Nazi archives: Where Germany's dark past is stored
Emmanuelle Chaze
September 7, 2019
In April, the Arolsen Archives made more than 13 million documents on victims of the Nazi regime available online. DW's Emmanuelle Chaze went on a personal journey to find out more about her relatives in World War II.
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A pen, a watch and a ring
03:21
Bad Arolsen in a small town tucked away in the bucolic state of Hessen, near the city of Kassel. It is roughly five hours away from Berlin by train. It is a picturesque and quiet locale, and perhaps unexpectedly, home to Germany's memory in the form of the Arolsen Archives — the International Center on Nazi Persecution.
A few weeks ago, ahead of the 80th anniversary of the beginning of World War II, I filmed a report at the Arolsen Archives, which is home to more than 50 million documents tracing the fate of around 17 million victims of the Nazi regime. Little did I know what was awaiting me when I headed to the archives that day, but, after meeting a man who had come to collect his father's personal effects, I decided to look further into my own family history in hopes of finding out more.
Young Germans confront Nazi past
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Jean-Paul Garcia, a Frenchman in his 60s, came all the way from a town near Bordeaux in his caravan to be handed back some personal effects that had belonged to his father, Antonio Garcia, a war prisoner. The elder Garcia had fled Franco's Spain to support the French Resistance, and was arrested by the Nazis in 1944 and sent to a forced labor camp.
At the end of the war, some 5,000 objects were provisionally placed under the watch of the International Red Cross first, and the Arolsen Archives afterwards. Watches, jewelry, coupons, letters and photos coming from concentration or transfer camps, mostly Neuengamme and Dachau. The archival center does not legally own them; it safeguards them in the hope of returning them back to their lawful owners.
Today, some 3,000 personal possessions belonging to former inmates remain at Arolsen, and an investigation team works tirelessly to contact the relatives of the victims to whom they belonged. The "Stolen Memory" campaign was launched in 2016 to redouble efforts at restituting the personal effects. With the help of volunteers, hundreds of victims' families could be located. One such case was Jean-Paul Garcia, whose visit to the archives was very emotional — for him and his wife, and for the team who managed to trace him back and hand back his father's long-lost possessions: a watch, a ration coupon, and a ring.
On November 9-10, 1938, Nazi Germany launched an anti-Jewish pogrom throughout the German Empire. The November Pogrom was the start of the systematic annihilation of Jewish life in Europe.
Image: picture-alliance/AP/M. Schreiber
What happened on November 9-10, 1938?
Anti-Semitic mobs, led by SA paramilitaries, went on rampages throughout Nazi Germany. Synagogues like this one in the eastern city of Chemnitz and other Jewish-owned property were destroyed, and Jews were subject to public humiliation and arrested. According to official records, at least 91 Jews were killed — though the real death toll was likely much higher.
Image: picture alliance
What's behind the name?
The street violence against German Jews is known by a variety of names. Berliners called it Kristallnacht, from which the English "Night of Broken Glass" is derived. It recalls the shards of shattered glass from the windows of synagogues, homes and Jewish-owned businesses. Nowadays, in German, it's also common to speak of the "pogrom night" or the "November pogroms."
Image: picture alliance/akg-images
What was the official reason for the pogrom?
The event that provided the excuse for the violence was the murder of German diplomat Ernst vom Rath by Herschel Grynszpan, a 17-year-old Polish Jew. Vom Rath was shot at close range at the German Embassy in Paris on November 7, and died days later. Grynszpan wasn't executed for the crime; no one knows whether he survived the Third Reich or died in a concentration camp.
Image: picture-alliance/Imagno/Schostal Archiv
How did the violence start?
After vom Rath's death, Adolf Hitler gave Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels permission to launch the pogrom. Violence had already broken out in some places, and Goebbels gave a speech indicating the Nazis would not quash any "spontaneous" protests against the Jews. The SS were instructed to allow "only such measures as do not entail any danger to German lives and property."
Image: dpa/everettcollection
Was the violence an expression of popular anger?
No — that was just the official Nazi party line, but no one believed it. Constant references to "operations" and "measures" in Nazi documents clearly indicate the violence was planned ahead of time. It's unclear what ordinary Germans thought of the mayhem. There is evidence of popular disapproval, but the fact that the couple in the left of this picture appear to be laughing also speaks volumes.
