Third Reich
View allAll Photos Tagged Nazi
acrylic on canvas, 70 x 100 cm
This work describes the current situation on social media where Western countries impose cultural ànd political censorship by proxy on their citizens.
It must be compared with the witch hunt of the Nazi regime
It is based on personal experience (my tweets are hidden under the message "offensive tweet", Flickr removed my painting "Dein Kampf" as a group photo (I replaced it with "Das radikal Böse"), on Facebook I regularly cannot request personal profiles, the operation of my PC is sabotaged, etc.
The censorship against the silenced majority is supposed to make you believe that you have lost.(Naomi Seibt, Jan 12, 2021)
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Jan Theuninck is a Belgian painter
www.boekgrrls.nl/BgDiversen/Onderwerpen/gedichten_over_sc...
www.forumeerstewereldoorlog.be/wiki/index.php/Yperite-Jan...
www.graphiste-webdesigner.fr/blog/2013/04/la-peinture-bel...
charterforcompassion.org/belgium
Tonight is the third night of Hanukkah.
The light of the Jewish people will never be extinguished.
"In 1931, a rabbi’s wife, Rachel Posner, photographed the family’s brass menorah on their windowsill in the northern port city of Kiel.
Opposite their apartment was the Nazi party’s regional headquarters with a large swastika flag hanging menacingly from the facade.
On the back of the snapshot Rachel wrote an inscription: “The flag says ‘death to Judaism,’ the light says ‘Judaism will live for ever.'”
www.timesofisrael.com/iconic-menorah-from-photo-with-nazi...
NikonD7500
Pentacon Auto 50mm f/1.8 MC
f/1.8
1/125
ISO250
Nazi Germany had some of the best soldiers at the time that included the Gebrigsjäger's, Waffen SS and the Fallschrimjägers
Mostly took this picture to show off the new Brickarms MP40 submachine gun. The updated version has a ton of detail in it but its too big. I cut the stock off because I was not a fan of it at all.
(repost)
That is what the California Highway Patrol officer said.
We were ensconced in an open garage waiting out an armed 211 suspect when those words were spoken.
My call came in at 2:30. A man was barricaded in his apartment after a shootout with police. At the time, I was home sick with a headache the size of the Rock of Gibraltar. But a barricade is a barricade and I threw on some clothes and rushed to the scene.
I stopped at the road closure and was waved through by one of the CHP guys that yelled, “Hey, I know you....go ahead.”
“OK”
After parking the car where the chippy said I should, I asked our esteemed parking enforcement officer (also known as the Parking Nazi) who was standing guard, where was everything happening and where should I go.
He motioned somewhere down the street towards some low-rent apartment complexes and told me to walk on the right side of the street through a vacant lot - nothing but dirt and a creosote bush.
“OK.”
I kept an eye out for what was going on and watched as the guys from the PD’s Special Response Team ( SRT) moved into place.
“Cool,” thought I and grabbed a few shots of one of the guys creeping across the roof, rifle in front of him, pack behind. I thought, “If I get nothing else this will be good art."
I heard people yelling at me and here comes the PIO from the Barstow Police running across the street telling me that hey, I was right in the line of fire and I should like move.
“OK.”
“Don’t go south of the palm tree,” he said, “that way you won’t be in the line of fire.”
“OK. Can I stand behind the palm tree?”
“Sure,” he said, “but I’m not responsible if you get shot.”
“OK”
Seemed to be my thought processes at the time, singular “OK’s”
I stood behind the palm tree for a little bit and then moved — I really wasn’t in the mood to get shot.
The reporter showed up, a radio guy showed up, a small TV station guy showed up and we all sat around in the heat waiting for something to happen....for a long time.
Negotiators were on the phone, relatives got on the phone to try and talk this guy out. The man had been wounded slightly in the first shootout — shot in the hand and the arm — and yelled out to his friends that he was afraid the cops were going to shoot him on sight.
We all knew that this would never happen, but the guy wouldn’t come out. The cops even brought him cigarettes when he asked for them - actually threw them up to him on the balcony. If they had wanted to shoot him, they could have at that time.
I got permission to wander a bit, down in parking area where the CHP rifle shooters were set up — watched them concentrate completely down their black gun sites. I was close enough that if I stuck my head out I could see the guy’s balcony — really, really well — with bloody curtains swaying in the wind.
