What the Nazis did to the prisoners AFTERWARDS is unbearable…

And these women, officially, didn't even exist. There were no admission registers, no medical records, no names, only numbers hastily scrawled on the walls of each cell. Number 7, number 12, number 23. Women reduced to numbers. In April 1944, when Allied forces began advancing through northern France, the field medical unit was urgently evacuated.

The documents were burned, the medical supplies loaded onto trucks. The prisoners still alive, only 17, were transferred to unknown destinations. Vulker disappeared, taking his notebooks with him. And the old factory remained there, silent, empty, as if it had never held anything but dust and shadows. For decades, no one spoke of that place.

Neither the locals, who avoided approaching the ruins, nor the Allied veterans, who had never heard of a camp there, nor the historians, who had found no documents. The story of these women was buried with their bodies. But during renovation work to transform the site into a parking lot, workers made a discovery: a sealed cellar.

Among the dozens of human remains and bones were fragments of paper, torn pages from diaries, stained with moisture but still legible, written in French by trembling hands. On several pages, the same sentence was repeated: "Take off your clothes and kneel." But what really happened after this order? What were the soldiers doing? And why was no one punished? The truth is even more brutal than we can imagine, and it is about to be revealed.

Ernst Fulker was born in Dresden in 1911, the son of a pharmacist and a piano teacher. Raised in a middle-class family that placed great importance on education and discipline, he was an exemplary student. In 1920, he enrolled in the medical faculty of the University of Berlin, where he specialized in pathology. By 1930, when the National Socialist Party came to power, he was already a respected physician, author of publications on infectious diseases and bacterial resistance. He was never a fanatic.

He didn't chant slogans, nor did he wear swastikas outside his uniform, but he believed in effectiveness and was convinced that science should not be hampered by sentimentality. At the start of the war, Vulker was drafted into the medical corps at Vertmarthe. He hadn't asked for it, but he hadn't refused it either.

And when he was offered the position of head of an experimental unit in northern France, he accepted without hesitation. The proposal was clear: to study human endurance under extreme conditions: cold, pain, deprivation, infection. All under the pretext of better preparing German soldiers for the Eastern Front.

But in reality, what Volker was doing was torture disguised as science. His university training had provided him with the tools, his composure the know-how, and the war had given him permission. In Nazi Germany of the 1940s, the line between medical research and cruelty had become blurred. Renowned doctors participated in euthanasia programs.

Brilliant scientists were planning experiments on human beings without their consent. And no one was surprised, because it was all done in the name of a greater cause: victory, science, progress. Fulker fit perfectly into this system. He wasn't a monster by nature. He was a man who had learned to suppress his empathy for the sake of efficiency.

The experiments followed a precise pattern, beginning with dehumanization. The prisoners were stripped naked, numbered, and treated like objects. Volker believed this was necessary to eliminate emotional variables. If they had been treated as people, the assistants might have hesitated. If they had been treated as numbers, the experiments would have been more effective. And it worked.

The German nurses who worked with him obeyed without question. Not out of cruelty, but because routine normalized the horror. Injecting bacteria into a defenseless woman simply became the fourth experimental protocol. Witnessing someone die of hypothermia simply became a way to gather data on thermal resistance.

The dehumanization process began as soon as they arrived. The women were taken to a room where their clothes were confiscated and burned. Their hair was cut very short, almost shaved. Their personal belongings—letters, photos, wedding rings—were thrown into a bag and forgotten. They were given a coarse gray tunic, without underwear, thus exposing them to the constant cold.

Then came the number painted in black on their left forearm. Some tried to erase it, wash it off, make it disappear, but the ink was indelible and, with time, they gave up. Their numbers became a part of them, and their names gradually faded away. One of the cruellest experiments involved immersing them in ice water.

The prisoners were locked in metal tanks filled with water at a temperature between 2 and 5°C. Naked, they were immobilized by leather straps that lacerated their wrists and ankles. Vulker timed how long it took them to lose consciousness. He took their body temperature every five minutes using rectal thermometers. The contact was brutal, invasive, and added a further layer of humiliation to the physical torture.

Some lasted fifteen minutes, others half an hour. None lasted more than an hour. When they were pulled from the water, their skin was bluish, their lips purplish, their eyes glassy. Some never regained consciousness. They were taken back to their cells, where they died during the night. Frozen, alone, he did more than simply observe.

He also experimented with methods of rewarming. Some women, after being immersed until they nearly died, were placed in contact with the naked bodies of German soldiers to see if human heat could revive them. Others were plunged into baths of boiling water, undergoing thermal shock that often caused cardiac arrest. Vulker documented everything.