The Girl in the Striped Dress: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 page-turner, based on a true story

by Ellie Midwood

  Instinctively, Dr. Hoffman pulled himself up.

  “My fault because I was a part of the regime that did this to her. My fault because I wore the uniform of the men who had set on annihilating her entire race. My fault for not doing something for her, more than I actually did. I really didn’t do anything for her. I could have done so much more…”

  Dr. Hoffman was staring at his shoes. He couldn’t look at Dahler’s face just now, the face of an infinitely guilty man who was trying his best to glue together what his entire country had broken into tiny, sharp shards. The Austrian’s face was wet with tears. He clutched at his wife’s body as one would at a corpse of someone infinitely dear, who had passed away much too soon.

  “I just want her to be happy,” he repeated softly. “She deserves to be happy after everything she’s been through, don’t you think? I appreciate your generous offer but I am not signing any authorization for her institutionalizing. Even in the event I shall go to prison, Róžínka shall stay with her and look after her while I’m away. But I’m not committing my wife to any hospital, no matter how good you say it is. I shall take care of her myself. I know how.” He pursed his lips defiantly.

  Dr. Hoffman only smiled again, not arguing with that last statement. He did know how. Hoffman had witnessed it firsthand.

  As he turned to the half-opened door, he saw Andrej Novák standing there and observing the couple with a strangely melancholic expression on his face. Slowly, as though with effort, the Slovak tore his gaze away from Dahler still cradling his wife on his lap and smiled at the psychiatrist gingerly. Dr. Hoffman had made a move toward him but the Slovak only shook his head slightly, offered him another apologetic smile, turned on his heel and quickly walked along the passageway.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The conference room was gray with cigarette smoke. Dr. Hoffman pushed the window open and stood motionless for a few moments, leaning onto the ornate windowsill. Soon, Will Hutson joined him. Resting his weight on his elbows, he also peered vacantly ahead. For some time, both watched on as women – it was always mostly women these days – sifted through the rubble left of an obliterated tenement building across the street, collecting together the pieces of their own former lives, broken by their own men.

  Dr. Hutson sniffled quietly. “What are you planning to tell the Court?”

  Dr. Hoffman gave a shrug. “The truth. The witness is fit to testify and she’s not being, in any way, coerced by her husband to do so.”

  Another pause hung in the air, slowly uncurling itself like a ringlet of smoke.

  “Do you think Dahler shall get off as a mere follower?” Dr. Hutson used the official term, which had allowed far too many guilty men to walk free by now.

  Gradually, German Denazification Tribunals were replacing the American Military ones. They were still supervised, of course, but both Americans had the most profound conviction that even more former Nazis would get off with an “acquitted” verdict after the change came to a full effect. Despite the new German judges being mostly former Social Democrats or even Communists, hardly was there a person in the entire country who hadn’t had someone die in the battle, someone called up against his wishes, someone in the family complicit in the same collective crimes that they were to judge them for. Besides, the quiet sentiment of Victors’ justice was growing stronger and stronger as the time went by, sometimes leading to open mocking of the American system of the Denazification.

  Dr. Hoffman turned his back on the street and regarded the opposite wall as though searching for the correct answer on its panels. A square outline, untouched by the bleach of the sun, was still recognizable there. He wondered whether it was a portrait of Hitler that used to hang there. Most likely, it was. It had to be. For twelve years, it was he who represented justice for the Germans. The court of law had ceased to exist replaced by the People’s one – a Spanish Inquisition of Nazi Germany. It would take time for the people to adjust to the actual law once again. Dr. Hoffman heaved a sigh and pulled on his cigarette, which had almost burned out, forgotten in his fingers.

  “Things are looking good for Dahler. If he proves today that he wasn’t actively serving on the ramp during the Hungarian action, he’ll get off without a charge. If he can’t prove it, or if the prosecution brings a witness or a document, which proves his involvement, he’ll be recognized as an offender and subject to imprisonment but since the Military Government granted an amnesty to anyone born after January 1st, 1919, he’ll still get off without a sentence due to that amnesty. You know how they consider them – brainwashed children of the Reich and all that. Not guilty no matter what, unless they personally tortured or shot hundreds of people somewhere in Eastern Europe as part of one Einsatzgruppe or another. If they did kill all those hundreds or thousands, they’d probably get five, maybe ten years. You see how they walk free after serving only three. Besides…”

  “Besides, what?”