In line with their racist ideology, the Nazis wanted to intimidate Jews into voluntarily leaving Germany. To this end, Jews were often paraded through the streets and humiliated, as seen in this image. Their persecutors were also motivated by economic interests. Jews fleeing the Third Reich were charged extortionate "emigration levies," and their property was often confiscated.
Image: gemeinfrei
Did the pogrom serve the Nazis' purpose?
After the widespread violence German Jews were under no illusions about Nazi intentions, and those who could left the country. But such naked aggression played badly in the foreign press and offended many Germans' desire for order. Later, further anti-Jewish measures took more bureaucratic forms, such as the requirement that Jews wear a visible yellow Star of David stitched to their clothing.
Image: gemeinfrei
What was the immediate aftermath?
After the pogroms, the Nazi leadership instituted a whole raft of anti-Jewish measures, including a levy to help pay for the damage of November 9-10, 1938. The second-most powerful man in the Third Reich at the time, Hermann Göring, famously remarked: "I would not want to be a Jew in Germany."
Image: AP
What is Kristallnacht's place in history?
In 1938, the beginning of what became known as the Holocaust was still two years away. But there is an obvious line of continuity from the pogrom to the mass murder of European Jews, in which the Nazi leadership would continue to develop and intensify their anti-Semitic hatred. In the words of one contemporary historian, the pogrom was a "prelude to genocide."
Image: Imago
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Overwhelming evidence
While the Nazis tried their utmost towards the end of World War II to erase all physical trace of their crimes, they were overwhelmed by what Germany does perhaps better than any other nation: bureaucracy. They simply couldn't get rid of all the written evidence of their crimes. In a former warehouse, waiting for a permanent, safer building, shelves after shelves of grey files and yellowed index cards are the proof of these crimes committed by Hitler's followers from his accession to power until the fall of the Third Reich.
So after filming in that grey, solemn place, and buoyed by the emotion of Jean-Paul Garcia's encounter, I enquired whether I could check if there were any trace of my great-great uncles, whom I vaguely knew had been forced laborers during the war. I should say that I come from Alsace, a region which for a long time switched between French and German rule — and whose history is thus particularly complex when it comes to WWII. Most families have a painful past; be it because they were exiled, sent to forced labor, or collaborated with the Nazis.
And yet in my own family, though nothing had ever been said one way or another, I had been afraid to dig too deep for fear of finding out something ugly about my relatives. But the archivist at Arolsen was very keen to help me out. She searched my relatives' last name, a peculiar name beginning with B, with only a handful of occurrences in France.
Not even a minute later, she looked up from her screen: the Arolsen Archives have digitized more than 13 million documents that are now easily searchable through their website. All you need is to type in a name or a topic. "There they are..." she said with a smile. She then checked among the hundreds of drawers holding the yellow index cards, and took out a little stack from the letter "B."
For her, it's everyday work, and in a way, this is not new to me: I spent years reading 17th and 18th century private correspondences before I turned to journalism. But this time is different: I know that her browsing through the cards also means she might unlock a door towards my past. And a moment later, she does: "Look — Ludwig, Anton, Pantaleon, Xaver...they are all here!" I know them, except that that is the Germanized version of their names: Louis, Antoine, Pantaleon, and Xavier. While doing genealogical research a few years ago, I had found out that they had been sent to Germany, while never knowing why. The archivist had the answer: "We do have records! Wait a moment."
I followed her through the warehouse and she opened a thick file with copied records of trial minutes. Louis B., along with a few friends, was tried on charges of being communist and having distributed flyers. This earned him six years in prison, starting on April 15, 1943.
His brothers, whose trial minutes I didn't find, were arrested the following November and condemned to various sentences for having participated to activities amounting to high treason — namely, listening to the London radio. The three of them were imprisoned in Bruchsal in the state of Baden-Württemberg.
I took pictures of all those documents, and was already thinking about telling my family all about what I had found, when the archivist surprised me further. She said that there were many other occurrences of the unusual surname in the cards, all hailing from Poland, and that some of those individuals settled in Berlin before being deported back to Poland. Could it then be that Berlin, the city I moved to nearly a decade ago, had also been home to some distant relatives who were killed by the Nazis?
