Shoes on the Danube Bank

The stone underfoot is cool and smooth, and the river is close enough to hear. It moves past the embankment with a low, steady sound. Then you look down. At the edge of the stone, a few steps from the water, there is a long line of shoes. They are made of iron. Some sit upright, some lean against each other, and some lie tipped over on their sides, as if someone stepped out of them only a moment ago.

This is the Shoes on the Danube Bank, a Holocaust memorial on the Pest side of Budapest. It stands on the embankment a short walk south of the Hungarian Parliament building. The memorial has no wall, no gate, and no tall column. It is only shoes, roughly sixty pairs, placed along the riverbank at ground level. You do not look up at this monument. You have to look down, and that small change in posture is part of its power.

The shoes remember a specific and terrible chapter. In the autumn of 1944, the Arrow Cross Party took power in Hungary. This was a Hungarian fascist movement, closely aligned with Nazi Germany. In the months that followed, through the winter and into early 1945, Arrow Cross militiamen rounded up Jewish men, women, and children in the city. Many were brought to the banks of the Danube and shot, so that their bodies fell into the river and were carried away.

Why shoes? Survivor accounts and historical testimony describe how victims were ordered to remove their shoes before they were killed. During the war, a good pair of shoes was valuable. Leather was scarce, and shoes could be taken, worn, or sold. So the shoes were left behind on the bank. The people were not. That is the simple, devastating idea the memorial carries.

Now look closely at the shoes themselves. They are not identical, and they are not generic. There are heavy work boots and sturdy men's lace-ups. There are women's shoes with a small heel and a strap across the foot. And there are children's shoes — small enough that many visitors stop speaking when they notice them. The styles belong to the 1940s. Each pair suggests a different person, a different age, a different walk through the city that morning.

The memorial was conceived by the Hungarian film director Can Togay, and created together with the sculptor Gyula Pauer. It was unveiled in 2005, on the sixteenth of April, which is Hungary's day of remembrance for the victims of the Holocaust. Iron was a deliberate choice. It is heavy, it is plain, and it stays cold in winter. The shoes are fixed to the stone, so they cannot be moved or carried away.

Behind the line of shoes, look for three small cast iron plaques set into the stone bench. They carry the same short dedication in Hungarian, English, and Hebrew. The text remembers the victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944 and 1945. That is all. There is no list of names and no long explanation. The quiet of the place does the rest of the work.

Here is something many visitors miss. The memorial changes from day to day, because people add to it. You will often see small candles burning inside the shoes, especially in the evening. You may see flowers, ribbons, or folded notes. And you may notice small stones placed on or inside the shoes. In Jewish tradition, people leave a small stone on a grave as a sign that someone came to remember. Here, there are no graves, so the shoes receive the stones instead.

A second detail is easy to overlook. The shoes sit right at the edge, with nothing between them and the water but a short drop. There is no railing in front of them. This is intentional. It places you, the visitor, almost exactly where the victims stood. If you face the river, you are facing the direction they faced. Take a moment to notice how close the water really is.

Raise your eyes now and look across the river. On the far bank is Buda, rising up toward the long silhouette of the Castle District and the green hills behind it. The bridges reach across the water to your left and right. Trams rattle along the embankment behind you, and tour boats slide past on the river. Life in this city moves on all around the memorial. That contrast — ordinary daily movement beside such silence — is part of what you feel here.

It is worth knowing that this was not the only story of those months. During the same period, some diplomats and ordinary citizens in Budapest worked to protect Jewish residents. They issued protective documents and sheltered people in designated buildings. The Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg and the Swiss diplomat Carl Lutz are among the best known. Their efforts saved many lives. Yet thousands were still murdered, and many of them died here, on the riverbank.

A few words on how to visit with care. This is a memorial, not a backdrop. Many people take photographs, and that is fine, but try to do so quietly and without posing. Please do not step into the shoes or sit among them. If you want to leave something, a small stone or a flower is a gentle and common gesture. And if the bank is crowded, it is often worth waiting a few minutes for a calmer moment.

The light here changes the mood a great deal. In the early morning, the embankment is often nearly empty, and the iron looks grey and still. In the late afternoon, the sun drops toward the Buda hills and throws long shadows from each shoe across the stone. After dark, the candles glow inside the small shapes, and the river turns black and quiet. Each hour gives the memorial a slightly different weight.

Before you walk on, stand for a moment and listen. You will hear the water against the embankment, the hum of the city, perhaps a tram bell in the distance. Look once more at one single pair of shoes — just one — and imagine the person who wore them. Then, as you walk away along the river, notice your own footsteps on the stone. It is a small sound. Here, it is worth hearing.