LINDA GANZINI AUTHOR
ARBEIT MACHT FREI
– WORK SETS YOU FREE –
The 73rd Anniversary of the Flossenbürg Concentration Camp Liberation 2018
Arturo Meneguzzi was my uncle, the beloved brother of ten siblings, and the cherished son of Maria and Virginio. His final words to his mother were, “Mama, if I don’t go with them now, they will kill us all.” Our family lives with the enduring legacy of Arturo's sacrifice, deeply indebted to his bravery and selflessness.
Arturo Meneguzzi • Alpini soldier awarded a Medal of Honor.
My uncle Arturo was an Alpini soldier, a member of the specialized mountain warfare infantry corps of the Italian Army. He saved our family by sacrificing his own life. His decision to surrender to the Nazis sealed his fate, but it also inspired me to share this incredible story.
Arturo died on March 6, 1945, just weeks before the Flossenbürg concentration camp was liberated. He was only twenty-four years old. Over 30,000 prisoners lost their lives in that camp. #NeverForget
My uncles, grandfather, and late father were all Alpini soldiers. War has cast a long emotional shadow over our family, igniting a deep-seated calling within me to express this tragic part of our history. In my book, Lilia, I recount the pain, suffering, and loss that my family and countless others endured in Northern Italy during World War II.
In April 2018, I accepted an invitation to attend the 73rd anniversary of the liberation of the Flossenbürg concentration camp in Germany. The event brought together 600 people from 20 countries. Initially, I felt trepidation. Traveling alone to this remote village in the middle of the Bavarian forest filled me with uncertainty, and I considered canceling my trip. However, I was repeatedly drawn to Arturo's photograph, feeling a profound connection to his soul and story, which compelled me to make the journey.
Arturo never had a chance at life. Knowing how much he suffered and the grief my grandparents and my mother endured strengthened my resolve to honor his memory. My desire to pay tribute to him and the countless others who faced an unimaginable, unjust fate led to an experience I will never forget.
I speak four languages, but German isn’t one of them. Nevertheless, I set out to explore the unknown. On the first day of my journey, Murphy’s law struck—I seriously injured my back, lost strength in my legs, and ended up confined to a wheelchair. Despite the setback, the kindness I encountered was extraordinary. German airport attendants used a crane to lift me onto my connecting flight, where I was greeted with champagne, chocolates, and a personal welcome from the pilot. Their concern and care were overwhelming.
Fortunately, I had arranged for a car to pick me up in Nuremberg and take me to my hotel in Floß, a charming village just five miles from Flossenbürg. My driver, Sebastian from LiMotion, became one of the many angels I met along the way. After a two-hour car ride, we arrived at the Meister Bär Hotel, where Sebastian carried both me and my luggage up to my room. Although I felt embarrassed by my situation, I was deeply grateful to him—he truly saved me.
The Meister Bär Hotel, and wonderful staff Edith and Martina, and tour guide Sonja.
The only English-speaking concierge had left for the weekend, leaving me to rely on a mix of gestures and charades to communicate. Yet every morning, the concerned staff greeted me with smiles and warm hugs as they helped me to the breakfast table. “Guten Morgen! Okay? Gud?” Their kindness made them feel like family, and soon, words seemed unnecessary.
I spent two days confined to my bed, feeling miserable and frustrated. “Why did this have to happen? Why now?” The inability to explore the charming village of Floß and connect with its people was a bitter pill to swallow. But I kept reminding myself that everything happens for a reason, right?
Determined to help, the hotel staff arranged for me to visit every doctor and chiropractor in the village, but none could relieve my pain. Word of my predicament spread through the village, and soon the Flossenbürg memorial department intervened, deciding that I needed emergency care.
It was Saturday morning, and the memorial celebration was about to begin. As I sat crying, clutching my uncle’s photo, a camp tour guide named Sonja arrived to assess the situation. Understanding how far I had traveled and seeing the despair in my eyes, she promised to get me to the memorial on time.
Within minutes, I found myself in a German ambulance on my way to the nearest hospital in Weiden. Three hours and an IV later, I was floating on a cloud, thanks to the medication. The doctor insisted I stay overnight for tests, but nothing would keep me from the weekend’s celebration.
As I exited the emergency doors in my wheelchair, a handsome guide from the Flossenbürg memorial named Boris greeted me. He was lovely, thoughtful, and kind. Whether it was his presence or the medication, I found myself smiling and feeling no pain. Upon arrival at the camp, Sonja arranged a private tour of the memorial for us. “Wunderbar!”