When heading to the archives that day, I had no idea I would find clues to my own family's past. But in that short visit I learned more than I ever had before — and discovered that even 80 years on, the Nazis' paper trail meant there was still much more to explore.
Jewish memorials in Berlin
The Holocaust may have been eight decades ago, but it is never to be forgotten. Large and small memorials all over the German capital commemorate the victims of the Nazis.
Image: DW/M. Gwozdz
The Holocaust Memorial
A huge field of stelae in the center of the German capital was designed by New York architect Peter Eisenmann. The almost 3,000 stone blocks commemorate the six million Jewish people from all over Europe who were murdered by the Nazis.
Image: picture-alliance/Schoening
The "Stumbling Stones"
Designed by German artist Gunther Demnig, these brass plates are very small — only 10 by 10 centimeters (3.9 x 3.9 inches). They mark the homes and offices from which people were deported by the Nazis. Around 10,000 of them have been placed across Berlin.
Image: DW/T.Walker
House of the Wannsee Conference
Several high-ranking Nazi officials met in this villa on the Wannsee Lake in January 1942 to discuss the systematic murder of European Jews, which they termed the "Final Solution of the Jewish Question." Today the house is a memorial that informs visitors about the unimaginable dimension of the genocide that was decided here.
Image: Paul Zinken/dpa/picture alliance
Track 17 Memorial
White roses on track 17 at Grunewald station remember the more than 50,000 Berlin Jews who were sent to their deaths from here. 186 steel plates show the date, destination and number of deportees. The first train went to the Litzmannstadt ghetto (Lodz, Poland) on October 18, 1941; the last train to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp on January 5, 1945.
Image: imago/IPON
Otto Weidt's Workshop for the Blind
Today, the Hackesche Höfe in Berlin Mitte are mentioned in every travel guide. They are a backyard labyrinth in which many Jewish people lived and worked — for example in the brush factory of the German entrepreneur Otto Weidt. During the Nazi era he employed many blind and deaf Jews and saved them from deportation and death. The workshop of the blind is now a museum.
Image: picture-alliance/Arco Images
Fashion Center Hausvogteiplatz
The heart of Berlin's fashion metropolis once beat here. A memorial sign made of high mirrors recalls the Jewish fashion designers and stylists who made clothes for the whole of Europe at Hausvogteiplatz. The National Socialists expropriated the Jewish owners. Berlin's fashion center was irretrievably destroyed during the Second World War.
Image: picture-alliance/dpa/J. Kalaene
Memorial at Koppenplatz
Before the Holocaust, 173,000 Jews lived in Berlin; in 1945 there were only 9,000. The monument "Der verlassene Raum" (The Deserted Room) is located in the middle of the Koppenplatz residential area in Berlin's Mitte district. It is a reminder of the Jewish citizens who were taken from their homes without warning and never returned.
Image: Jörg Carstensen/dpa/picture alliance
The Jewish Museum
Architect Daniel Libeskind chose a dramatic design: viewed from above, the building looks like a broken Star of David. The Jewish Museum is one of the most visited museums in Berlin, offering an overview of the turbulent centuries of German Jewish history.
Image: Miguel Villagran/AP Photo/picture alliance
Weissensee Jewish Cemetery
There are still eight remaining Jewish cemeteries in Berlin, the largest of them in the Weissensee district. With over 115,000 graves, it is the largest Jewish cemetery in Europe. Many persecuted Jews hid in the complex premises during the Nazi era. On May 11, 1945, only three days after the end of the Second World War, the first postwar Jewish funeral service was held here.
When the New Synagogue on Oranienburger Strasse was first consecrated in 1866 it was considered the largest and most magnificent synagogue in Germany. One of Berlin's 13 synagogues to survive the Kristallnacht pogroms, it later burned down due to Allied bombs. It was reconstructed and opened again in 1995. Since then, the 50-meter-high golden dome once again dominates Berlin's cityscape.
Image: Stephan Schulz/dpa-Zentralbild/dpa/picture alliance