ON THE eastern bank of the Danube promenade, some 300 metres south of the parliament building in Budapest, there’s a 40-metre-long stretch at the very edge of the river occupied by 60 pairs of shoes.

Cast in iron and covered with a rust patina, some have flowers left in them.

Shoes on the Danube Promenade by Xorge

 
Women’s, men’s and children’s shoes of all sizes and styles provoke a sense of dread and horror. A plaque in Hungarian, English and Hebrew commemorates the victims shot by Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944–45 on the spot.
 
Devoid of the excessive pathos of many memorials, it employs minimalism to deliver a blow of immeasurable sadness followed by revulsion at the deeds of the murderous perpetrators.

They were members of Hungarian fascist militias who, from January 8 to February 13, 1945 marched the inhabitants of the Budapest ghetto and their own political opponents to the banks of the river.

They forced them to remove their shoes and stand at the edge of the embankment, their hands often tied with shoelaces. Then they were shot and their bodies tumbled into the Danube. It is estimated that between 10,000 and 15,000 were executed in this manner.

 
The Red Army liberated an estimated 119,000 Jews in Budapest. Of Hungary’s original population of 861,000 only about 255,000 survived.
 
The memorial was conceived by film director Can Togay and created in co-operation with avant-garde conceptual sculptor Gyula Pauer. In this work, fearlessly and to spellbinding effect, they explore the very relation between art, memory, symbolism and homage.