Time wore on, heat got worse, men got shifted around so as to give the ones sitting in the sun a break.
We waited. Cops gave me Gatorade and water. It was hot.
As dusk set in I kept hoping this guy would come out with his hands up while I still had light to shoot by. Even with my new digital camera (YEA!) I was still a newbie at using the flash in low light situations so I wanted halfway good light.
I simply couldn’t figure out why this guy would NOT come out.
Was it the macho mentality of the whole gang banger personality? Was it that he knew he was facing some major jail time? He was already a loser in that department. What possibly could be worth prolonging this stand-off?
Time wore on some more. The apartment complex residents started getting restless. Hoots and hollers and jungle-like monkey noises came from the apartments and from those watching and waiting behind the lines. A bottle was thrown.
I have to admit, this made a me a tad nervous. I could just see this thing erupting into an all-out riot. Half the people in the complex were convinced the cops were going to gun the guy down and the other half were afraid of the first half.
Soon the cops had enough waiting and started firing tear gas canisters into the apartment. Oh my! Horrible sound those loud guns. Once that tear gas thing started I didn’t stick my head out any more. I crouched down behind a car. I could still see the CHP shooters but wasn’t in the line of fire.
Good thing.
Several minutes after the first rounds of tear gas were volleyed into the apartment there came three quick shots - pop - pop - pop — out the sliding glass door — over the balcony.
“Holy shit,” thought I, “that guy is firing at us.”
“Hey,” I yelled, “Was he shooting this way.”
“Yes, Lara, he was shooting this way.”
I crouched down lower. Just about fully dark now. The people that had come out to watch were yelling the guy was yelling babies were screaming and one Barstow cop remarked, “I can’t believe these people brought their kids out to a gunfight.”
Law enforcement did not return gun fire but more tear gas was used.
Still no sound, no reaction from the barricaded man.
One of the CHP guys came back down into our spot and said that after the three rounds fired by the suspect, one more shot was heard a few minutes later - muffled. Not aimed out the sliding glass door — inside the building.
He said quietly that he had heard _that_ sound before.
Time was starting to lose meaning. Amidst the noise and chaos I had been on the phone relaying the latest developments to the reporter who had gone back to write his story. More tear gas was lobbed into the building but the feeling was that the man had offed himself with that final fourth shot.
My deadline to leave was fast approaching — close to 9 p.m. I had the images from the afternoon’s deployment and some close-ups of the guys close to me. But no resolution. No closure.
The crowd up the street was really starting to turn ugly and I debated going up to photograph that, but figured that a camera flashing would trigger the already riotous behaviour that was growing.
Two guys threw bottles at the sheriff’s SWAT team. Ooooh, not a good idea. Those SWAT-dudes are bad-asses with attitudes and guns. They do NOT take kindly to being pelted with bottles. The bottle-throwers were arrested and the crowd scene cooled after that.
No lights were on in the apartment, no movement was seen and all negotiations had long since broken off. The man’s last words and comments to the negotiator were pretty much that the only way he was going to leave was in a body bag.
I still hoped not, but I left to file my art. Before I left the center of the action, which is where I had been allowed to stay (don’t ask me why, I was just allowed to stay.) I made sure the police chief and one of the LT’s knew I was returning and wanted to be back close to where things were happening.
“Sure.” they said, “Just show your press pass, tell whoever we said it was ok and come on back - stay out of the line of fire.”
“OK”
I left, filed the creeping-across-the-roof pic and one of two officers and a bullet proof shield and came back.
Things were as I left them — no more noise, no more nothing.
About 11 p.m. the sheriff's office took over. The Barstow PD SRT and CHP back-ups had been on duty squinting down their sites for almost 8 hours, it was time for a relief team.
I watched the camouflaged SWATs come in, dash about the courtyard smashing out the remaining lights that would put them in danger and get into place, covering each other with guns pointed toward the apartment as they ran across the courtyard.
I couldn’t help myself, I thought “Jeez, this is just like in the movies.” Only this time it was for real — surrealistic, but real.
When the Barstow guys and CHP left I was still standing there all by my lonesome. One of them yelled back at me, “You probably ought to come out too.”
“OK.”
That seemed like a good idea to me — it was dark and I didn’t like being alone.
