Why Patton Forced the “Rich & Famous” German Citizens to Walk Through Buchenwald

On April 16th, 1945, the city of Weimar in Germany was the picture of a quiet spring morning. The sun shone gently, and if you had been standing along the road leading out of the city, you might have seen something unusual—a parade, though not a celebratory one.

In the crowd, you would have seen men dressed in expensive suits, their fedoras perched at precise angles. Women, elegantly dressed in fur coats, with lipstick and high heels, their hair perfectly done. They were chatting, some of them even smiling, oblivious to the horror awaiting them. The scene could have easily been mistaken for an aristocratic gathering, a dignified stroll to a garden party, or perhaps to the opera.

But this wasn’t a festive occasion. These fine citizens, the wealthy and educated elite of Weimar, were not walking toward a party, but were instead marching under the watchful eyes of armed American soldiers. The soldiers’ faces were grim, their M1 Garands resting in their hands, fingers on the triggers. The soldiers weren’t smiling. They were escorting the citizens toward something that none of them could have anticipated: the gates of Buchenwald concentration camp.

These citizens, wearing the trappings of German high society, would soon be face-to-face with the raw consequences of their nation’s darkest secret. And they wouldn’t be able to deny the truth of their complicity.

The Origins of the March

The city of Weimar had long been seen as the cultural heart of Germany. It had been the home of literary and philosophical giants like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, the birthplace of movements like the Bauhaus and the German Enlightenment. Weimar was a city that prided itself on its civilization—on its arts, culture, and intellectual heritage. The people of Weimar saw themselves as the cultural aristocracy of Germany, educated, sophisticated, and enlightened.

But just five miles away from this city of refined culture, in the dense, grim forest, lay the Buchenwald concentration camp—a place where terror and suffering were the everyday currency. Since its establishment in 1937, Buchenwald had become one of the most infamous death camps in Nazi Germany. Yet, somehow, the wealthy citizens of Weimar, just a short distance away, lived in denial of the horror unfolding in their backyard.

For years, the people of Weimar had gone about their daily lives. The SS officers who ran the camp lived in comfortable homes in the suburbs, their wives shopping in Weimar’s boutiques, attending concerts, and mingling with the cultural elite. They were part of the same social circles. The smoke from Buchenwald’s crematorium, however, often drifted over the city, settling as ash on windowsills. But the citizens of Weimar continued to deny what was happening just a few miles away. They would later claim ignorance—“We didn’t know,” they would say. But when the truth of Buchenwald was finally laid bare before them, it shattered their carefully cultivated illusions.

Patton’s Decision

By April 11th, 1945, the American forces had arrived. The Third Army, led by the legendary General George S. Patton, had advanced to the region. Patton’s troops were the first to liberate Buchenwald, and when Patton himself arrived, he was horrified by the sight before him.

Patton, known for his tough demeanor and steely resolve, had seen a lot in his career. He had witnessed battlefields littered with the dead and dying, had encountered horrors of war that would break most men. But Buchenwald was something else entirely. He saw the pile of bodies stacked like firewood in the courtyard, their yellowed skin stretched taut over bones, their eyes wide open in their final moments of terror.

Patton wrote in his diary that night: “I have never felt so sick in my life. This is not war. This is madness.”

But what disturbed Patton even more was the sight of the people of Weimar, living in their idyllic city just five miles away. The civilians, oblivious to the stench of death that hung in the air, continued their lives as though nothing had changed. Patton had already seen the horrors of the camp, but the citizens of Weimar were still going about their daily routines. They were plowing their fields, hanging laundry, and going about their business—ignoring the screams and the smell of death.

Patton turned to his staff officer, Captain Walter M. “Doc” Judd, and asked: “Do the people in that town know about this?”

The reply from Judd was clear: “They say they don’t, General.”

Patton’s face turned red with anger. “They are lying,” he said, his voice seething with disgust. “And I am going to prove it.”

The Parade of Shame

Patton’s next action was one of the most significant and shocking decisions of the war. He didn’t just want to liberate the camp. He wanted to show the people of Weimar the truth of what had happened right under their noses. He ordered his Military Police (MPs) to round up a group of 1,000 civilians—the wealthiest and most influential men and women of the city: the professors, the businessmen, the politicians, and their wives.

