Natzweiler: The Only Nazi Death Camp in France

 

Natzweiler-Struthof was the only major Nazi concentration camp built on French soil, perched high in the Vosges Mountains of Alsace. Its location was chosen for two reasons: remoteness and a nearby granite quarry the SS wanted to exploit. 

What emerged in May 1941 was a camp that combined relentless forced labor, starvation, sadism, and a series of medical crimes that still stand among the worst of the era.

Unlike the Operation Reinhard death camps, Natzweiler was not designed solely for extermination, but death was everywhere in its daily operations. Prisoners—political detainees, resistance fighters, Jews, Roma, homosexuals, “asocials,” and later evacuees from camps farther east—were driven up the mountain and packed into steeply terraced barracks. The camp clung to the hillside in rows, with the crematorium and punishment cells at the bottom and the commandant’s quarters at the top, symbolizing the hierarchy the SS enforced. Winters were brutal; winds cut through the wooden barracks, and temperatures regularly dropped well below freezing.

Labor was the core of Natzweiler’s system. The quarry sat just below the camp, and prisoners were forced to haul massive granite blocks up and down slopes so steep they later defied reconstruction. The work was designed to break bodies. Fatigue, crushed limbs, and fatal falls were common. As the war went on, the SS expanded the camp into a nerve center for dozens of satellite labor camps—KZ Aussenstelle Walldorf among them—supplying slave labor for weapons plants, synthetic fuel projects, tunnel systems, and airfields. Prisoners were treated as expendable material; when one died, another transport filled the gap.

Natzweiler also became a site for medical atrocities. Under the direction of SS doctors such as August Hirt of the Reich University of Strasbourg, prisoners—especially Jews—were selected, murdered, and dissected for a planned anatomical collection. Others were subjected to experiments involving poison gas, vaccines, and exposure to infectious diseases. The most appalling episode was the murder of 86 Jewish men and women specifically selected and transported to Natzweiler, gassed in a small chamber, and sent to Strasbourg for “research.”

Conditions in the camp deteriorated sharply after 1943. Crowding worsened as transports arrived from across occupied Europe, including evacuated prisoners from Auschwitz, Dachau, and other camps threatened by the advancing Allies. Starvation rations, contaminated water, and rampant disease meant the death rate climbed steadily. Guards and Kapos enforced discipline with arbitrary beatings, hangings, and torture in the bunker cells.

By September 1944, with American forces nearing Alsace, the SS began evacuating Natzweiler. The main camp was abandoned on September 1, but the system of satellite camps continued operating deep into 1945. Prisoners were shipped eastward to Dachau, Allach, Buchenwald, and other collapsing camps, where many died in transport or in the chaotic months before liberation.

When U.S. troops entered Natzweiler shortly after its abandonment, they found a site battered but largely intact: crematorium, execution walls, the gas chamber, and barracks still clinging to the slope. Unlike Sobibór or Treblinka, Natzweiler could not be erased.

Today the camp is a memorial complex with the original crematorium preserved, the terraced layout still visible, and exhibitions inside reconstructed barracks. Its location—high on a mountain ridge with sweeping views—stands in stark contrast to the brutality once practiced there. That contrast underscores the truth at the heart of Natzweiler: beauty of landscape offered no protection against human cruelty, and even the most remote place could be turned into a factory of suffering.

The Bensheim-Auerbach Military Cemetery

 

The Bensheim-Auerbach Military Cemetery sits on the wooded slope of the Kirchberg above Auerbach, a district of Bensheim in Hesse, and preserves the remains of German soldiers killed in the First and Second World Wars. Its origins lie in the chaotic final months of the First World War, when local authorities began interring fallen soldiers from nearby hospitals and field facilities. By the early 1920s, the site had taken on the form of a modest military cemetery, with simple stone markers and a central memorial cross. It became one of many regional burial grounds maintained by the Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge, the German War Graves Commission.

The catastrophe of the Second World War transformed the cemetery. As the Western Front collapsed in March 1945, casualties surged across Hesse. Soldiers wounded in the fighting around the Bergstrasse, the Rhine crossings, and the Odenwald were brought to aid stations in Bensheim and surrounding towns. Those who died were buried on the Kirchberg, expanding the cemetery dramatically. After 1945, the Volksbund consolidated additional wartime graves from temporary plots in the region, making Bensheim-Auerbach a permanent resting place for thousands.

The cemetery today contains more than 2,400 graves—roughly half from each world war. The design is austere: rows of low stone plaques set into grass, clusters of basalt crosses, and a central memorial area that lists the names of the dead when individual identification is known. The layout reflects post-war German memorial culture—somber, stripped of martial display, focused on individual loss rather than national glory.

In the decades since, the cemetery has served as a site for quiet remembrance rather than public ceremony. School groups, local historians, and families visit to confront the scale of twentieth-century German military death. Its hillside setting above Auerbach emphasizes the contrast between the peaceful landscape and the violent history beneath it, making it one of the more sobering military cemeteries along the Bergstrasse.

In 2017 I visited the German Military Cemetery in Normandy. The same focus on the soldier, not on the government that sent them to war.

Visiting the Curie Museum in Paris

The Pierre and Marie Curie Museum—tucked quietly into the old Radium Institute on the campus of the Université Pierre et Marie Curie in Paris—is one of the most understated but important scientific museums in the city. It occupies the preserved laboratory spaces where Marie Curie, her daughter Irène, and son-in-law Frédéric Joliot carried out groundbreaking research in radioactivity from the 1890s through the 1930s. The museum is small, reflective, and resolutely authentic: nothing is dramatized, nothing staged. You stand in rooms where the Nobel Prizes were earned.

At the heart of the museum is Marie Curie’s office and laboratory, preserved almost exactly as they were at the time of her death in 1934. Wooden benches, glassware, electrometers, notebooks, and early radiation-measurement devices remain in their original positions. Unlike her early work in the makeshift shed on the Rue Lhomond, the Radium Institute was built specifically for her—funded by French, international, and American donors—to allow research into the medical and scientific potential of radium. It became one of the great centers of early 20th-century physics and chemistry.

The museum emphasizes both the scientific history and the human story. Panels describe Pierre and Marie’s partnership, Pierre’s accidental death in 1906, and Marie’s tireless continuation of their shared research. Other exhibits trace the later achievements of Irène and Frédéric Joliot-Curie, whose discovery of artificial radioactivity earned them the 1935 Nobel Prize—reinforcing the sense that this building housed not just a laboratory but a dynasty of scientific innovation.

For a visitor returning multiple times, especially after reading Dava Sobel’s biography, the museum gains emotional weight. Sobel’s portrait of Marie Curie—the discipline, the grief, the stubborn moral clarity—comes alive in the physical space. The rooms feel modest for the scale of the discoveries made there, and the lingering sense of danger from early radiation work is unmistakable.

The museum is quiet, intimate, and deeply respectful—a rare place where the history of science still inhabits its original walls.