I came up out of the garage hole and plopped down on the front of a fire truck. Sheriff’s homicide detectives were wondering who the hell was I and why was I there. I smiled, introduced myself and sat back quietly on the fire engine, hoping that no one would actually notice me. I even put my camera down.
The sheriff’s Captain saw me, smiled and let me stay. I was now considered a “friendly.” Cool.
I had kept in contact with the night editor at our sister paper, even after the Dispatch went to bed, did some interviewing, got the correct on-the-record-quotes that supported the police’s version of what happened and waited — and waited.
For almost an hour after the SO took over a deputy called out over a loud speaker. “Aaron. Come out with your hands up. The building is surrounded.” Every few minutes for almost an hour. Over and over. The same tone of voice. No emotion. It could have been a computerized recording it was so precisely repeated, but it wasn’t.
Aaron didn’t come out.
Talking time was up and the SWAT team started in with more powerful tear gas. Volley after volley. No Aaron. He was either immune to the gas or dead.
Soon the team took out the doors and entered the building using flash-bang devices before going into each room - “auditory and visual distractions” they call them.
Hell honey, those are bombs.
Every time they said over the radio they were setting off another one, all the law enforcement guys, suits, SWAT dudes, everybody around me, put their fingers in their ears. I wish I had photographed that, but it is hard to hold a camera with your fingers in your ears.
Time moved faster, soon after the SWAT guys entered they called for the SO medics that had flown in on a chopper. Word came out fast that it was over, Aaron was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
It was one o’clock in the morning. There was almost a palpable sigh, a slumping of the shoulders when it was over. I had been at the scene for almost ten hours.
It was not a good resolution. Not the one that everyone; law enforcement, medics, firefighters, friends and family had hoped for.
I remembered what the CHP shooter said after word came in about the fourth shot — “We are in a stand-off with a dead man.”
He was right.
•••••••••••••
Rest in Peace Aaron
While many people have heard of the Malmedy massacre, it is not as well known that there were many other massacres of American prisoners by the Germans during the Battle of the Bulge. This is the Hotel du Moulin, and the memorial is to the right. Ligneuville is a town just south of Baugnez, where the Malmedy massacre took place. Malmedy and Baugnez are behind me up the road.
Please read the following story written by John Toland, who wrote a fantastic book on the Battle of the Bulge.
Written by John TOLAND
Saturday, 29 April 2006
The Brave Innkeeper of "The Bulge"
This article was printed in the Coronet Magazine in December 1959.
By using wit, courage and the choicest Cognac, Peter Rupp saved 14 Americans from certain murder by the Nazis.
On Sunday, the 17th December 1944 the day after the Battle of the Bulge erupted, war came roaring into the tiny Belgian town of Ligneuville. Hotel owner Peter Rupp, who had been an active member of the anti-Nazi underground, knew that the dangerous game he’d played during the years of German occupation was not over.
From a kitchen window of his Hotel du Moulin, Rupp could see the American stragglers being rounded up. Then he noticed a German Sergeant pistol in hand, marching eight prisoners into the yard. The sergeant shoved one of the prisoners out of line, and stepping close drew his pistol, Rupp gasped and started for the back door. From the back yard a shot sounded, another followed, Rupp shouted at a German Sergeant that American prisoners were being murdered, but the non-commissioned officer paid no attention. Despairing of getting help from the Germans, Rupp stated for the back door again. He had lost count of the shots, but they were continuing at brief intervals. The terrible thing was that no one cared. When he finally got to the door and stepped in the back yard. The German sergeant with the automatic pistol was advancing on a single still standing American. The American, who was not more that 18 or 19 years old twisted away and started to run, but the German seized him and forcing the barrel of his weapon into the youngster’s open mouth, he pulled the trigger. The last of the eight Americans fell stiffly among his comrades, who were already frozen in the grotesque postures of death.
Horrified, Rupp clung weakly to the doorjamb. Then the Nazi sergeant, his executions completed spun stiffly on his heel and marched briskly from the yard. This winter marks the 15th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, greatest and bloodiest ever fought by Americans. At 5 A.M. on December 16, 1944, Adolph Hitler launched his final great offensive, as 250.000 Germans spearheaded by 1.000 tanks and assault guns, smashed deep into the Ardennes, defended only by battle exhausted or green U.S. troops.
