The way the Germans ex3cut3d homos3xual prisoners caught in s3xual acts is sickening to everyone.
Nuremberg, 1946. The American prosecutor looked the witness in the eye. “Mr. Koffman, you were a guard at Sachsenhausen from 1940 to 1945. Is that correct?” “Yes.” “And you asked to testify voluntarily. For what?” The man, Friedrich Koffman, 34 years old, a former SS rifleman, lowered his head. “Because I saw things, things I can no longer keep to myself.”
“What is it?” Silence. “Mr. Koffman.” “The executions. There were many executions in the camps.” “What exactly are you talking about?” Koffman looked up. His face was gray, aged beyond his years. “The executions of the pink triangles, those caught red-handed in bed.” “Caught red-handed doing what?” “Sexual acts between men.”
The prosecutor shook his head. “And how were these prisoners executed?” Koffman closed his eyes in a way that disgusted everyone who saw it, even us, even the SS. “Stop.” What you are about to hear comes from the archives of the Nuremberg Trials, witness testimonies classified for decades, documents Germany tried to make disappear, because what was done to homosexual prisoners caught in the act wasn’t simply an execution; it was a spectacle, a staged event designed to terrorize, humiliate, and destroy. And the worst part is, it wasn’t done in secret. It was done in front of the entire camp, in front of hundreds of prisoners forced to watch, so that everyone knew what was happening to those who still dared to love. Testimony of Friedrich Kaufman, Nuremberg, 1946. The first time I witnessed this kind of execution was in November 1941.
I had been in Sachsenhausen for a year. I had seen things: deaths, torture, atrocities. I thought I was hardened. I was wrong. It all started with a discovery. Two prisoners from the block, the block with the pink triangles, were found together in the latrines at night. A guard had surprised them. He had raised the alarm. They were dragged naked in front of the entire block. They were beaten until they could no longer stand. Then they weren’t taken to the execution wall, not to the punishment chambers. Not to the roll call square. The next morning, the entire camp was assembled. Prisoners standing in the November cold.
Waiting in the middle of the square, something had been built during the night, a wooden structure like a theater stage. And on this stage, the two naked men, tied to stakes, stood facing each other. One of them was named Heinrich Vogel, 25 years old, German, a former teacher. The other was named Pierre Dubois, 24 years old, French, a former law student. I remember their names because the commandant read them aloud in front of everyone. “These two degenerates were caught committing unnatural acts. They will now receive the punishment their perversion deserves.” What followed, I cannot fully describe. Some things should not be put into words, but I will try, because if I don’t, no one will know.
They weren’t simply executed. We forced them, we forced them to… No, I have to be clear about things. They were forced to repeat what they had been convicted of, in front of ten thousand people, under the shouts of the guards, who yelled, “Fornication! Show us what you’ve been doing! Show it to everyone!” They obviously couldn’t. They were terrorized, broken, barely conscious. Then the guards took over. “I can’t describe what they did, not in detail.” But I can say that it was designed to humiliate, to dehumanize, to show all the other prisoners what happened to those who dared. “I’m sorry, I need a moment.” Pause in the testimony. When they were finished humiliating them, they executed them. But not with a bullet.
That would be too easy, too quick. No, they put ropes around their necks. They were hanged slowly. Not enough to kill them instantly, just enough to strangle them. And while they struggled, suffocated, and died, the guards made comments. “Watch them dance. This is their last dance together.” Some laughed, not all, but some. The execution lasted 45 minutes. During that time, ten thousand prisoners were forced to watch two men die. When it was over, the commandant spoke again. “May this serve as a lesson. Every unnatural act will be punished in this way, without exception.” And then we were sent back to work as if nothing had happened. (Archive of the Sachsenhausen camp reconstructed.)
Heinrich Vogel and Pierre Dubois met in September 1941. Heinrich had been in the camp for two years. He had survived by a miracle, by luck, by stubbornness. He knew the rules, the dangers, the ways to stay alive. Pierre had just arrived, transferred from Drancy in France. He spoke no German, understood nothing, and was lost. Heinrich helped him. At first, it was simply about helping each other: showing them where to go, what to do, how to avoid beatings. But very quickly, it became something else. Excerpt from a letter by Pierre Dubois, found after the war: “Mama, if you are reading this letter, it means I am dead. I entrusted it to a comrade who promised to send it to you if I don’t survive.”
“I want you to know something, something I never had the courage to tell you while I was alive. I have loved, I have truly loved. Here in this hell, I have found someone. His name is Heinrich. He is German, but that is not his fault. He is the gentlest, bravest man I have ever met. We both know it is dangerous, that we will die if we are discovered. But we cannot help it. Love does not ask permission. When I die, I want you to know that I have been happy, even here, even now, because I have known love. Your loving son, Pierre.” The camps were places where love had no place, but love didn’t care. Heinrich and Pierre met whenever they could. Stolen moments, a fleeting touch of hand during work, an exchange of glances during roll call, a few whispered words in the night.
