.

But the sea, continuing to pound upon the coast of rock, refused to follow the call of the Sandman---its white foam still visible in spite of the setting sun.

Then the moon appeared, and I realized my journey at the ends of the earth was indeed finished.

The next morning, however, on our return to Lannion, we paused in the town of Huelgoat.

And I was in awe of the undeniable fact that Autumn, my favorite season, had finally arrived in all of her gilded glory.

At Huelgoat, we visited a valley piled high with mammoth-sized boulders which bears the fitting title of Le Chaos.

According to legend, either Gargantua, Rabelais's gigantic hero, or Satan carried the boulders to this valley to set up for a feast. Whether or not the feast actually took place and who was on the invitation list, however, will forever remain an unsolved mystery.

One of the boulders is called la Roche Tremblante---the trembling rock. Local mythology claims it is possible for one man to force the rock to move due to its position. It is purported to be a simple matter of leverage and locating the correct point of exertion rather than brute force. Yannick can be seen taking his turn on the left side of the photo. Did the Hoosier plouc succeed in making the rock tremble? Well, that as well will remain an unsolved mystery.

I did, however, succeed in lifting a cumbersome megalith---that is, I succeeded in trying, anyway. Megalithic sites can be found scattered around the Mediterranean and along the Atlantic seaboard, perhaps the most famous of which is Stonehenge in England.

The presence of megalithic structures in Brittany, however, is of special importance because it is at Carnac in the south where the earliest stone construction in Europe is believed to have been created (c. 5700 BC), supposedly predating the palace of Knossos on Crete and even the Egyptian pyramids. In fact, the contemporary terms used to describe these rocks of behemoth proportions are in Breton: menhir (long stone), dolmen (flat stone), cromlech (stone circle).

The particular megalithic site we visited is claimed to have been a tomb for giants. Perhaps this is where all of Gargantua's dinner guests ended up.

The last stop before returning to "Happy Town" was les Monts d'Arrée (for which the best translation I can provide is "Mounts of Arrée"). It is a barren land of mystery and intrigue. Born and raised in the farm country of Hoosierland, I have rarely seen land which is left to its own natural desires. Every inch of the landscape near my home is put to work in order to bear crops and prove its fruitfulness. Les Monts d'Arrée, au contraire, comprise a landscape upon which very few houses are built, whose fields are not harvested. It is simply there: alone and steeped in legend.

Standing at the summit of one of the mounts, I overlooked the valley and listened to Yannick recount the legends. Somewhere below in this valley the yeun ellez---doorways to Hell---were rumored to exist. Indeed, if one sees a black dog walking in the valley, it is believed to be the soul of a dead person walking toward the yeun ellez.

Individuals have also claimed to have seen leprechauns and other such mythological creatures frolicking about in this region. Additionally, if one suddenly shivers but no gust of air could be felt to have produced such an action, Ankou (Death) is believed to have just passed by. Landscapes like the Monts d'Arrée are those upon which it is difficult to live, and thus the lands have become feared and legendary. Writers such as Anatole le Braz have produced works which explore the Breton fascination with, among other myths, Ankou.

It is this mystery, this intrigue and these legends upon which I pondered and dreamed during the ride back to Lannion---quite fitting as we were encroaching upon Halloween and Toussaint. And, I was more content than ever to have chosen Brittany as my destination during this adventure abroad.

But, my Toussaint adventures had only just begun. I had caught a glimpse of Heaven in the natural beauty and man-made objects of art in Brittany, but the next morning I found myself catching a train with a new destination in mind: Belgium, a country I had never before visited.

And, once again I found myself in awe.

I watched the countryside of northern France melt into the land of Walloons---French-speaking Belgians who occupy the southern portion of the country, and then finally reached my destination of Mechelen, a city set outside Brussels comfortably in the Flemish-speaking side of the country. Stretching to prepare my limbs for a day of sightseeing, I scanned the crowds for my friend: Marjolein Florquin. "Jo" is a vraie Belgian who spent five years studying at IPFW and with whom I graduated from the land of the Mastodon in May of 2006. Eager to see her country, we had arranged this visit in order to profit from my time in Europe.

And, in no less than a few short minutes I realized how blessed I was to be shown Belgium by a true Belgian. This is a country which has three official languages: Flemish, French and German. Thus, I assumed that with my French I would have no problem communicating during my visit. However, I very quickly realized French is not to be spoken openly in the streets in the northern part of Belgium. Jo would always jump ahead of me to speak in Flemish when, for example, introducing me to friends or ordering drinks. And, then the people around me would begin to converse with me in English. Clearly, they had no desire to engage in French. One time I began to say something en français, but when Jo immediately took over in Flemish I received the impression that this was not to be done.