Before it was over, the Americans suffered 80.000 casualties, and Peter Rupp the 69-year-old innkeeper who’d been outraged by the needless slaughter of eight captured Americans, became one of the battle’s most unique and unsung heroes. His only weapons had been his wits, his courage and several cases of very good cognac.
Twenty-five miles behind the “Ghost Front,” the people of Ligneuville felt safe and secure on the Saturday evening of December 16. They had no idea the greatest offensive on the Western Front had been aimed in their direction all day. Neither did the men of the American 49th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Brigade, bivouacked in the village.
The next morning as Rupp, his wife Balbina, their daughter Maria and her two children headed for church, a line of American tanks and trucks roared down the hill from Malmedy, six miles to the north. An hour later, as he and his family slowly filed home, the last armored vehicle passed, the clouds of dust settled, the gas fume dissipated. It was quiet again. Too quiet, thought, Rupp. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard a faint, distant rumble. It sound like thunder, but Rupp knew it was the storm of battle.
Panic in the village mounted as the 450 antiaircraft men hastily pulled out. Only a few Americans were left. These soldiers had arrived late the night before, driving the supply trucks of Combat Command B of the Ninth Armored Division.
Suddenly, a bulldozer roared down the hill from Baugnez at twice its safe speed. “German tanks!” shouted the driver to Captain Seymour Green who stood near the Hotel du Moulin. “Get the outfit ready to move”, Green called to first Sergeant Page Shenk, of Luray, Virginia. But as the first of Green’s service trucks started rolling southward out of the village, a powerful tank spearhead of the First SS Panzer Division, Hitler’s “Own,” roared down upon Ligneuville from the north. Its leader, Lieutenant-Colonel Jochen Peiper, who had sliced 25 miles into Belgium that morning, ordered his armored cars to wipe out the Americans.
The lone Sherman tank beside the Hotel du Moulin held the Germans back for a while, then an 88 scored a direct hit on the single American defender, and Peiper’s men raced through the town, destroying the last laggard trucks in Green’s column.
Soon the rest of Peiper’s Battle Group poured down the hill from Malmedy, a town whose name would soon he a synonym for massacre. Only moments before, almost 100 captured Americans standing helplessly in a field had been murdered by these young Nazi zealots. Incensed by the unexpected delay caused by the Sherman, the SS men impatiently dismounted from their tanks and armored cars and burst into the Hotel du Moulin. Once again the inn had changed flags.
Rupp’s tiny wife, Balbina, betrayed no outward emotion. She, being a Swiss, had little fear of the Germans. Their daughter, Maria, had even less fear, since 1930, she had been married to a German. Rupp himself was the bland host, an innkeeper learns to be an internationalist. But unknown to his neighbors, unknown even to his family, he was actually an ardent member of the secret Belgian White Army. During the first Nazi occupation the Hotel du Moulin had been a station in the Underground Railroad. Using the nom de guerre of “Monsieur Kramer” he hid Allied fliers in a vacant room and kept them until it was safe for them to pass on the next station. In all, 22 American, British, and French fliers owed their lives to “Monsieur Kramer”.
Since Rupp was an exceptionally generous host to these secret guests, his narrowest escape during the occupation had come the day the budget-minded Balbina threatened to call in the Gestapo to solve the mystery of constantly disappearing food. It took all of Rupp’s persuasion to call of the investigation without revealing he was the thief.
Rupp was still unsuspected when the American armies, sweeping across France in the fall of’44 liberated Ligneuville. Now the war had come back to the Hotel du Moulin and eight murdered American prisoners lay in the back yard. Rupp could not let such an atrocity go unchallenged. There were other American prisoners, and they, too, would be in danger.
While Rupp tried to protest the butchery, 14 more American prisoners were herded into the lobby; behind them was the same stocky SS sergeant who had killed the others. Rupp dropped his role of “Good German” and, reckless of his own safety ran up to the sergeant.
“Murderer!” he shouted. “You killed eight of them! I saw you put the pistol in their mouths”.
The sergeant punched Rupp in the jaw, knocking out two teeth.
“I know you mean to shoot these men, too” panted Rupp. “But you can’t! They’re prisoners”.
A staff officer approached. “Shoot them all,” he said angrily. “And shoot this noisy Belgian swine first!”
