If one glances at Litzmannstadt today, it may appear as an average German city. Its people are German, by a vast majority. Its signs are written in Gothic font, and its walls are plastered with banal nationalist slogans. Even its name comes from a German general, Karl Litzmann, who occupied the region a half-century prior.

But the facade is thin. Signs of the hundreds of thousands of Poles who lay dead or deported remain etched in the walls, too numerous to ever plaster over completely. Their prayers and accusations remain, preserved and unanswered.

A small number of Poles remain in Litzmannstadt, a class of servants to be abused. They look at the street signs, the banners, the people, and see it is no longer their own. No longer named for its own people, but for the man who conquered them.