Today was Yom Ha’atzma’ut somewhere else. Here it seemed to be a perfectly ordinary day except for an early afternoon event, at which I learned that May 8 was V-Day (V for Victory), which marks the official surrender of the Nazis to the Allies, the end of World War II and the Third Reich, and is a day of national remembrance. The event was the unveiling of a memorial on the grounds of the old university hospital, just across the road, to commemorate those men and women who suffered there as forced laborers between 1939 and 1945. The memorial is a consequence of a research project carried out by two colleagues at the Institute, Prof. Volker Zimmermann, a medical historian and Dr. Susanne Ude-Koeller, a medical anthropologist. I saw Susanne at the mensa and interviewed her over lunch; then another colleague translated the speeches for me. And this is what I learned:
The Nazis systematically enslaved the young and able-bodied in the countries that they occupied, particularly in the East where the Slavic races were regarded as inferior. A total of 13.5 million young people were transported to Germany, and the economy relied on this slave force to take the place of the men who went off to war, from the ammunition industry to small farm agriculture. The conditions of their work and accommodation were strictly regulated under Nazi law. For example, it was not allowed to treat them well, so that it was forbidden to have them join their employers at meal times. They were called “foreign workers”, and it was very easy to get one, it was part of normal life – all you needed to do was ask.
In the Goettingen area there were 25,000 slaves, some of whom were put to work in mines. In Goettingen itself there were several lagers in which they were interned or imprisoned. To this day there are people who know where they were located, although no physical remnant is left. Even the university hospital used slave labor in the cooking, the cleaning, the washing and the gardening. Some of these young people were used as live objects for instructing medical students. Those from western European countries were allowed to help with patients as nursing aides. Many of these workers were aged between 18 and 21, and some were even younger. This was all recorded in detail and duly filed in the administrative archives.
In addition, there are medical records which show that the hospital provided treatment for slave laborers who fell sick, in departments of psychiatry, gynecology, surgery and internal medicine. Some of these patients suffered trauma from the transport or from the conditions in which they were living, which often included violence. Some of them suffered work injuries and some suffered malnutrition or tuberculosis. Some gave birth to babies who soon died. They were mostly kept separate from the regular patients and received substandard care. Sometimes they were discharged after being diagnosed superficially without receiving any treatment at all, and sent back to their work. If they were of no use any longer as workers they would be transported back to where they came from in the Ukraine or Russia, and they very likely died along the way. The most bizarre detail of this remembrance is that these slave workers were covered by the national health insurance system and “employers” were obliged to pay a health tax (probably at a different rate from that of Aryans). This is bizarre because it would have probably been much easier and cheaper to replace a sick slave with a new one, rather than go to the length of sending him or her to the hospital.
One of the things that struck me was that as opposed to the death camps which were far away so that one might feign ignorance, this reality pervaded the daily life and complicity must have been a rule. There are some people who do not respond favorably to the research that produced this history; they say we should leave the past alone and move on to the future. Apparently, the discomfort is largely generational: maybe it is that the older medical professors were mentored by predecessors who practiced at the hospital during this period. In a hierarchical profession where mentors are admired, respected and revered, this would be a troubling realization, to say the least.
The old hospital building now houses departments of philosophy and philology. But the next day when I ride past on the bike, I see it in a different light. It seems sinister and foreboding. As the days go by this sensation fades, and is replaced by the memory that it was how it seemed on that particular bike ride, from that particular view point, on that particular spot on the road, at that particular moment.
Meanwhile, a mystery develops. The building where the memorial was erected is part of a large brick complex, built at the turn of the century, and spreading over several blocks. This complex includes a tower (turm) after which the mensa where we go for lunch is named. This tower is a tall chimney and no-one quite knows what it was for. First, Silke told me it was part of the hospital’s anatomy department. Someone else said it was close to the pathology department. When I ask people about it, the word crematorium comes up, perhaps with the qualification “it’s a rumour”. Did they burn pathological remains even before the death camps? Was this part of the medical culture to so dispose of the waste? But isn’t it rather a large chimney for such use? No-one really seems to know, and the question grows. Finally, somebody says she thinks it was a furnace for heating, close to the hospital laundry, and perhaps we would find an answer in the building plans that are still kept in the library.
Meanwhile, a mystery develops. The building where the memorial was erected is part of a large brick complex, built at the turn of the century, and spreading over several blocks. This complex includes a tower (turm) after which the mensa where we go for lunch is named. This tower is a tall chimney and no-one quite knows what it was for. First, Silke told me it was part of the hospital’s anatomy department. Someone else said it was close to the pathology department. When I ask people about it, the word crematorium comes up, perhaps with the qualification “it’s a rumour”. Did they burn pathological remains even before the death camps? Was this part of the medical culture to so dispose of the waste? But isn’t it rather a large chimney for such use? No-one really seems to know, and the question grows. Finally, somebody says she thinks it was a furnace for heating, close to the hospital laundry, and perhaps we would find an answer in the building plans that are still kept in the library.