“Leave them alone, Sergeant.” A combat officer, wearing SS insignia, came out of the command post. He looked with distaste at the other officer. Then he said in a hard voice, “Sergeant, put these men in that room and treat them as you’d want the Amis to treat you.”
The 14 Americans were crowded into a room on the main floor. Their leader, Captain Green, found the temper of the Germans hard to gauge. Some treated him diffidently some casually others seemed ready to shoot at the first opportunity.
In the kitchen, Peter Rupp was worrying about “his 14 Sammies.” The Germans were in a dangerous mood if one thing went awry, the murdering might start again; it was a delicate situation requiring all the tact, diplomacy and firmness Rupp had learned as an innkeeper. Then an idea occurred to him. He had hundreds of bottles of the finest cognac and champagne in a secret wine cellar. He’d use them to keep the Boche happy. He crept down into the cellar, filledc his arms, with bottles and returned to the kitchen.
“Maria”, he told his daughter, “Give the guard a good cognac so I can talk to the prisoners.”
Without question she left the room. A moment later, Rupp went to the prisoner’s room and was admitted. He held out two bottles.
“Just a minute”, Green said suspiciously. “Are you Belgian or German?”
“Belgian, of course!”
A GI hid the bottles.
“Thanks for the cognac”, Green said, “but we’re hungry”.
Rupp left the room and returned with eight plates on a tray. On his way back with six more meals an angry SS officer stopped him.
“What’s the idea?”
“Well, you’re not feeding them, so I have to”.
Rupp’s wife Balbina had entered the hotel in time to hear the last exchange and like her native Switzerland, she was small in independent. “See here” she said, looking at the officer “I’m from the Swiss Red Cross I have orders to look after all prisoners, and they get that food!”
Rupp, his face beaming, hurried in to the prisoners while his wife continued haranguing the SS officer. The meals delivered, he then stood guard in the lobby surreptitiously handing out bottle after bottle of cognac to Germans, regardless of rank.
The atmosphere grew cordial then jovial. Midnight finally passed. But there was still no sleep at the Hotel du Moulin. The command post was in a constant turmoil as reinforcements from the east kept pouring into the village. Then a courier returned from Peiper’s spearhead now five miles deeper into Belgium. The news was electrifying at dawn a strike would be made all the way to the Meuse River. Excitement rose. As the perfect host, Peter Rupp made a trip after trip to the secret wine cellar the Germans drank toasts to the Fuehrer ate heartily, sang songs of the Homeland and completely forgot about the prisoners.
At 5 A.M. Balbina walked into the hotel. Now there was quit except for snores and the faint chatter of a radio in the command post. Peter Rupp stood in front of the prisoners’ door, a benevolent guard his head nodding from exhaustion “Now its your turn to look after the Americans” he told his wife. “I’m going to sleep a bit.”
The crisis had passed, his 14 Americans would live.
Several day later, on December 20, Captain Green and the others were moved to Germany and prison camp. Peter Rupp’s responsibility was over.Ligneuville soon became the center of battle again as Americans commanded by Field Marshall Montgomery, began to counter attack from the north and General Patton’s Third-Army drove up from the south. During an over powering artillery barrage, Rupp was seriously wounded. By January 20 the triumphant Americans had arrived and the innkeeper was taken to an Army Hospital in St Hubert.
Examples of Nazi soldier uniforms in Post-Apoc America. From the BrickForge post-apoc story by me, Oreo (aka Jaak Onidor), Khopesh97, and Hikaro: www.brickforge.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=25&t=4956 SS officer's torso decal by Joey Lock.
German submarine U-995 is a Type VIIC/41 U-boat of Nazi Germany's Kriegsmarine. She was laid down on 25 November 1942 by Blohm & Voss in Hamburg, Germany, and commissioned on 16 September 1943 with Oberleutnant zur See Walter Köhntopp in command.
German Type VIIC/41 submarines were preceded by the heavier Type VIIC submarines. U-995 had a displacement of 759 tonnes (747 long tons) when at the surface and 860 tonnes (850 long tons) while submerged.[1] She had a total length of 67.10 m (220 ft 2 in), a pressure hull length of 50.50 m (165 ft 8 in), a beam of 6.20 m (20 ft 4 in), a height of 9.60 m (31 ft 6 in), and a draught of 4.74 m (15 ft 7 in). The submarine was powered by two Germaniawerft F46 four-stroke, six-cylinder supercharged diesel engines producing a total of 2,800 to 3,200 metric horsepower (2,060 to 2,350 kW; 2,760 to 3,160 shp) for use while surfaced, two Brown, Boveri & Cie GG UB 720/8 double-acting electric motors producing a total of 750 metric horsepower (550 kW; 740 shp) for use while submerged. She had two shafts and two 1.23 m (4 ft) propellers. The boat was capable of operating at depths of up to 230 metres (750 ft).