  “Besides, unlike the others and I’ve seen far too many of them while serving here, Dahler is the first one who openly expressed remorse concerning his actions. And also, dyed-in-the-wool Nazis don’t fall in love with Jewish inmates, do they?”

  “He loves her.” Dr. Hutson grinned. It was a statement this time, not a question.

  Dr. Hoffman nodded and narrowed his gaze at the square on the wall once again. “The entire Denazification system is flawed, there’s no doubt about it. They should all be serving their time. All the criminals of lower rank, whom we have already exonerated, the ‘minors,’ whom we granted the amnesty, the ‘simple guards,’ who didn’t personally kill anyone – like Dahler.” A sad smile appeared on his face. “But unfortunately, we don’t have enough prisons in the entirety of Europe to hold them all. There’s such a backlog with all the POWs who are still in camps and who are still being processed that it will take years before their cases are heard. They all need to be fed, clothed, looked after. Of course, the Military Government decided to set all low ranks free summarily. Of course, they hardly bother to investigate a simple guard. Of course, a regular Denazification procedure takes merely a couple of hours. Dahler is being tried like some Feldmarschall, with his two days of glory.” He chuckled sardonically. “And, of course, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that he’ll walk away as a free man after today’s hearing. But do you know what? If I’m entirely honest with you, it is my personal feeling that if we acquitted or granted amnesty to so many criminals already, putting the one, who actually showed remorse, in jail, would be the height of hypocrisy. He’s still guilty as sin in my eyes – everyone who wore his uniform or set their foot in one of the camps is, no matter if they physically killed anyone – but it is my profound conviction that he shall spend his life atoning for his sins, at least by standing by his wife to the end.”

  “How categorically he refused to institutionalize her, though!” Dr. Hutson was grinning again.

  “Oh, quit it. You’re just upset that you’re not getting a new patient for your research.”

  Dr. Hutson chuckled but his smile was a bit unsure this time. “To be truthful, I don’t know how I would have treated her even if I got her as a patient. I’m not sure if she needs my treatment, that is. I mean, she seems to be doing perfectly fine when Dahler’s around. Maybe, the young fellow is right. Maybe, love really is all she needs to heal.”

  “Have you noticed how composed he always is around her? And everyone described Dahler as being extremely erratic and moody in the camp. It’s like as if he knows that out of the two of them only one can afford to be emotional and purposely keeps himself in control the entire time just so she’d have someone stable to rely on, someone who shall pacify her whenever she’s panicking.”

  Both paused, immersed in their own thoughts. Suddenly, Dr. Hutson turned to his colleague. “Can I see your notes?”

  “My notes?”

  “The ones that you’ve been taking about her.”

  A grin appeared on Dr. Hoffman’s face. “Why? Want to compare?”


  “Why?” Dr. Hutson mocked. “Are you afraid that I’ll point out the wrong diagnosis you drew for her?”

  “You’re the guard/prisoner case specialist here. Criticize away,” Dr. Hoffman surrendered, unexpectedly quickly.

  For some time, Dr. Hutson chewed on his lip, leafing through his colleague’s notepad.

  “A personality disorder (question mark), which is characterized by an irrationally tight bond between a guard/captor and inmate/captive seems to require the following conditions to manifest itself,” he began reading out loud. “No previous relationship between the captor and the victim. A relatively enclosed space in which the interaction between the victim and the perpetrator is unavoidable. A constant risk to a victim’s life, which seems to transform the feeling of resentment into positive feelings towards the captor (but only the captor who demonstrated some sort of goodwill towards the said victim). The gradual development of sympathy towards the captor as a means of survival and desire to please the captor/captors (Christmas play).” Dr. Hutson looked up and grinned. “Can’t argue with that one.”

