The taxi bumped along a track just off the main road heading south from the Auschwitz Museum, past a row of bungalows with straggly November gardens. It crunched to a halt in front of a pair of rusty gates, hanging half open, their padlock dangling. Dilapidated and overgrown greenhouses could be seen inside.
Stepping out of the taxi, I pushed open the gates and entered. I approached the greenhouses, trying to reconstruct in my imagination the forced labourers from the nearby Nazi concentration and extermination camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau who built and worked in this place from 1943.