It was dangerous, suicidal. They both knew it, but he couldn’t stop. “Do you know what will happen if we’re found?” Heinrich said one evening. “Yes, and you still want to go on?” Pierre looked at him in the darkness of the barracks, his eyes shining. “I’d rather die loving you than live without you.” “That’s stupid.” “I know.” Heinrich smiled in spite of himself. “I’m an idiot too.” So they were cautious for months. They were incredibly careful. Never together in public. Never suspicious gestures, never unnecessary risks. But caution has its limits, just like despair. On that November night, Pierre broke down.
Something had happened during the day. A friend had died. A Frenchman like him, beaten to death by a guard because he had tripped. Pierre had watched his friend die. He had to keep working, the body at his feet, as if nothing had happened. That evening, he was trembling. He couldn’t stop trembling. Heinrich found him huddled in a corner of the barracks, weeping. “Pierre, Pierre, look at me.” “I can’t go on, I can’t go on.” “I know, I know.” Heinrich took him in his arms right there, in front of the others, without hiding. It was a moment of weakness, a moment of humanity, a moment that cost them their lives. A prisoner saw them. A Kapo. A prisoner who worked for the guards in exchange for privileges.
His name was Werner Brant, green triangle, common criminal, a thief, a con man, a man prepared to do anything to survive. He went to the guards that night. “I have something to tell you. Something about the pink triangles in the block.” The guards arrived an hour later. Heinrich and Pierre were asleep, or rather, pretending to be, their hands clasped under the covers as they stood. Numbers 45782 and 67341. They stood up. They understood immediately. “We saw you. We know what you do.” Pierre looked at Heinrich. Heinrich looked at Pierre. No fear in their eyes, only sadness and perhaps a little relief. It was over. The constant fear of being discovered, the waiting for the blow that would soon fall. It was over.
They were dragged outside and systematically beaten for a long time. Between blows, a guard asked, “Do you have any other accomplices, other degenerates like yourselves?” Heinrich spat blood. “No, just us.” Another blow. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” It was true, and even if it hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have betrayed anyone. They were lovers, not traitors. According to Friedrich Koffman’s testimony, after their arrest they were taken to a special cell, not the ordinary punishment cells, a cell reserved for special cases. I know what happened there because I was on duty that night. The commandant came to see them. SS-Standartenführer Hermann Baranowski, a man even others feared.
He sat down on a chair opposite the two prisoners who were chained to the wall. “So, we’re having fun together, we’re inverts.” Silence. “Do you know what’s going to happen to you tomorrow?” “You’re going to kill us,” said Heinrich. “Yes, but not only that.” Baranowski smiled. “Tomorrow you’re going to put on a show. In front of the entire camp, you’re going to show these ten thousand men what happens to a degenerate like you.” “What are you going to do to us?” “Everything, absolutely everything.” He stood up. “Enjoy your last night and think about what’s in store for you.” That night I was on guard duty outside their cells. I could hear them.
They weren’t asleep. They were talking. I shouldn’t have listened. But I did. “I’m afraid,” Pierre said, “of dying, too.” “No, it’s about what they’ll do to us before then.” Silence, Heinrich. “Yes, I love you. You know that, don’t you?” “Yes, I love you too. Whatever he does to us tomorrow, it won’t change anything. Love can’t be destroyed.” “Do you believe that?” “I’m sure of it. They can destroy our bodies, but not what we feel.” I heard something else that night, a sound I’ll never forget. They were both crying quietly so as not to alert the other guards. And between their sobs, they whispered words of love, words I won’t repeat, words that belonged to them alone. I was an SS officer.
I should have hated them, despised them. But that night I felt something else: shame. On the morning of November, we began preparations. The stage was built at dawn. Prisoners were forced to assemble it, without knowing what it would be used for. The poles, the ropes, the instruments—everything was provided, methodically planned. Baranowski wanted a show. He would get it. Heinrich and Pierre were led from their cells. They could barely walk. The beatings of the previous day had broken them. But they still walked. They were completely stripped. They were dragged to the parade ground. Ten thousand prisoners were already waiting in rows.
Silent, terrorized. Heinrich and Pierre were tied to the post, facing each other, a few meters apart. And then Baranowski began his speech. “Prisoners, what you will see today is an example, a warning, a lesson.” His voice echoed across the square. “These two men have committed the most heinous crime. They have defiled the Aryan race through their unnatural acts. They have proven that they are not men, but animals.” He gestured toward the guards. “And we will treat them accordingly.” Continuation of the testimony. I cannot describe everything that happened. Some things defy words, but I will say what I can, because silence is a form of complicity.
The first part of the execution was designed to humiliate. Two men were forced to simulate the crime for which they had been convicted in front of everyone. They obviously couldn’t. They were too broken, too terrorized. So the guards improvised with objects, instruments—I won’t say which ones. During this first phase, some prisoners in the crowd closed their eyes. The guards forced them to watch. “Open your eyes, that’s an order.” Those who refused were beaten. Some were dragged to the front row to get a better look. Baranowski wanted everyone to see, everyone to understand. The second part was the torture itself. I won’t describe the methods; they’re in the trial records.