  After catching an answering smile from Dr. Hoffman, he continued reading. “Sympathy and general positive feelings towards the captor seem to transform into a pathological dependency under extreme threat to the victim’s life (typhus and gas chamber). Seems logical, too.” Hutson nodded his approval. “Further physical and psychological effects appear to manifest themselves in the following way: post-trauma – confusion, panic attacks, flashbacks. In captivity – aggression and fear towards fellow captives, lack of trust towards fellow captives, refusal to align oneself with the fellow inmates/captives (Elza, Andrej), which seems to promote further dependency on the captor. Social anxiety, estrangement (including one’s relatives – Róžínka), extreme cautiousness concerning one’s surroundings, agoraphobia/claustrophobia (perhaps? Not enough material to diagnose). Refusal to accept the reality of events.”

  Dr. Hutson arched his brow after reading the final line.

  A scowl appeared on Dr. Hoffman’s face. “What? Do you think I’m mistaken concerning the reality perception part?”

  “No. No, I didn’t say that. But… if she doesn’t perceive the reality as it was, does it make her suitable to testify in court?”

  “She perceives it differently but it doesn’t mean that she distorts it for the others. She simply sees Dahler better than he was. A savior, a defender,” he repeated Helena’s terms and smiled. “She defended him for lashing her but never said that the lashing itself didn’t occur. She doesn’t lie about the facts themselves, only presents them, through her own lenses. So, yes, it is my opinion that she is fit to testify. Besides, how can I say that she’s not? She’s not clinically insane. And this condition… it’s not in any psychiatry book. No one has come across it yet. Or, simply didn’t bother to observe and record it properly. Psychiatry itself is a relatively young science. Perhaps, in the future, there will be a name for it.”

  “Hoffman’s syndrome,” Dr. Hutson smiled.

  Dr. Hoffman only shook his head. “I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t want my name anywhere near it. The recess is about done. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  Franz Dahler took his seat before the court. He threw another quick glance in Dr. Hoffman’s direction. The latter offered him a reassuring smile. His colleague Dr. Hutson would stay with Helena while she slept. Dahler refused the offer to reschedule the hearing for the following day. “Better, get this over with sooner rather than later,” he had remarked. “And besides, I don’t want my wife hearing this particular testimony. I still have nightmares about it and with her present state…” He didn’t finish, but Dr. Hoffman understood.

  The Chairman shuffled through the heap of documents on his desk. The court recorder flexed his fingers. The silence descended upon the courtroom again.

  “Defendant, were you in the camp during the so-called Hungarian action?” The Chairman began his interrogation.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “What were your duties during spring-summer of 1944?”

  “The same as before. Kommandoführer of the Kanada work detail.”

  “Were you aware of the upcoming action against the Hungarian Jews?”

  “Yes, I was. Our superiors gathered us right after Kommandant Höss’s arrival and announced that we all would have to work double-shifts due to the upcoming influx of the new arrivals.”

  “Were you aware that most of those arrivals would be gassed upon their admission to the camp?”

  Dahler paused, considering his answer. For some inexplicable reason, Dr. Hoffman held his breath in his seat, almost wishing for the Austrian to lie.

  “In a way,” Dahler replied at last and cleared his throat. “That is, they didn’t say it to us openly – their plans, I mean – but the camp administration took certain steps to… raise such suspicions in us.”

  “Would you please clarify which steps?”

  “Yes.” A sharp wrinkle creased Dahler’s brow as he searched his memory for the right place to start. “I’ll start with the construction of the pits if the court allows me to.” He slightly tilted his head to one side, searching the Chairman’s face for permission. The latter motioned for him to proceed. “We knew that something was in the works when Kommandant Liebehenschel was replaced by Kommandant Höss once again. I suppose, they considered Liebehenschel to be too… soft for the sort of thing that they had in mind. After Liebehenschel fought with Berlin in his attempts to prevent a few transports from the gassing, he fell into disgrace with the higher-ups there. There were rumors that Reichsführer Himmler himself ordered his transfer. In any case, Höss was back. At once, he had appointed Hauptscharführer Moll to be in charge of the preparations, for there was no human being who could rival him in being so sadistic, cruel, bloodthirsty, and fanatical to fulfill the idea that Höss had in mind.”

