Sachsenhausen

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I have visited many historical places across Europe and India—churches, temples, museums, palaces, and ruins—but the feeling that washes over me as I step into Sachsenhausen is unlike anything I have ever experienced.

It’s about an hour’s train ride from Berlin. The train empties out well before we reach our stop. Other than us, there’s only one other passenger in our compartment—an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, walking with a cane. Earlier, the conductor had come by and given us directions to the camp, explaining that foreign tourists still visit regularly.

We disembark at a small, quiet station and begin walking, following the signs. The surroundings are eerily deserted. Soon, the camp comes into view—low, barrack-like buildings, half-broken barbed-wire fences, and a sombre, oppressive air that lingers over everything. It looks as though it has been deliberately preserved in its desolation—to honour the victims and remind visitors of the horrors that took place here. There are no ticket counters, no gift shops, no guides. There are no residential houses nearby either. Perhaps no one wants to live beside an old concentration camp. The sky is overcast, and a strong wind adds to the heavy, unsettling atmosphere.

I glance at my two companions. They look just as grave as I feel. Normally, the three of us enjoy each other’s company, exchanging jokes and light banter. But not today. Here, there is no place for laughter.

Though the camp appears abandoned, it is not. There’s a careful balance between preservation and neglect—broken doors and shattered windows left unrepaired, yet plaques and signs placed strategically to recount the camp’s brutal history.

The first sign we come across describes how this area was used for medical experiments—human beings treated as lab rats. Today, even animal experimentation is regulated with strict laws, but these men, women, and children—because of nothing but their religion—were subjected to toxic gases and nerve agents.

A short distance away, we find another area labelled the neutral zone. The sign explains that this was a shoot-on-sight zone where prisoners were executed indiscriminately. We approach a nearby wall—once the site of firing squads. The bullet holes still scar its surface. Bullets that were not used on enemy soldiers, but on defenceless civilians. A sickening churn twists in my stomach.

None of us speak as we pass the wall. Then, a row of low-ceilinged rooms comes into view—the gas chambers. Executions by firing squad had proven too slow and inefficient; bullets were costly, and even some Nazi soldiers suffered nervous breakdowns from repeatedly shooting unarmed people. So, they devised a new method—mass extermination by gas. Sachsenhausen was the first camp to develop this method, a model later replicated in Auschwitz and other camps.

My nausea worsens. We don’t linger to read the details about how the chambers operated. We step out, and an arrow points toward a mound in the distance—the site where bodies were dumped when individual burials became impossible because of their sheer number. Before the camp was finally shut down, Hitler had ordered that all remaining prisoners be executed. Their bodies, too, likely ended up here.

We knew where we were coming. We were well aware of the atrocities committed in Nazi concentration camps. Neil and Matt are professional detectives; they deal with gruesome murders regularly. But even for them, the sheer scale and cruelty of this place are overwhelming. War has always been part of human history, but state-sponsored mass extermination like this? Few events can compare. Yet, with the way the world is going, who knows if something like this isn’t happening again somewhere else?

We try to shift our focus back to the case. We’re here to find any trace of Gertrud’s sister, Elizabeth—any preserved records or evidence that might lead us closer to the missing Nazi plunder. But it seems that, at the moment, only Matt and I are preoccupied with that goal. Neil, however, appears distracted. He hasn’t spoken much. Something else is on his mind. Could he still be thinking about the man from the platform yesterday? But we haven’t seen him since.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind us. A group of tourists—two men and a woman—are walking in our direction, speaking in a language I don’t recognize. The woman smiles when our eyes meet, and I nod in return. But when I turn to look at Neil, his face is tense, his expression unreadable.

“Do you suspect them?” Matt asks as they pass us.

“Did you recognize the language?” Neil asks in return.

“Some Slavic language, I think,” Matt replies.

“Russian,” Neil says.

“Could be. There were Russian prisoners here. There could be a connection.” Matt nods.

“Possibly,” Neil agrees, but his guarded expression remains.

We continue toward the women’s barracks, where plaques describe the harsh conditions they endured—the backbreaking labour, the meagre rations. The sleeping bunks remain as they were, a chilling reminder of their suffering. The scene reminds me of Life is Beautiful. Matt silently takes photos on his phone.

Then, we enter a small museum. Inside, glass cases display remnants of the prisoners' lives—buttons, hair clips, diaries, pens, photographs of their loved ones. No valuables are here; jewellery and gold were confiscated at the entrance. These were the personal, sentimental belongings—things that held no monetary worth, but were priceless to their owners. Mementos they clung to until their last breath.

We exit the museum, and in the distance, the mass grave is visible.

“Do we need to go there?” I ask.

“Not really,” Matt replies. Neil shakes his head.

“Then let’s give it a miss,” I suggest. I can’t take any more of this. It’s too much.

As we walk back towards the station, we cross paths with the Russian tourists once again. This time, they are heading towards the mass grave.

“Neil, is something bothering you? We haven’t seen that man from yesterday, right?” I finally ask.

“First,” Neil says, “he could have accomplices. And second, how do you know for sure he hasn’t followed us today?”

I scoff. “I would have noticed. I observed him yesterday—bald, about six feet, strong build, wearing a ring on his middle finger.” I say this with a hint of pride. I even noticed the ring. At this rate, I’ll be the next Sherlock Holmes in no time.

“Sri, your observation needs improvement,” Matt says with a smirk.

“Haven’t you noticed the man in our train compartment?” Neil asks.

“But he had salt-and-pepper hair—” I begin.

“—Couldn’t it have been a wig?” Matt interrupts.

“He didn’t wear a ring,” I counter.

“No, but did you see the faint mark on his middle finger? He had recently removed one,” Neil explains.

“And when the conductor handed him a train timetable, did you hear what he said?” Matt asks.

“Yes. He said, Bitteschön.”

“No. He started to say Spa—before correcting himself. He was going to say Spasiba but stopped mid-sentence,” Matt points out.

“And his German had a thick Slavic accent,” Neil adds.

“Alright, alright, you two are linguists,” I mutter, feeling slightly humiliated.

“No, Sri, it’s not about being a linguist. It’s about being observant,” Neil corrects.

“You have great analytical skills,” Matt says. “But raw talent needs training. I can recommend a couple of surveillance courses.”

“Did Sherlock Holmes take courses?” I ask.

“No. Because he was fictional,” Neil replies dryly. “Besides, professional detection today relies on forensic science, criminal psychology, and advanced surveillance techniques. You need training.”

“And self-defence,” Matt adds.

“The way the Russians are following us, self-defence might come in handy,” Neil says with a smile.

“Neil, are you armed?” Matt asks.

“Yes. MI6 has its perks.” Neil pats his jacket pocket.

That’s good, because I know Matt couldn’t bring his own licensed revolver with him. Crossing country borders with firearms is a logistical nightmare and requires tons of paperwork. Luckily, for Neil, things are smoother.

I glance between them. “Are the Russians after the Nazi plunder, too?”

Matt sighs. “Welcome to real-world detective work, Sri. It’s not always puzzles and chasing criminals. Sometimes, it’s hours of combing through photos.”

“And will we use a magnifying glass, like Sherlock?”

“A modern version of it.” Matt grins. “We’ll zoom in on the computer.”