There is, indeed, a cultural struggle between the Walloon and the Flemish peoples. Jo explained to me that there has even been a political movement in the Flemish portion of the country to illegalize the speaking of French on the streets. The Flemish speakers may not have Walloonphobia (wink, wink to a few friends who deserve an accolade---you know who you are), but it seems to me that they consider Walloons to be the ploucs of the country.

Naturally, I gazed in wonderment at the architecture in Brussels. I never cease to be amazed by the beauty of structures which were made for just that purpose: to be beautiful. Though there may have been some pragmatic purpose at the time, these buildings were designed to inspire awe, reflection rather than simply fade into obscurity and be forgotten save for their practicality. I didn't walk away thinking, "Wow. Those buildings must have great conveniences for office space." Rather, I allowed my eyes to dwell upon the ornate designs, the soaring peaks and walked away in admiration.

And, then along came the food. Jo, my personal tour guide, had prepared an itinerary of activities and adventures, but at the top of her list were the gourmet bits of Belgian cuisine I needed to sample.

Thus, it was with great anticipation that I bit into the sumptuous square of sugary fluff that was my first ever true Belgian waffle.

And, then, what next but authentic Belgian chocloate?

This was followed by "French" fries which, contrary to popular belief, were born in Belgium and not in France. I dined on the traditional meal of moules-frites (mussels and fries) which are also quite popular and traditional in Brittany.

All of this was washed down with a sampling of Belgian beer, which, I will report, is rather inexpensive, yet quite savory. This is not the light beer of America produced for the sole purpose of providing a quick trip to the drunken land of pink elephants; rather, it is, like the architecture, produced to be appreciated, enjoyed and properly considered within a social context. It was, in fact, while tasting this Belgian brew that Jo and I jumped into a hearty debate on the nature of Truth and social responsibility.

In addition, Jo introduced me to the symbol of Brussels: Manneken Pis ("little man peeing"). This is a fountain which comprises a statue of a naked little boy urinating into the fountain's basin. He is adored by the city of Brussels and often dressed in seasonal costumes, such as a Santa Claus suit during Christmastime. There are many legends as to why he has become such an icon. One such myth, for example, posits that in the 14th century, Brussels was under attack by some foreign power, the leaders of which were seen placing explosive charges around the city walls by a little boy, Juliaanske of Brussels. Juliaanske then prompty urinated on the fuse, thus saving the city from destruction.

In the mid-1990s, women cried social unjustice, and a female equivalent, Jeanneke Pis, a little girl peeing, was commissioned. We, however, did not take the time to visit Jeanneke.

Jo, like Yannick, also recounted other legends which general tourists may not be so lucky as to hear. While walking through her hometown of Mechelen, for example, she showed me the tower of Saint Romboutstoren and explained why the inhabitants of Mechelen are called "moonlight extinguishers." According to legend, long ago one night the moon was shining brightly on the unfinished tower---so brightly, in fact, that the natives thought the tower was burning. Thus, they climbed the stairs armed with buckets of water only to discover it was merely the moon playing tricks upon them. This story is perhaps a bit more interesting and compelling than the one I often provide for why those from Indiana are called "Hoosiers."

We also visited one street which had enough neon fixtures to look like something out of Hong Kong or Vegas. It did, indeed, include restaurants and cafés boasting cuisine from all over the world, the hosts of which would stand just outside the doorways to entreat travellers to come, and taste and see. One particular host decided to throw the traditional method of singing the praises of his cuisine aside; he instead elected to run around me with a pepper shaker, showering me with black bits of pepper and murmuring some charm or spell. Unfortunately, either the spell didn't work or my resolve to walk on by was simply too strong because we did not pause here to eat.

Later on the evening of October 31st, All Hallow's Eve (the day before Toussaint)---or, as most Anglophones prefer to say it, Halloween---Jo and I were discussing future plans in her family's kitchen when there was a knock on the door. She rose from the table, opened the door and yelled for me to come take a look. And, what to my wandering eyes did appear but little Belgian Trick-or-Treaters!

"Trick or Treat! Halloween!" they proclaimed---in English!

