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1942
#gango
Where I come from, men and women become afraid as soon as they saw me. You may think my face is grotesque or has a frightening appearance, but nothing could be farther from the truth. My name is Franz Heinz, and I am a Nazi soldier stationed at Dachau, Germany.
It was the spring of 1942, when I received my orders stationing me here, and I couldn’t have been happier. Like most of my comrades, I sighed a breath of relief when the scourge of duty assignment was absent from my orders: Auschwitz. Though I personally didn’t know anyone stationed there, rumors of the horrors committed there flew around like flies circling a dead carcass. Human experimentation, torture, even assembly line executions were just a few of the stories told. Madness, I thought. There were no limits to one’s imagination. We’re the Third Reich, I kept repeating to myself. How could such things exist in our new world order? But when I arrived in Dachau, I discovered such nightmares not only existed but thrived.
When I drove through the front gates, hundreds of prisoners were wandering aimlessly throughout the compound. Shaven heads, attired in ragged striped clothes, skin covered skeletons paced the grounds in worn out slippers. If the men and women weren’t separated, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.
As my first impression burnt an indelible image in my mind, I was escorted to the compound headquarters, and as soon as I entered, I was personally greeted by the Commandant, Alexander Piorkowski. “Corporal Heinz,” he blurted out. “Welcome to Dachau Concentration Camp.” He shook my hand and waved towards the window. “So, tell me, what do you think of our little operation?”
What could I tell him? He was my commanding officer and deserved my respect. So, I withheld my personal thoughts and replied, “For such a small...
Where I come from, men and women become afraid as soon as they saw me. You may think my face is grotesque or has a frightening appearance, but nothing could be farther from the truth. My name is Franz Heinz, and I am a Nazi soldier stationed at Dachau, Germany.
It was the spring of 1942, when I received my orders stationing me here, and I couldn’t have been happier. Like most of my comrades, I sighed a breath of relief when the scourge of duty assignment was absent from my orders: Auschwitz. Though I personally didn’t know anyone stationed there, rumors of the horrors committed there flew around like flies circling a dead carcass. Human experimentation, torture, even assembly line executions were just a few of the stories told. Madness, I thought. There were no limits to one’s imagination. We’re the Third Reich, I kept repeating to myself. How could such things exist in our new world order? But when I arrived in Dachau, I discovered such nightmares not only existed but thrived.
When I drove through the front gates, hundreds of prisoners were wandering aimlessly throughout the compound. Shaven heads, attired in ragged striped clothes, skin covered skeletons paced the grounds in worn out slippers. If the men and women weren’t separated, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.
As my first impression burnt an indelible image in my mind, I was escorted to the compound headquarters, and as soon as I entered, I was personally greeted by the Commandant, Alexander Piorkowski. “Corporal Heinz,” he blurted out. “Welcome to Dachau Concentration Camp.” He shook my hand and waved towards the window. “So, tell me, what do you think of our little operation?”
What could I tell him? He was my commanding officer and deserved my respect. So, I withheld my personal thoughts and replied, “For such a small...
