8 
8 There is of course the physical road the commandant took to Lubizec after his fight with Jasmine, the narrow dirt one that led through the forest to the camp, but there is also the long, twisting, metaphorical one, the one that began when he joined the Party in 1931. He wasn’t born a serial mass murderer, but like thousands of men from his generation, he slipped into Nazism almost effortlessly. Guth was tight lipped about his early years but we do know a few things worth mentioning at this point in time.
Sigi would later say in The Commandant’s Daughter that trying to understand her father was like “looking down a foggy road at night.” Even historians would have trouble shining a light into the landscape of his youth but we do know he was born near the shipyards of Hamburg on January 1, 1900. Because of this moment of happenstance his mother often joked that he was as old as the twentieth century itself, and as he grew up so did the dizzyingly fast modern age swirling around him. Wireless telegraphy and the telephone were shrinking the world, cinematography made pictures move on a wall, cars appeared with spluttering petrol engines, homes were lit by electricity, radio antennas pulsed Morse code through the air, Joseph Lister developed antiseptic surgery, J. J. Thompson was probing the structure of the atom, an obscure German named Einstein published something called The Foundation of the General Theory of Relativity, and the Wright brothers built a flying machine that actually worked. Ships crossed the Atlantic at the breakneck speed of five days and subways burrowed beneath the streets like gigantic metal worms. The world had never been so full of such dazzling, awe-inspiring technological wonder.
Guth’s mother spoiled him with chocolate and took him for long walks around the ritzy part of Hamburg. Trams clattered beside them as she wondered about big American cities like Chicago and New York.
“Oh my angel,” she whispered, “isn’t life big and pretty?”
His father was a foreman and whenever he came home from the shipyards he stank of creosote and sweat. A black mask of dust was on his father’s face, and as he collapsed into a chair he snapped his fingers for a pipe. He never touched alcohol except on New Year’s Eve when he allowed himself a few glasses of schnapps. He was deeply religious and made sure his sons (Wilhelm, Karl, Hans-Peter) were educated in the ways of the Roman Catholic Church. Guth’s father had strong views on Jews, socialists, and anarchists. As a foreman he was used to barking out orders, so there was no room for disagreement.
Guth became an altar boy. He watched a thurible of incense get waved around the tabernacle and he listened to the old priest murmur Latin. He often wondered how bread and wine could be changed into the body and blood of Christ, because one minute it was food and the next it was something else, something holy. It was like a magic trick. And in these moments Guth wanted to be a priest so that he too might hold such secret power in his hands. He liked the idea of standing in front of a crowd and commanding them to kneel down before almighty God. He also liked the hierarchy of the Catholic Church because everyone knew their place: Priests were at the bottom, then came the bishops, then the archbishops, then the cardinals and then, at very top, was the pope. It felt militaristic and proper. Guth liked being in God’s army.
Germany too was caught up in militarism when the Kaiser promised to build a navy that would make the British tremble. The shipyards of Hamburg thundered with noise as rivets were driven into steel and battleships were outfitted with monstrous guns. “They bristle like hedgehogs,” the Hamburger Zeitung proudly stated in 1912. These ships were launched with bottles of foaming champagne, and as they slowly churned towards the North Atlantic, fireworks boomed overhead. A brass band played. People cheered. Guth forgot about the priesthood as he watched these mighty vessels go out to threaten the world.
He developed broad shoulders and his mother began calling him a “gentleman of the first order.” By 1914 he was self-conscious about a mole on his neck (it was the size of a pfennig) and he wore starched collars to hide it. He was meticulous in school and his teachers noticed he always liked things done a certain way. He excelled at math. Did poorly at art. When the Great War began he ached to join his older brothers at the front, but he was only fourteen so he took it upon himself to lift weights. With luck, the war would last.
And last it did.
As Germany slogged through one bloody battle after another, and as the years ticked by in an awful stalemate, Guth finally went down to the recruiting office and lied about his age. It hardly mattered by 1917 though—they would have taken anyone with good eyesight.
He was assigned to the 112th Landwehr Division and was sent to a strangely named place called Passchendaele. He never talked about what he saw in the trenches but history tells us it was awful. Lice, maggots, rats, fleas. Everything was muddy. Trees had been blasted away. Whole towns were reduced to nothing more than skeletonized buildings and, worst of all, bodies rotted in the muddy shell-pocked waste of no-man’s-land. The dead were everywhere and Guth got used to seeing hundreds of bodies scattered around him. It was normal to see torn limbs, smashed skulls, and meaty insides that had been pushed outside. When shells exploded they tossed chunks of the dead high into the air—cartwheeling—and when the British ran towards his trench he opened up his machine gun and watched them fall like stalks of wheat. He rattled out so many bullets his machine gun nearly overheated. Killing became routine. It became as normal as eating or sleeping. His brothers and friends were cut down at places like Ypres, Verdun, and the Somme. Death was sprinkled onto everything. He grew numb to it.
When the war finally ended in 1918, he trudged back to Hamburg in old soggy boots and told his mother he was finished with guns forever. He’d never shoot again, not even to hunt partridges in the forest.
But as he stared at his bitten fingernails one night he considered that it wasn’t the army’s fault Germany lost the war. Not at all. The army would have kept on fighting for months, maybe years, if only the people back home grew a spine and supported them. The newspapers called it an “armistice” but that wasn’t the same thing as “surrender.” The more he thought about this, the more he bubbled with rage. Guth slapped the kitchen table with an open palm.
“My brothers died for this? For this? We were stabbed in the back!”
He enrolled at the University of Hamburg shortly after this because he wanted to reinvent himself. He read books about management and administration. Dressed in a new waistcoat and hat, he thought of himself as a scholar, as an intellectual, as someone on the move. He began to feel he survived the war for some unknown reason and he sat back in a chair each night, imagining an ordered universe. A hierarchy kept things nailed into place, and it was only when order broke down, it was only then that chaos threatened to swallow everything.
He joined the Party in 1931. He liked to tell the story of how he poured himself a tall brandy and sat near the radio. It was a cold October evening and leaves were being plucked from the trees one by one. They skittered down the darkening street. He lit a cigarette, kicked off his dark shoes, and wiggled his toes. A politician was speaking. Someone named Adolf Hitler. As this Hitler spoke, slowly at first, then more loudly, Guth sat up. He nodded at the man’s wisdom.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
The universe clicked into place and two days later he put on a Nazi uniform. He snapped himself back to military attention.
Up to this point, Guth may seem like someone who got caught up in the tide of history but we should never lose sight of the fact that he became the Commandant of Lubizec. No matter how much we try to understand his background or search for clues that might point us towards the mass murderer he became, we must never forget he willingly assumed control of a death camp. True, he suffered during World War I, but he committed breathtaking crimes against humanity in World War II. We may feel a twinge of regret that he joined the Nazi Party, we may even wish he could “re-choose” a new path for himself, but in the end he made sure the trains arrived on time and he personally inspected the gas chambers each morning to make sure they were in perfect working order.
And here is one final thing to consider: Of the 710,000 souls murdered at Lubizec, virtually all of them saw Guth sometime during the last thirty minutes of their lives. This, this, is what he will always be remembered for. He was an architect of genocide. He devoted himself to murder. The gates of Lubizec opened wide for him and he saw not horror, but opportunity.
As he stepped across the threshold he adjusted his uniform. Clean, well fed, and straight backed, he passed under the WELCOME sign.