Mauthausen, May 1945: the bridge of fragile stairs
When the gates of Mauthausen finally opened, it was as if the air itself hesitated before entering. The silence weighed more heavily than the roar of bullets that had marked life and death within those walls for years. The survivors were mere shadows of their former selves: sunken faces, dull eyes, bodies bent by hunger and forced labor. Each step toward the exit seemed unreal, like a forbidden dream none of them dared fully hope for. And yet, on that day in May 1945, the extermination camp opened, and with it the horizon of freedom whose taste they had almost forgotten.
The survivors were led to a rickety wooden bridge spanning the marshy ground. Their unsteady steps creaked on the worn planks. Many were shoeless: their bare feet, swollen and bloody, bore the scars of endless marches, sharp stones, and icy ground. Each foot told a story of quiet perseverance, of pain swallowed without a cry.
As the column moved forward, an unexpected gesture occurred. Residents of a neighboring village, witnesses to this liberation, placed what they had found along the bridge: old shoes worn in the fields, children’s sandals tied together with string, broken heels, torn slippers. None of these items were new or perfect, but each bore the mark of a sincere gift. It was a spontaneous offering, a wave of humanity placed on wooden slats.
The prisoners, uncertain, stopped one by one to put on their ill-fitting shoes. Some smiled faintly, relieved to have spared their bruised feet. Others wept silently, understanding that freedom itself had arrived, like those shoes: uncomfortable, too big or too small, but real. Each pair, however ill-fitting, became a symbol. It wasn’t a promise of immediate comfort, but a path to follow, no matter the cost.
The young man put on a shoe three sizes larger than his own: he stumbled, but he kept moving forward. The woman, clutching a worn scarf, slipped her toes into the overly heavy men’s shoes she dragged to the rhythm of her unsteady steps. Beside her, the old man contented himself with walking barefoot, refusing the sandals he was offered, as if the feel of the wood beneath his burnt soles were a way to feel that he was finally walking freely, free from chains and shouts.
That day, the bridge became more than just a simple passageway. Each plank resonated with a peculiar sound: the clatter of bare feet, the shuffle of oversized soles, the creaking of patched shoes. It was a strange, painful, yet living music. For in these imperfect sounds, the future was taking shape.
There was no immediate triumph beyond the bridge. Freedom wasn’t a sudden flash of light; it felt more like an unsteady step in borrowed shoes. It was fragile, shaky, but it existed. The survivors knew the ordeal wouldn’t end there: they had to learn to eat, sleep, and live again. Not only were their bodies broken: their memories would forever bear the scars of the camps, erased names, lost faces. But that day, crossing the bridge, they were already taking the first step toward rebuilding.
Abandoned on the edge of the boards, the shoes remained a silent testament. They spoke of anonymous gestures of those who wanted to help, of signs of solidarity amid the ruins of Europe. These ill-fitting objects, too small, too big, too worn, embodied the very essence of survival: to go forward despite everything, with what you have, with what remains.
The Mauthausen Bridge was therefore not just a wooden path: it became a symbol. A symbol of the transition between death and life, between oppression and the future. A symbol of human resilience, which, even in adversity, finds the strength to move forward.
To this day, historians and survivors recall this image: a line of emaciated figures, worn coats fluttering in the wind, shoes strewn along the path. This scene not only tells the story of the camp’s liberation but also expresses a universal truth about every liberation: it is never perfect, always painful, yet irreversible. Every step, even a clumsy one, becomes a victory over oblivion.
Looking at this image, frozen in our collective memory, we understand that freedom isn’t a state of comfort: it’s movement. This wooden bridge, strewn with shoes, reminds us that walking, even in sandals that are too tight or shoes that are too wide, is an affirmation that life goes on. And that in that rustle of gentle footsteps, even today, the promise of never forgetting resonates.