  It was odd to hear such characteristics from a former SS man concerning one of his superiors and particularly expressed with such unconcealed disgust and revulsion. Dr. Hoffman smiled. This was a refreshing change from the regular “we were only following orders” excuse he’d heard countless times in Denazification courts and at Nuremberg.

  “I first noticed that something was amiss when the Sonderkommando men didn’t appear in my work detail one day. Usually, it was they who drove the trucks with all those clothes from the crematoria and emptied them for our Kanada women to sort. I believe it was on the twelfth of May when they didn’t show up. I went to clear up the matter with their Kommandoführer, Oberscharführer Voss, only to learn that he had been relieved of his post in favor of Hauptscharführer Moll. The reason was the same as with Liebehenschel – he was much too nice to his subordinates to keep in Kommandant Höss’s good graces. Unlike Moll, Voss was a good-humored fellow, who loved his drink and who was known to be rather lenient to his men. Quite often he’d laugh and joke and talk about trivial things with the members of the Sonderkommando and had an overall good reputation with them. You may ask Herr Novák if you wish. I’m sure he’ll confirm my characterization.”

  Strangely enough, the Slovak only lowered his gaze as though in agreement – the first time when he didn’t openly argue with Dahler. “Voss was a corrupted fellow but he could have been easily bribed with enough gold stolen from the dead. Bribes and alcohol never failed to put him in a good mood,” the former Sonderkommando man commented. “It is true that out of the entire SS crematoria leadership, we did consider him the least inhumane.”

  Dahler nodded. At least they agreed on something.

  “Moll changed the entire chain of command in the crematoria department,” the Austrian continued. “He replaced anyone who committed a mortal sin – in his eyes, that is – of not being a brutal slave-driver with the inmates and appointed only the most callous and merciless men in their place. Unterscharführer Steinberg was put in charge of Crematoria 2 and 3. Soon, however, even he wasn’t despotic enough to suit Moll’s taste and Moll replaced him with Oberscharführer Muhsfe
ld, recently transferred from Majdanek. Muhsfeld, in his turn, chose Rottenführer Holländer and Eidenmüller to work under his charge. Unterscharführer Eckardt was put in charge of Bunker 5 and there was a reason for that, as we soon learned. Eckardt was born in Hungary and spoke Hungarian as perfectly as he spoke German. Along with his comrade Kell, who came from Lodz and could speak not only German but Polish and Yiddish, he was ordered by Moll to listen closely to what the people were saying on their way to the gassing facilities. Due to the sheer number of new arrivals and the insufficient number of SS men guarding them, Moll wished to ensure that he’d be warned in case of the slightest signs of a revolt or insubordination. Two more SS men were also added as reinforcements to Crematoria 4 and 5, Unterscharführer Seitz and Scharführer Busch. Before that, the crematoria were managed only by Unterscharführer Gorges and Sturmann Kurschuss. All of these changes were the first signs of something major underway. Needless to say, Moll told me to get lost with my request for his Sonderkommando men. He had no one to spare, he said and that he’d give me one truck but as for people, I would have to make do with the few male inmates that I still had working in the Kanada, all mostly ‘old numbers.’ As a matter of fact, Moll soon enlarged the Sonderkommando to a 450-people team,” he paused before adding, “a number, which he soon doubled for they simply couldn’t cope with all the corpses.”

  A shudder ran through Dr. Hoffman. He could swear, the temperature itself fell a few degrees after those last chilling words spoken by Dahler. Novák’s face clouded over, visibly. He was reliving all that as well, through Dahler’s testimony.

  “But it was when they began digging the pits that we knew that something horrible was coming.” Dahler paused. “We were right. Dante’s Inferno soon appeared to be a child’s play compared to what Moll organized there. The Sonderkommando were digging in sunshine and rain those days, until nine pits – fifty meters long, eight meters wide, two meters deep – were dug out next to Bunker 5. Inside, Moll constructed a device of sorts, which was supposed to direct the fat dripping off the burning corpses back into the fuel to ensure an efficient, non-stop operation.”