The submarine had a maximum surface speed of 17.7 knots (32.8 km/h; 20.4 mph) and a maximum submerged speed of 7.6 knots (14.1 km/h; 8.7 mph).
When submerged, the boat could operate for 80 nautical miles (150 km; 92 mi) at 4 knots (7.4 km/h; 4.6 mph); when surfaced, she could travel 8,500 nautical miles (15,700 km; 9,800 mi) at 10 knots (19 km/h; 12 mph). U-995 was fitted with five 53.3 cm (21 in) torpedo tubes (four fitted at the bow and one at the stern), fourteen torpedoes, and three anti-aircraft guns. The boat had a complement of between forty-four and sixty
At the end of the war on 8 May 1945 she was stricken at Trondheim, Norway. She was surrendered to the British and then transferred to Norwegian ownership in October 1948. In December 1952 U995 became the Norwegian submarine Kaura and in 1965 she was stricken from service by the Royal Norwegian Navy. She then was offered to the German government for the ceremonial price of one Deutsche Mark. The offer was turned down; but the Boat was saved by the German Navy League, DMB, where she became a museum ship at Laboe Naval Memorial in October 1971.
MPDC Riot Police mpdc.dc.gov gearing up for the National Socialists Movement (NSM) March Against Illegal Immigrants . National Mall between Constitution Avenue and Madison Drive and 15th and 14th Streets, NW, WDC . Saturday afternoon, 19 April 2008 . Elvert Xavier Barnes Photography
So this post is for Colby! Anyways, I need to re watch the Indy films, I saw all of them awhile ago! Anyways I always loved Indiana Jones even as a kid! I used to have this whip and it could make sound effects XD
on to the figs...from L to R
Short Round: Hat idea from Colby, Fred face, Beckett torso
Sallah: Mike torso, SW head, Hat is backwors to make his fez
Henry Jones Sr: Dumbledore Head, detective torso
Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom appearance, old Chris Pratt face
Marion: Dorothy face and short sleeves
Nazi Mechanic: I think I nailed him! Legs from CB, LBM torso, LBM police head
Cairo Thug: Dress around hips, elastic around wrists, Dr Wu head, leg idea from Colby, Aladdin Legs
Up top...
Cairo Swordsman: Hanzo head, dress around hips
Mola Ram: Head dress technique from Colby, I just added a little brown part on the top, LBM head, Arms LBM and he has the flaming hart!
Arnold Ernst Toht: HP face, gangster torso, Reaper cloak/cape!
Tell me your thoughts and who's your favourite(s)
Another asset that won't be together by the time the saga's up. To be clear, they're mutants, not zombies. No zombies will ever appear in my stories, ever. Also wanted to show the tube because I liked the design.
The only remaining building built by the Nazis... check out how big that door is (the door knob is higher than that chick's head) - this was to impress upon the people the power of the Reich.
Now it's Berlin's tax office.
Villa von Hans-Günther Sohl, Wehrwirtschaftsführer unter Hitler und später Vorstandsvorsitzender des Thyssen-Konzerns.
Keller, Raum mit architektonischen Plänen.
~
Villa of Hans-Günther Sohl, Wehrwirtschaftsführer under Hitler and later CEO of the Thyssen Group.
Basement, room with architectural plans.
Kodak Portra 400 120
color negative film
One of the more difficult photography books to get through, but I think an important one to have been made. Sometimes art needs to grapple with hard issues. I think Kenna made a respectful and important book here and it's a reminder to us all why what happened in the Holocaust must never happen again. It's also an important record of what took place in its own way to those who would attempt to revise history.
Holocaust Memorial Day
81st anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz
27 Jan 1945 - 27 Jan 2026
Auschwitz november 2024. Photograph taken by my son who was working on a school project about the Shoah and the installation of Stolpersteine in memory of deportees and those who perished in the Nazi extermination & concentration camps.