These citizens were told nothing of what awaited them. When the MPs arrived at the grand villas of Weimar, they knocked on doors, entering homes and shops. They gave simple instructions: “You are going for a walk. Put on your coats. General Patton invites you to visit your neighbors.”

The civilians, confused and indignant, protested. “I’m a doctor! You can’t order me around!” one man shouted. But the MPs were insistent, their rifles pointed firmly in their faces. The civilians were marched out of their homes, forced into a column of a thousand well-dressed, cultured individuals who had no idea what was about to unfold.

At first, they walked lightly, chatting amongst themselves. The men adjusted their ties; the women fixed their hair. Some of the women even smiled, thinking it was a joke, an American propaganda stunt. The MPs followed, driving jeeps alongside the parade to make sure no one tried to escape.

But as they marched uphill toward Ersburg Hill, the mood shifted. The wind changed direction, and the smell hit them. It wasn’t the smell of nature. It wasn’t the smell of flowers or fresh air. No. It was the unmistakable, rancid smell of death. The civilians tried to cover their noses with their handkerchiefs and scarves, but the smell was so overwhelming that it stuck to the back of their throats, seeping into their very being.

The conversation stopped.

They reached the gates of Buchenwald, a grim iron structure adorned with the Nazi slogan: “Jedem das Seine”—“To each his own.” A cruel joke.

And then the civilians entered. They stepped through the gates and into hell.

The Horror of Buchenwald

The first thing the civilians saw were the prisoners. Thousands of them stood behind barbed wire, silent, watching them. The civilians had denied the existence of these men for so long, and now the prisoners’ eyes—dead and empty—stared back at them.

The civilians were then led to the crematorium. The courtyard was filled with piles of bodies—emaciated, naked, their limbs tangled together. Their mouths were open in silent screams. Some of the civilians began to shake uncontrollably. One woman in a fur coat screamed and fainted, collapsing to the muddy ground. An MP stepped forward, but he didn’t help her up. Instead, he nudged her with his boot. “Get up,” he said, his voice cold. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

And they hadn’t.

Patton had ordered them to witness the unimaginable. He wanted them to see the true face of the regime they had supported, even if silently. It wasn’t just war. It was a perversion of humanity. It was evil. He wanted them to understand that they had been complicit.

The civilians were forced to walk past the bodies, forced to look at the horrors of the SS’s pathology lab. On display were shrunken heads—Polish prisoners’ heads preserved as macabre trophies—and pieces of tattooed human skin. Ilsa Koch, the notorious wife of the camp’s commandant, had ordered prisoners with “interesting” tattoos to be killed so she could make lampshades from their skin.

The civilians could not look away. The men were crying openly now. Some retched, vomiting in the corners. They had been forced to face the truth. They had denied it for so long, but now there was no escape. The good German myth was gone.

A former prisoner, a walking skeleton of a man, pointed a shaking finger at a wealthy German banker. “I remember you,” he said. “I worked at the train station. I saw you. You saw me. You looked away.” The banker fell to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. “I didn’t know,” he pleaded. “I didn’t know.”

But no one believed him. Not even himself.

The Aftermath

By the end of the forced tour, the 1,000 citizens were broken. They were no longer smiling. They were silent. Their makeup smeared with tears. Their suits stained with dust and sweat. They marched back down the hill, back toward the city they had so long called home. But Weimar would never look the same to them again.

Every time they passed the hill, they would see the bodies. They would remember what they had seen, what they had denied.

Back in Weimar, the shame was too much for some. Just like in Ordruf, the guilt claimed lives. Several prominent citizens who had been part of the forced march committed suicide in the days that followed. The weight of their complicity, of the realization that they had lived among monsters and failed to act, was too much for them to bear.

Patton was informed of the suicides. He didn’t mourn. He didn’t celebrate. He simply said, “Good. Maybe the rest of them will learn.”

The forced march through Buchenwald was a moment in history that should never be forgotten. It raised a question that still echoes today: How much do the citizens know about the crimes of their government? The people of Weimar weren’t the ones pulling the trigger, but they were the ones who looked away. They were the ones who stayed silent. And in doing so, they became accomplices.

Patton understood that silence is complicity. You cannot claim innocence just because you closed your eyes.

On that day in April 1945, he forced the people of Weimar—and the world—to open their eyes.

Note: Some content was generated using AI tools (ChatGPT) and edited by the author for creativity and suitability for historical illustration purposes.