ARTURO MENEGUZZI
BORN:
November 24, 1920
DIED:
March 6, 1945 — Flossenbürg, Germany
PRISONER NUMBER:
38887
Lead SS camp commander Max Koegel
Flossenbürg is nestled in a remote corner of Bavaria’s Oberpfalz region, just a few miles from the Czech border. It was the fourth concentration camp established by the Nazis and the third largest. Over 100,000 men and women were incarcerated there and in its sub-camps. Flossenbürg was notorious for being one of the most brutal labor camps run by the Schutzstaffel (SS)—Adolf Hitler’s paramilitary protection squad.
The camp was erected to exploit prisoners as laborers in the granite quarries. Forced to work twelve-hour days with little more than a small bowl of soup to sustain them, prisoners endured conditions that were nothing short of subhuman. Flossenbürg gained a reputation as one of the most abusive and violent camps within the Nazi system. While it may not be as well-known as Auschwitz, Dachau, or Buchenwald, Flossenbürg played a significant role in Hitler’s “Final Solution”—his horrific plan to exterminate the Jews. Max Koegel, the lead SS camp commander, was among the cruelest of Hitler’s officers, responsible for unimaginable torture and brutality against the prisoners.
Initially, I had envisioned the camp as a dark, oppressive place, imagining how the energy of such a site might affect me. Indeed, the Flossenbürg memorial is somber, but the grounds are unexpectedly beautiful and serene. Flowers line the pathways, and the open spaces resemble a peaceful park.
Some might interpret this as an attempt by the German people to mask the horrors that once occurred here. Still, I believe that maintaining the site with respect amid all the darkness creates a tranquil environment for reflection, prayer, and paying respects. Year after year, the compassionate facilitators at Flossenbürg work tirelessly to keep the memory of what transpired here alive, ensuring that this horrific chapter in history is shared and never forgotten.
On Saturday, April 22nd, 2018, my tour guide, Sonja, wheeled me through the arched passageway of the administrative building, once the SS headquarters. As I sat in my wheelchair, I took in the vast, open gravel space where thousands of prisoners had lined up for daily Appell (roll call). Prisoners, often naked or barely clothed, stood for hours—even in the brutal cold of winter—waiting to be accounted for by the SS. Any disobedience was met with severe punishment. Max Koegel, the camp commander, would ride up on his white horse and arbitrarily shoot prisoners dead, asserting his authority and instilling fear to ensure compliance. Escaping his deadly selection was a matter of sheer luck.
To my left, I saw the kitchen where I learned my uncle had worked while imprisoned at the camp. To my right was the laundry building. In the basement of that building were the original disinfection and shower rooms. If ever there was a palpable presence on these grounds, it was here—where prisoners were forced to strip naked alongside others, uncertain of what was to come or what chemicals might be showered upon them.
On the upper levels of the building, there were storyboards with audio, videos, artifacts, and a large white book containing the names of all who had perished. As I leafed through the hundreds of pages, I found my uncle’s name:
Arturo Meneguzzi, Prisoner Number: 38887—Born 24.11.1920, Died 6.3.1945
Running my fingers over his name, a deep wave of sadness washed over me, making his tragic demise undeniably real. In that moment, I felt Arturo’s presence, whispering into my heart, “Thank you for coming. Thank you for remembering me.”
I felt Arturo's presence, whispering into my heart,
“Thank you for coming. Thank you for remembering me.”
Each day at the camp was humbling. Every story of the men, women, and children who suffered here forced me to reflect deeply on their lives and redefine my sense of gratitude for my own. The weight of their needless suffering was palpable—the personal tragedies captured in photos were gut-wrenching. I felt a profound relief upon exiting the building, stepping into the fresh air where flowers, trees, green fields, and sunshine starkly contrasted the horrors within. Had it been a harsh German winter, the impact of the senseless suffering would have been even more overwhelming.
At the end of the tour, I parted ways with Sonja and was left to explore the camp alone. Struggling to maneuver my wheelchair, I could not reach my destination. Noticing my difficulty, a woman hurried over to me. She spoke in German, her eyes filled with kindness. Concerned, she offered to push me. I pointed to the kitchen where my uncle had worked, and this lovely woman, whose name I never learned, helped me up the ramp into what was now part of the museum. Before leaving, she gently pressed her hand to my heart and caressed my face. A lump formed in my throat. It was a profoundly touching and heartfelt moment.