We scrambled for candy. I grabbed my bookbag, sifting through the contents, and finally located Cinnamon Orbit gum. This is an American treat many of my French friends have come to love, and thus I thought it would be a better choice than a half-eaten baguette. I walked over with my camera and gum. They said collectively, "Oh...photo!" (in English, again), and struck a terrifying pose.

We were visited twice that evening by ambitious Belgian tots, much to my delight and Jo's dismay. I never dreamed that across the ocean tucked away in the city of Mechelen, Belgium I would hear the words "Trick or Treat!" Jo, however, saw it as disappointing. The kids did not understand the cultural context of Halloween in America, or in Ireland, for that matter, from where it is believed to have originated. Furthermore, she noted that it seems a bit disrespectful when placed so close to the somber occasion of Toussaint. In the end, I was compelled to agree. The season around Halloween in Hoosierland, while not my favorite, is more than candy and materialism, whereas all which seems to have translated into the European equivalent is just that: the materialistic side.

Soon, however, my Toussaint excursion was about to take a dramatic turn. Up until this point I had marvelled at natural beauty and man's artistic ambitions, qualities which will one day be present in Heaven. The next leg of my trip, however, gave no insights into Heaven, but rather its ultimate opposite: Hell.

I had seen pure, wild Beauty. Next, I was to see her broken, tortured and destroyed.

Breendonk began as a fort situated along the ancient Brussels - Antwerp highway; however, during World War II it became a camp for political prisoners and Jews awaiting deportation to Germany. In fact, Breendonk is believed to be perhaps the only camp from the era of German occupation which remains totally in tact, due to its concrete walls created when it was built originally as a fort.

Concentration camps for this Hoosier were the stuff of books, such as Night by Elie Wiesel, and documentaries---something from a distant era and far away land. But, as I walked into the cold corridors of Breendonk, new life was breathed into those dusty pages of history---new life, that is, which turned to insights of death.

Engraved above the massive doorway leading into Breendonk are the haunting words which Dante, in his Inferno, writes as being inscribed upon the Gate of Hell: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

And, thus, I walked into the inferno.

There were names---names like Ilse Birkholz: the woman born in the United States who became the wife of a Nazi officer and, as such, enjoyed watching the male prisoners stand naked in long lines outside in the frigid air waiting for the two minutes of cold water they were allotted for a shower.

There were pictures---pictures of officers who took frequent bets on who would be the first to kill a prisoner.

There was barbed wire and fencing---fencing which held the prisoners in the fort. Loved ones would bravely stand on the distant road, yearning for a view of their friends or family members in the camp. If, however, the prisoners would wave or otherwise make gestures to their loved ones on the road, they were beaten.

There were chains---chains and tiny cells not tall enough for prisoners to stand comfortably, resulting in days of cramped torture.

There were beds---hard bunkbeds shoved together in cramped, cold rooms full of lice. Prisoners were beaten because of the lice. At least one man was killed because his bed one morning was not tidy enough.

There were drawings---drawings, names and dates scratched into the walls of the cells. One such wall bore an image of Jesus Christ, the one hope amidst a palpable Hell.

There were certificates---certificates of death which read "died of natural causes" or "death due to failure of heart" when the prisoners were beaten to death.

And, there were the stories---stories of torture, stories of death.

One woman found herself dragged into the torture room several times. She was bound at the wrists and suspended on a pulley, after being stripped naked, of course. The Nazi officers put out their cigarettes on her bare flesh. They prodded her with hot irons. They crushed her fingers. If she fainted, they would lower her to the ground, arouse her and begin again.

And I---I stood in the very spot in which she had hung, weeping for her very life. No longer was this something from a distant era, a far away land. History---Hell---was looking me in the eyes.

A young boy of seventeen years was buried in the ground up to his neck. Others climbed on his head. The boy cried for his mother. Every time he did something so reprehensible as to cry for his mother, mud was thrown at him.

Others---others were thrown in the frigid river in the middle of winter. When they would try to leave the water, they were beaten with shovels. Eventually, they sank into the mud. Their bodies were removed and sludge was found lodged in their mouths, nose, ears. Their death certificates, of course, read "death due to bad blood circulation."

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Hell: the darkness of a fallen humanity.

3,500 souls suffered at Breendonk.

164 were shot.

21 were hanged.

About 100 died of torture and exhaustion.

Breendonk has become a Human Rights Memorial and will forever bear testimony to what we fallen human beings are capable of.

Beauty. Darkness. I have seen Heaven; I have seen Hell.

And all of this on "All Saints" vacation.