They Forced Us to Sit on Their Laps — What German Women POWs Felt Will Disturb You

Belgium, January 1945. The smell of diesel and fear hung heavy in the air as a group of 17 German women prisoners of war stood in a cold, dimly lit wooden barracks, their bodies bruised from the rigors of war, their spirits shattered by years of relentless conflict. They had been captured mere hours ago, yet the horrors they had endured seemed endless. But what happened next, something no one could have predicted, would shake them to their core.

The War Had Just Begun for Them

Marta Vogler, a 21-year-old signals operator, was just beginning to comprehend the nightmare of being a prisoner of war. She had been separated from her comrades, pushed into a foreign world where the enemies were not only the soldiers who captured them but also the looming uncertainty of what awaited them in the camps. The freezing cold of Belgium didn’t help, nor did the constant hunger gnawing at her stomach. She hadn’t eaten in two days, and sleep had been a luxury long since out of reach.

But nothing prepared her for the American soldier’s words: “Sit on my lap.”

The order, spoken in broken German, shattered the fragile calm she had managed to maintain. The soldier, a Corporal named Eric Hoffman, stood in front of her with a pointed finger aimed at his lap, an awkward yet demanding gesture. The rest of the women in the room froze. A cold sweat ran down Marta’s spine. Sit on his lap? Was this some sort of sick joke? Her stomach churned.

But the situation only worsened as she noticed what he was holding in his other hand. A syringe. A syringe that seemed too familiar—too sinister—for comfort.

A Tense Moment of Fear and Confusion

The fear in the room was palpable. Marta’s legs refused to move. Was this a test of loyalty? Or was it worse? She could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her chest as her mind raced. The other women, ranging from military nurses to civilians, stood rigid, too terrified to speak. Was this some form of psychological torture? Was this what would be expected of them now that they were prisoners? To bow to the demands of the soldiers who held them captive?

Corporal Hoffman’s name tag caught the dim light: Hoffman. A name that meant nothing to Marta, but everything to the fear mounting in her chest. He wasn’t looking at her body. His gaze was on her arm, on the sleeve of her coat, and in his other hand was a syringe filled with something unknown.

The name on the vial he held caught Marta’s attention, and her eyes locked on the words: Typhoid Vaccine. US Army Medical Corps.

Mercy or Deception?

The needle was not a weapon. It wasn’t a sign of cruelty, but rather the opposite. Typhoid was rampant in the prison camps. If untreated, it could wipe out entire groups of soldiers and prisoners alike. Marta’s brain refused to believe it at first. Why would they care about us? We’re the enemy, she thought.

But then, Renata Schultz, a nurse who had been captured weeks before, stepped forward. Her voice, though steady, quivered with disbelief. She recognized the label, recognized the batch number. It’s real. It’s standard typhoid vaccination. I administered hundreds of these before. Stalingrad. The truth slowly began to settle in.

This wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t a compassionate gesture. It was about survival. It was about logistics.

But still, the women couldn’t escape the sting of propaganda they had been raised on. The idea that the enemy, particularly the Americans, would extend mercy to them was unfathomable.

A Personal Betrayal

Marta was the first to be vaccinated. Her legs moved of their own accord, and before she could fully comprehend what was happening, she found herself sitting on Corporal Hoffman’s lap. His hands were warm, far warmer than she had expected in the frigid barracks. The fear still gripped her, but there was a strange sense of comfort in his touch—no, not comfort, but reassurance.

The needle slid into her arm, the pain momentary. And then, it was over.

But the unease didn’t end. Annalie, a 19-year-old girl who had barely spoken since her capture, was next. When she saw the syringe, the screaming began. It wasn’t just fear—it was the raw sound of trauma. Marta realized that Annalie had seen the horrors of medical experiments in another camp, the kind of experiments that left deep scars in the mind, ones that never healed. Annalie had seen the trucks, seen the doctors in white coats, carrying syringes larger than anything she had ever imagined. To her, a needle wasn’t just a vaccine—it was a reminder of the atrocities committed in the name of science.

A Soldier’s Patience

Corporal Hoffman understood. His training didn’t prepare him for this. It didn’t teach him how to deal with women like Annalie, women who had witnessed horrors beyond comprehension. So he did something no one expected. He knelt. He waited. He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand compliance. And in that moment, Annalie stopped screaming. Slowly, her breath began to steady. She saw the compassion in his eyes.

The walls between prisoner and captor were starting to crack, even if only for a moment.

Annalie spoke then, asking Hoffman to vaccinate himself first. Hoffman didn’t hesitate. He walked to the tray, picked up a fresh syringe, and injected himself. He showed them all that this wasn’t an act of mercy, but a simple necessity. You’re safe, he said. You’re safe here.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The needle no longer seemed like a weapon. It was a tool. A means of survival.

The Truth Behind the Vaccine

As the vaccinations continued, the women began to realize that they weren’t being tortured. They were being treated. And it was perhaps the most unsettling thing of all. They were prisoners, yes. But they were also human beings, and somewhere in the American ranks, someone had recognized that.

By the end of the night, 23 women had been vaccinated. Their physical survival was ensured, but the mental and emotional scars would take much longer to heal.

And then, Gerta, a 41-year-old quartermaster, revealed her secret. She had been stationed at Ravensbrück, the infamous women’s concentration camp. She had filed the names of women who had never returned. She had seen the horrors of the medical block, the experiments, the brutality.

The truth hit everyone like a cold slap. Gerta had lived with the weight of her guilt for years, and now, in the face of what could be mercy, she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. For her, the needle was not a symbol of healing—it was a symbol of everything she had failed to stop. But even she was forced to face the reality that surviving this war, even with the weight of her past, was better than succumbing to the same fate she had witnessed others endure.

A Moment of Change

The morning after the vaccinations, Corporal Hoffman returned with real coffee. The women had no idea what to make of him. He had broken protocol, violated military orders, but he had saved their lives. In the brutal chaos of war, it was the strangest form of kindness they had ever known.

Will you talk to intelligence officers about what you saw? Hoffman asked, his voice flat but serious.

Gerta’s testimony, along with the testimony of the others, would be documented. Their experiences would be remembered, not just as soldiers, but as people who had survived the unimaginable.

And so, in the midst of the war’s atrocities, where mercy was a rare and fleeting thing, a single act of kindness—unintended, perhaps, but transformative—began to change the women’s perception of the enemy.

It wasn’t about the syringe, nor the lap they had been forced to sit on. It was about survival. And sometimes, survival comes in the most unexpected forms.

The women would live. They would heal. But the question remained: could they ever truly forgive the monsters they had been taught to fear? Or would the horrors of the past forever haunt their hearts?