As I exited the building, I encountered another angel on my path—Stefan. He was there researching information about his grandfather, a prisoner in the camp. Like me, Stefan was traveling alone, and he graciously offered to accompany me for the remainder of the weekend. From Sebastian to the hotel staff, Sonja, Stefan, and everyone at the Flossenbürg memorial, the kindness I experienced was extraordinary. I am deeply moved when I think about their openness, desire to help, and willingness to give back. Tears well up when I recall their generosity toward me and one another. A camp once filled with horror and despair now seemed blessed with heroes of love and respect, walking arm-in-arm.
During this weekend-long celebration, I learned the full extent of my uncle’s unimaginable journey. It began in Buchenwald, followed by a harrowing time in Porschdorf, a slave labor sub-camp, before ending tragically at Flossenbürg just weeks before the camp’s liberation. Amid this heartache, I also discovered that my uncle spent his final days with someone special—a man he called a friend. His name was Pepick.
At a dinner for survivors, their families, organizers, volunteers, and honored political guests, I stood out as the lone Canadian and the only young woman in a wheelchair. People were drawn to me, curious about who I was and my story. It was then that I met 92-year-old Jewish survivor Pepick. As I spoke with him and his family, I was astonished to learn that he remembered my uncle. He remembered his name. They had worked together in the camp kitchen.
Pepick shared how Arturo had risked his life to steal food for the sick prisoners and had tried to keep up the men’s morale by singing in their barracks. As he began singing the song my uncle used to sing, a tearful crowd gathered around us. Our miraculous meeting touched many hearts that evening. In the history of the Flossenbürg memorial celebrations, this was the first connection of its kind. Pepick and I embraced, both overwhelmed with gratitude for a moment neither of us will ever forget. If this doesn’t make you believe in fate, I don’t know what will.
Sunday, April 22nd, 2018. My final day at Flossenbürg was marked by a series of solemn and poignant events: a religious commemoration in the Jewish place of worship, an Ecumenical Service in the chapel "Jesus in the Dungeon" on the memorial grounds, a celebratory commemoration event, and a wreath-laying ceremony in the Valley of Death. A large crowd gathered for these events.
What shook me to my core were the Crematorium and the Valley of Death. When the Americans liberated the camp, they collected a mound of ashes, now interred in The Pyramid of Ashes—my uncle's ashes are among them. As the day ended, over a hundred people joined a procession, carrying flowered wreaths down the valley’s steep steps to The Square of Nations, where tombstones memorialize the prisoners who died in each country. The weight of history was palpable, and the collective grief shared in that moment was humbling and overwhelming.
Knowing the descent would be grueling on my body, I stood at the cliff’s edge, surrounded by tourists, other guests in wheelchairs, and elderly survivors. A wave of disappointment washed over me as I gazed down into the Valley of Death. Sensing my longing, Stefan asked me, “You want to go down there, don’t you?” I looked up at him, raising my brows and shrugging my shoulders. I had come so far—not just for myself, but for my mother and our relatives. The thought of not fully completing this journey left me with a deep sadness and longing I wasn’t prepared for and didn’t want to accept. I needed to be with my uncle. Stefan extended his arms and smiled. “Come on, brave girl, let’s do this.”
With his support, I rose, and step by limping step, we began the descent into the Valley of Death while people watched and waited. From the valley floor, I could see two of the three stone watchtowers standing, one leading toward the ramp to the crematorium. The last barrack closest to the ramp housed the weakest prisoners. Upon death, their corpses were piled into a wagon and wheeled down to their final destination.
Adjacent to the oven stood a marble dissection table where doctors extracted prisoners’ gold teeth. Standing before this table was the eeriest experience of my life. The air around me felt cold, almost tangible with the weight of the past. Horrific visions flooded my mind, and I was overwhelmed by feelings of hate and confusion. How could such atrocities happen?
A few months before the camp's liberation, the number of executions had exceeded the crematorium's capacity. Under Max Koegel's orders, thousands of prisoners' bodies were stacked in piles, drenched with gasoline, and burned. The inhuman cruelty of this act was palpable. These were people, like you and me, reduced to mere numbers and slaughtered by monstrous evil. I bowed my head and sent Arturo and our family’s love and prayers.
The physical discomfort I endured these four days colored my emotions and reflections. It changed how people reacted to me and how I reacted to them. It also underscored my determination. I felt frustrated and disappointed and was deeply embarrassed by how trivial my suffering seemed in a place that had witnessed such monumental heartache and misery. This experience was a profound journey, filled with heart-wrenching discoveries and immense gratitude, both expected and unexpected. I felt forever changed. I rediscovered the lesson: Follow the calling of your heart, and it will take you where you need to go. #NeverForget
Follow the calling of your heart, and it will take you where you need to go.