Memorial Policy | Sachsenburg Concentration Camp: A Brutal Experiment

The targets served first as a deterrent and then to reduce tension. Mykola Borovyk, a research associate for the city of Frankenberg on a future Sachsenburg memorial, points to a cardboard rectangle printed with concentric circles, riddled with bullet holes. It was found on the sloping roof of a building that formerly served as the camp commandant's office. There, the cardboard was glued to the boards under the wallpaper to prevent it from cracking due to temperature fluctuations. Borovyk says they had previously been shot to pieces right next to the roll call area, where the inmates of the Sachsenburg camp regularly had to line up. "It served as a deterrent," says Borovyk: "Terror was commonplace here."

"Here" means: in a multi-story factory building on the banks of the Zschopau River, which had housed a cotton spinning mill before being seized by the Nazis in May 1933. From then on, it served as one of the early concentration camps, where the new rulers interned and tortured political opponents and other undesirable individuals, such as Jehovah's Witnesses. The camp existed until mid-1936; a total of 7,200 inmates are estimated, several of whom did not survive their imprisonment. Max Sachs, for example, a Jewish Social Democrat, editor, and member of the state parliament, was first tortured in a stone-breaking squad and then so severely mistreated by SA members that the body washer refused to work on his mangled body.

Borovyk leads a tour of the site on a gray summer day. At the base of the massive factory building, he points out the spot where the targets were installed. In the former commandant's office, he climbs narrow stairs over rubble and points out a wall frieze installed in 1933. On the banks of the Zschopau River, he points to a concrete plaque that, immediately after its construction, portrayed the camp as a place of re-education: "They wanted to prove to society that the inmates were to be turned into 'good Germans' through community service," says Borovyk.

There are many places on the extensive grounds that reference history: plaques along a "Path of Remembrance"; portraits of prisoners placed in the windows of the gatehouse as part of a student project; and a group of figures carved from Rochlitz porphyry, a memorial site from the GDR era. What is missing so far is a memorial worthy of the name: with a comprehensive permanent exhibition, seminar rooms, staff offices, restrooms, and a cloakroom.

This has been a matter of debate for decades. A rather one-sided GDR exhibition was closed in 1990. After that , the site disappeared from the Saxon memorial landscape . Only volunteer initiatives such as the "Lagerarbeitsgemeinschaft" (Lager Working Group) led by Enrico Hilbert and the student initiative "Klick" led by Anna Schüller , from which today's "Geschichtswerkstatt Sachsenburg" (Sachsenburg History Workshop) emerged, kept the memory alive. They conducted research, collected material, maintained contact with contemporary witnesses, and organized the annual "Sachsenburger Dialogue." Nevertheless, in 2017, the "Spiegel" magazine described Sachsenburg as a "forgotten concentration camp." The following year, the city of Frankenberg created the position for Borovyk, who had previously worked as a historian at universities and now wanted to put his ideas into practice. "I had no idea that I would be involved with this for so long," he says.

Even during his term in office, there were repeated problems and low points. In 2018, the city's first application for funding was rejected by the federal government. In addition to technical questions, the criticism included the lack of an operating concept, unclear ownership structures, and plans to demolish a former commandant's villa , which made up a "significant part" of the planned ensemble. The building was later demolished, triggering nationwide protests. "That was a shame," says Borovyk, "but unfortunately it was already a ruin and beyond saving." At some point, the federal government did agree to cover half of the planned construction costs of five million euros; the Free State of Saxony provided 1.5 million from former GDR party assets. Work began on the first construction phase, which included, for example, the renovation of a bridge and the construction of outdoor facilities and a parking lot. Then a new shock: In May, it was announced that the Free State of Saxony, facing financial difficulties, had imposed a funding freeze for Sachsenburg in its 2025 budget. The project threatened to fail. The Association of Memorial Sites in Germany warned that it could end up as an "investment ruin."