PLEASE, NO invitations or self promotions, THEY WILL BE DELETED. My photos are FREE to use, just give me credit and it would be nice if you let me know, thanks.
This is in the room next to the gas chamber.
The crematorium at Auschwitz I camp, was first put into operation in September 1940. Bodies were shoved inside by means of a device shown in the photo above. The ovens were deep enough to hold two bodies, placed end to end. They were in operation until July 1943.
The nazis had advanced technology during WWII, and Arnim Zola was responsible for many scientific breakthroughs, but he grew overly attached to those inventions and still walks around in an automated (or should we call it outdated?) database.
Gerda Weissmann Klein endured three years across various Nazi concentration camps. In the latter part of January 1945, Gerda, along with 4,000 other Jewish women, was compelled to undertake a 350-mile death march to escape the advancing Allied forces.
By the beginning of May, Gerda was among the mere 120 women who had survived. The remainder, including several childhood friends, had perished due to exhaustion, starvation, arbitrary executions, and exposure to harsh weather conditions.
Gerda was just one day away from her 21st birthday when she was liberated by American soldiers. Weighing merely 68 lbs. (30.84 kg), her hair had turned almost white, her garments were ragged and infested with lice, and she had not bathed in three years.
She later recounted the moment she saw the man who would save her life:
"I was standing in the doorway of that factory, aware that I was free. I noticed an unfamiliar vehicle descending the hill, adorned with the white star of the American army on its bonnet. Two men in unfamiliar uniforms were seated inside, whom we presumed to be Americans. One of the men approached me, and I gazed at him with a mix of immense admiration and disbelief, realising I was facing someone who had fought for our cause. Naturally, I was profoundly scared. I told him, 'we are Jewish.' After a lengthy pause, he replied, 'so am I.' That was the most extraordinary moment of my life. He invited me to accompany him, courteously holding the door open for me. He has continued to hold the door open for me for 50 years as my husband."
Gerda wed Kurt Klein in Paris before relocating to Buffalo, New York, where they went on to have three children and eight grandchildren.
Gerda turned into a human rights advocate and authored her autobiography, "All But My Life."
Holocaust Memorial - One block south of the Brandenburg Gate, Berlin.
On 4.7 acres of rolling uneven surface, 2711 concrete blocks (or stelae,) rise eight inches to nearly sixteen feet high, all being three feet wide and nearly eight feet long, with varying angles facing upward. Fifty four rows run north-south, eighty seven, east-west. According to the Architect, Peter Eisenman, it's design produces an uneasy, confusing atmosphere, where, on the whole, the sculpture aims to represent a supposedly ordered system that has lost touch with human reason.
We had walked by the memorial late the day before and I knew I wanted some time here when the light was better. The following morning before heading to Potsdam, we were able to go back and in about fifteen minutes time, capture a few thoughtful images. I walked into the deep area where the blocks were very high, and sat down, looking toward the morning sun. The somber nature of this place was almost overwhelming. Then, the light dancing about at the distant end of my row was silhouetted by a human form... standing there in it's own moment of reflection...
Not meant to be a bright, happy image - rather, it's message may be one of cautious optimism, where a lighter place seems accessible at the far end. As a world society, we must take serious lessons from this very dark part of our collective past.
Fort Lauderdale is a city in the U.S. state of Florida, 25 miles (40 km) north of Miami. It is the county seat of Broward County. As of the 2019 census, the city has an estimated population of 182,437. Fort Lauderdale is a principal city of the Miami metropolitan area, which was home to an estimated 6,198,782 people in 2018.
The city is a popular tourist destination, with an average year-round temperature of 75.5 °F (24.2 °C) and 3,000 hours of sunshine per year. Greater Fort Lauderdale which takes in all of Broward County hosted 12 million visitors in 2012, including 2.8 million international visitors. The city and county in 2012 collected $43.9 million from the 5% hotel tax it charges, after hotels in the area recorded an occupancy rate for the year of 72.7 percent and an average daily rate of $114.48. The district has 561 hotels and motels comprising nearly 35,000 rooms. Forty six cruise ships sailed from Port Everglades in 2012. Greater Fort Lauderdale has over 4,000 restaurants, 63 golf courses, 12 shopping malls, 16 museums, 132 nightclubs, 278 parkland campsites, and 100 marinas housing 45,000 resident yachts.
