The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

Beauty finds us in strange places. And sometimes truth is almost too horrible to bear understanding. Through the eyes of a child caught between two views of the same awful world, "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas", with strokes of paradoxically gentle incomprehension, paints a picture of such stark horrors that, were it not true, we would condemn the imagination that dreamed it.

I don't know that I'll be able to watch it again. Like the unimaginable history the film portrays, there seems to be more reverence in remembering than in re-living. But fallen man is prone to forgetfulness - so if you need, as I did, to be reminded of the brutality and the blackness of sin, of the depth to which each of us would fall without God's restraining mercy, and then (indirectly, but ultimately) of the unfathomable magnitude and glory of His grace - then I think I could recommend a thoughtful viewing of "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas."

The only thing I felt it really lacked was a touch of hope at the end. Not a 'happy ending.' Just a reminder, however subtle, that evil did not, will not, and can never triumph. It rages and gnashes its horrific teeth, but it is a foe vanquished. Any story that ends on a note of unqualified darkness fails to bear witness to the whole truth, however honest and powerful it may be up to that point. Still, if gut-wrenching remorse is seen as the hopeful first step toward repentance and life, perhaps "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" doesn't fail entirely even here. 

It is against the deepest blackness of night that the stars shine brightest, even though we are still too far away to see more than pin-pricks of their real brilliance. It's all we can handle for now. 

Too deep, she thought. And her mind boggled.

That man should fall so far ... so far. So far. 

That the seed of this monster lurks snarling in every beating heart. 

That it is only love holding me back, love from without, and not from within. Love that breathed life into my long-cold lungs. Love that slays the monster. 

Do we even know what we are, what we would be, unleashed? We recoil when we see it; we don't recognize it. We call it inhumanity - we can scarce believe that such things could be - but it is exactly humanity. Nothing good. Unrestrained. Godless.

It happened not long ago; we know the story well. We know the red flag and its barbed black spider; we know the horrors behind the cold walls; the shaved heads and the filthy striped pajamas.

Children of men, eternal souls walking in time, stamped with the image of their Creator - herded like cattle by their earth-formed peers, shattered and beaten and starved, murdered each day by the thousands. For what? For being born.

Who did worst: the one that commanded it done? The one that carried it out stone-hearted? Or the one that felt remorse, and did it anyway?

It's happening now. We know the story; but do we?

Children of men, eternal souls beginning their voyage through time, new-formed in the image of their Creator - carried helpless by their earth-formed guardians, broken and stabbed and torn to pieces, murdered each day by the thousands. For what? For not yet being born.

Who does worst: the one that makes it law? The one that does the deed? Or the one that turns away, overwhelmed ... and does nothing?