That would have been extremely disastrous, as other critics have noted. Sachsenburg, says Borovyk, is one of the few examples that demonstrate how the Nazis developed their camp system. "They knew they wanted concentration camps," says the historian, "but at first they didn't know exactly how." Open questions concerned responsibilities and financing, the surveillance system, and camp regulations. Sachsenburg was initially under the control of the Saxon Ministry of the Interior, which concluded a regular lease for the commandant's villa. A monthly fee of 25 Reichsmarks was payable; the rooms, it was stipulated, were to be "treated with care."

The SS later took over the facility. They tested procedures here, practices of abuse such as excessive physical labor in the quarry, and techniques of intimidation. Sachsenburg also trained personnel for the later large camps, whose "limbo" the early camps are often described as. Two men who headed Sachsenburg concentration camp later led the Buchenwald, Majdanek, and Gross-Rosen concentration camps. In cells that have been preserved on the ground floor of the commandant's office, along with some inscriptions, not only prisoners were interned, but also guards who had not shown the desired level of toughness, says Borovyk: "Here, even our own people were disciplined and trained for later camps like Auschwitz." Sachsenburg is, in a sense, a brutal experimental setup. It shows, says the historian, "a system in the making."

"The Nazis knew they wanted concentration camps. But at first, they didn't know exactly how."

Mykola Borovyk historian

All of this can now hopefully be presented in a memorial with a well-founded exhibition. Following nationwide press reports that Saxony was abandoning the "limbo" program, the Free State of Saxony provided another €1.46 million from former GDR party assets, thus securing co-financing for the federal funding. This will allow "this important project, which serves remembrance and education, to be continued and successfully completed," said Frankenberg's CDU mayor, Oliver Gerstner. Saxony's Minister of Culture, Barbara Klepsch (also CDU), spoke of an "important signal for the culture of remembrance" and added that it could be "continued seamlessly."

These days, for example, construction is underway on the remains of the commandant's villa. Only the stone base remains; all other parts could not be saved, says Borovyk: "Even the basement walls and the floor on the ground floor were dilapidated." A new floor slab is currently being poured. A metal structure will be erected on top of it, recreating the silhouette of the two-story building, which, with its shutters, trellis, and ornamental fountain in the front garden, could easily have stood in a Dresden villa district. The villa was one of the special features of the early Sachsenburg concentration camp, says the historian: "It stood in the middle of the camp, and the bedroom overlooked the roll call area." However, it was surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Furthermore, the commandant's families did not live in the house. "It wasn't like 'The Zone of Interest,'" says Borovyk. The film depicts the life of the family of Rudolf Höss, the camp commandant of Auschwitz, in their house directly next to the extermination camp.

The installation, which commemorates the villa as a "crime scene," is scheduled to be completed by the end of 2025; according to the city administration, the funds from the first state grant must be spent by then. Also scheduled to begin this year is securing the roof structure of the building that once housed the camp commandant's office. Here, too, extreme urgency is required, says Mykola Borovyk: "The structure is 90 percent dilapidated." The building is not only extremely dilapidated, but also convoluted and consists of countless small rooms: "It has an incredibly complex construction," he says. To meet modern requirements, such as barrier-free access, significant renovations are necessary.

Nevertheless, Borovyk is confident that a modern exhibition and visitor center will be completed by 2028. Looking at plans on his desk, he already imagines a guided tour of the exhibition, which will be divided into two parts: a quick tour for casual visitors, such as cyclists from the nearby Zschopau Valley Cycle Path. There will also be rooms where information can be explored in more depth. Borovyk is focusing on a participatory approach and artistic installations that allow visitors to "take a breather." A total of 10,000 visitors per year are expected in the future, says city spokeswoman Sandra Saborowski. In 2024, despite the many temporary solutions, the number was still 1,000.

In three years, after many setbacks, the long struggle for a memorial in Sachsenburg could finally be crowned with success. It would be important. The nationwide working group "Memorials at the Sites of Former Concentration Camps," which represents 19 memorial sites in twelve German states, notes that the significance of Sachsenburg as a "crime scene for the destruction of democracy" cannot be overestimated.