Anyone who wants to know can look it up. What I will say is that it took a long time, too long. And that Heinrich and Pierre didn’t shout once during that entire time. At one point, between two sessions, Pierre managed to speak. His voice was weak, broken, but it carried in the silence of the square. “Heinrich?” “Yes, I love you too.” That was all they said. Three words each in front of ten thousand people. Baranowski was furious. “Fire them up.” The guards beat them, but the damage was done. Those six words had been heard by the entire camp. Testimony of another survivor, collected in 1978. I was in the crowd that day. My name is Jacques Renard. I was a political prisoner, red triangle, not homosexual.
But what I saw that day has haunted me my entire life. Not just the cruelty, not just the horror, but the love. In the midst of it all, in the midst of torture, humiliation, and death, these two men told each other they loved each other, before their executioner, before ten thousand witnesses, without shame, without fear. That was the bravest thing I have ever seen. Back to Koffman’s testimony. The final part of the execution was the hanging. We put the ropes around their necks, but not to hang them immediately. No, we hung them slowly, just enough for them to suffocate, but not enough for them to die instantly. They struggled, their bodies twitched, their faces turned blue.
And all the while, the guards made comments. “Watch them dance, their last waltz.” Some people laughed. Like I said, not everyone, but some. It lasted 45 minutes. 45 minutes in which two men died slowly. Painfully, in front of a crowd forced to watch. When it was over, when their bodies finally stopped moving, Baranowski spoke one last time. “May this serve as a lesson. Any unnatural act will be punished in this way.” And then he sent us back to work. The bodies were left hanging. For three days, they remained there on the parade ground for everyone to see as they passed by. A reminder, a warning. On the fourth day, we finally untied them. They were thrown into a mass grave. No grave, no name, nothing. As if they had never existed. End of Koffman’s testimony.
After that execution, there were others. Not many. The prisoners had understood the message. No one dared to do anything anymore. But from time to time, we still found some. Men who took risks, men who couldn’t help but love. And each time it was the same spectacle, the same horror. I witnessed seven such executions during my years in Sachsenhausen. Seven times I saw men die because they loved. Seven times I did nothing. The prosecutor looked at Koffman. “Why are you testifying today, Koffman?” “Because I can’t live with it anymore.” “With what?” “With the silence. With the fact that no one knows these men are dead and the world has forgotten them.” He wiped his eyes. “Heinrich and Pierre deserve to be remembered, not as victims, but as men who loved to the bitter end.”
“Do you regret not having intervened?” Koffman paused. “If I had intervened, I would have died with them. Do I regret being alive? I don’t know. Sometimes, yes. And now? Now I give my testimony. It’s the only thing I can do. To tell what I saw so that it is not forgotten.” Archivist’s note: Friedrich Koffman’s testimony was recorded in February 1946. It was classified as confidential and was not used at the Nuremberg Main Trials. Why? Because the Allies did not consider homosexuals victims. In 1946, homosexuality was still a crime. In Germany, in France, in the United States, almost everywhere. Testimonies regarding the persecution of those wearing pink triangles were systematically dismissed, minimized, forgotten.
It wasn’t until 1985, almost 40 years later, that Germany officially recognized homosexuals as victims of National Socialism. Friedrich Kaufman died in 1962. He was never brought to trial for his actions as an SS guard. He was never prosecuted. But according to those close to him, he never found peace. He had nightmares every night until the very end. Always the same nightmares: two hanged men looking at each other and saying, “I love you,” as he died. Epilogue: Pierre Dubois’s letter to his mother was found in 1947. The prisoner to whom he had entrusted it had survived. He had kept his promise. Pierre’s mother, Marguerite Dubois, received the letter two years after her son’s death.
She learned that day that her son had loved, that he had been happy even in hell, that he had died for that love. She kept the letter until her own death in 1971. On her grave, next to her name, she had a sentence engraved for Pierre and for Heinrich: “Love never dies.” This is not a matter of justice. There was no justice for Heinrich and Pierre. Their tormentors were never punished for what they had done to them specifically. Baranowski died in 1940, before this execution. His successors largely escaped prosecution. This is not a story of victory. The Nazis achieved what they wanted: to terrorize the other prisoners and to stifle any possibility of love in the camps.
It is a story of remembrance, of two men who loved despite everything, who, before 10,000 people, before their executioner, in the face of death, said “I love you.” And perhaps that is the true victory, because 80 years later we are still talking about them. We remember their names, we tell their story. Heinrich Vogel and Pierre Dubois. Two men who refused to be ashamed, two men who loved until the very end. This documentary was produced for strictly educational and commemorative purposes. The public executions of homosexual prisoners were designed to terrorize and dehumanize. It was part of a systematic policy of persecution that cost thousands of men their lives.
The testimonies used in this documentary are taken from the archives of the Nuremberg Trials and other historical sources. Some details have been reconstructed for narrative purposes, but the essential facts are documented. We tell this story to honor the victims, to show that even under the worst circumstances, love can survive, and to remind everyone what happens when hatred becomes systemic. Homosexuality was only decriminalized in Germany in 1969. Homosexual victims of National Socialism were not officially recognized until 1985. For 40 years, these men were forgotten. This documentary is our way of remembering.