Fort Lauderdale is named after a series of forts built by the United States during the Second Seminole War. The forts took their name from Major William Lauderdale (1782–1838), younger brother of Lieutenant Colonel James Lauderdale. William Lauderdale was the commander of the detachment of soldiers who built the first fort. However, development of the city did not begin until 50 years after the forts were abandoned at the end of the conflict. Three forts named "Fort Lauderdale" were constructed; the first was at the fork of the New River, the second at Tarpon Bend on the New River between the Colee Hammock and Rio Vista neighborhoods, and the third near the site of the Bahia Mar Marina.
The area in which the city of Fort Lauderdale would later be founded was inhabited for more than two thousand years by the Tequesta Indians. Contact with Spanish explorers in the 16th century proved disastrous for the Tequesta, as the Europeans unwittingly brought with them diseases, such as smallpox, to which the native populations possessed no resistance. For the Tequesta, disease, coupled with continuing conflict with their Calusa neighbors, contributed greatly to their decline over the next two centuries. By 1763, there were only a few Tequesta left in Florida, and most of them were evacuated to Cuba when the Spanish ceded Florida to the British in 1763, under the terms of the Treaty of Paris (1763), which ended the Seven Years' War. Although control of the area changed between Spain, United Kingdom, the United States, and the Confederate States of America, it remained largely undeveloped until the 20th century.
The Fort Lauderdale area was known as the "New River Settlement" before the 20th century. In the 1830s there were approximately 70 settlers living along the New River. William Cooley, the local Justice of the Peace, was a farmer and wrecker, who traded with the Seminole Indians. On January 6, 1836, while Cooley was leading an attempt to salvage a wrecked ship, a band of Seminoles attacked his farm, killing his wife and children, and the children's tutor. The other farms in the settlement were not attacked, but all the white residents in the area abandoned the settlement, fleeing first to the Cape Florida Lighthouse on Key Biscayne, and then to Key West.
The first United States stockade named Fort Lauderdale was built in 1838, and subsequently was a site of fighting during the Second Seminole War. The fort was abandoned in 1842, after the end of the war, and the area remained virtually unpopulated until the 1890s. It was not until Frank Stranahan arrived in the area in 1893 to operate a ferry across the New River, and the Florida East Coast Railroad's completion of a route through the area in 1896, that any organized development began. The city was incorporated in 1911, and in 1915 was designated the county seat of newly formed Broward County.
Fort Lauderdale's first major development began in the 1920s, during the Florida land boom of the 1920s. The 1926 Miami Hurricane and the Great Depression of the 1930s caused a great deal of economic dislocation. In July 1935, an African-American man named Rubin Stacy was accused of robbing a white woman at knife point. He was arrested and being transported to a Miami jail when police were run off the road by a mob. A group of 100 white men proceeded to hang Stacy from a tree near the scene of his alleged robbery. His body was riddled with some twenty bullets. The murder was subsequently used by the press in Nazi Germany to discredit US critiques of its own persecution of Jews, Communists, and Catholics.
When World War II began, Fort Lauderdale became a major US base, with a Naval Air Station to train pilots, radar operators, and fire control, operators. A Coast Guard base at Port Everglades was also established.
On July 4, 1961, African Americans started a series of protests, wade-ins, at beaches that were off-limits to them, to protest "the failure of the county to build a road to the Negro beach". On July 11, 1962, a verdict by Ted Cabot went against the city's policy of racial segregation of public beaches.
Today, Fort Lauderdale is a major yachting center, one of the nation's largest tourist destinations, and the center of a metropolitan division with 1.8 million people.
Credit for the data above is given to the following website:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Lauderdale,_Florida
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1944: Britain has fallen, Russia is on the brink of submission. Now the Führer turns his eye to a young nation across the Atlantic
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Fig barf! I'm thinking about doing something with him not sure yet; maybe walking through bombed out New York or something.
Thanks for looking!
<3 [Edelweiss]
Boris Is a Spetsnaz solder who was sent on a special mission during the Invasion of New York. However, during his mission, he found himself fighting off zombies in a baseball diamond! He is not sure if this was supposed to be part of his mission or not, but Boris is ready to defend his honor till the end!
This is one of my figs for my upcoming custom zombies map.