These freight cars loaded with logs were sitting on the very same railway tracks that once carried Jewish people, political prisoners, and other victims into Dachau Concentration Camp. Dachau was the first camp built by the Nazis, opening in March 1933 — years before the war even started — and remained in operation until American forces liberated it in April 1945. More than 31,000 people died here. Even though this was just a simple photo of timber being transported, standing there looking at those tracks gave me chills.

This gravel path ran along the entire perimeter of Dachau. Guard towers like the one in the center were manned by soldiers armed with machine guns, while other soldiers with German Shepherd dogs constantly patrolled this walkway. To the left, past the barbed wire, was the inside of the camp. To the right, behind the high concrete wall topped with more barbed wire, was the outside world.

This was the view from inside the camp looking along the perimeter. Guard towers stood at regular intervals, and the double fence of barbed wire and concrete made escape nearly impossible.

This long building is one of the reconstructed living quarters at Dachau. The original wooden barracks were designed to hold around 200 prisoners, but as the camp became overcrowded they often held more than 1,600 people in the same space. Prisoners slept on multi-tiered wooden bunks with almost no bedding, in freezing cold or extreme heat, with little sanitation and rampant disease. Standing in front of this building, it was hard to imagine how anyone survived the conditions inside.

This large stone structure is the Jewish Memorial at Dachau. Designed by architect Zvi Guttman and dedicated in 1967, it stands as a permanent reminder of the Jewish prisoners who suffered and died here. The sculpture on top and the open passageway through the center create a powerful, solemn presence in the middle of the former camp grounds.

This small candle was burning inside the Jewish Memorial. Seeing the flame through the metal bars felt deeply moving. Even in a place filled with so much darkness and pain, someone had left this light as a quiet act of remembrance.

The memorial was deliberately designed with a descending ramp so visitors walk downward into the structure, symbolizing the path of destruction that so many Jewish prisoners were forced to take. Looking through this sharp metal fencing toward the lower area made the symbolism feel even heavier.

This close-up shows the sharp, welded spikes on the metal fencing near the Jewish Memorial. The cold, industrial design felt brutal and deliberate — a reminder of how thoroughly every detail of the camp was built to control, confine, and intimidate.

This is the iron gate of the Jewish Memorial at Dachau. The two Stars of David are clearly visible on the doors. The memorial was dedicated in 1967 and designed as a place of remembrance for the Jewish prisoners who suffered and died here. The gate was locked when I visited, but the symbols and the heavy metal design made a powerful impression.

This close-up shows one of the Stars of David on the gate of the Jewish Memorial. The simple metal star, set among the sharp bars and spikes, stood out powerfully against the dark background.

This photo looks straight up through the opening in the roof of the Jewish Memorial. The memorial was designed by architect Hermann Zvi Guttmann and dedicated on May 7, 1967. It was built specifically to remember the Jewish prisoners who suffered and died at Dachau.

The structure deliberately leads visitors downward on a ramp (symbolizing the path of destruction), while this vertical shaft of light and marble rising toward the sky represents hope and the survival of the Jewish people. Looking up through that opening felt both heavy and strangely hopeful at the same time.

This long concrete wall with barbed wire running along the top was part of the outer perimeter of Dachau. During the years the camp was operating, the fence on top of this wall was electrified. Any prisoner who touched it would be killed instantly.

This deep ditch ran along the inside of the camp perimeter. It was part of the multi-layered security system that made escape nearly impossible. Between the ditch and the electrified fence was the “death strip” — any prisoner who entered that zone would be shot without warning by the guards in the towers.

This is one of the camp loudspeakers, visible through the barbed wire. Dachau had a loudspeaker system installed as early as 1933. The SS used it to blast orders, announcements, and sometimes music across the camp as a form of psychological control. Seeing that speaker still hanging there behind the wire felt like another layer of the camp’s control system still lingering in the air.

The long line of concrete posts and electrified barbed wire stretches toward one of the guard towers. This was part of the multi-layered perimeter that sealed the camp off from the outside world. Standing here looking down the fence line, the feeling of complete isolation and control was overwhelming.

From this slightly different angle you can clearly see the three main layers of security working together: the deep ditch in the foreground, the electrified barbed-wire fence rising on concrete posts, and the guard tower watching over everything. This combination made escape almost impossible.

Even if a prisoner somehow made it past the ditch, the dogs, the electrified fence, and the guard towers with machine guns, there was still nowhere to go. Dachau was surrounded by a thick forest. Escape was designed to be almost impossible.

After the forest came this creek lined with razor wire — yet another layer of defense. On the west side of Dachau, the River Würm served as a natural boundary. Combined with the ditch, electrified fences, guard towers, and thick woods, it completed a system designed to make escape almost impossible.

This stone marker stands at the site of the crematorium. The German inscription reads:

“Crematorium Think of how we died here”

It is a simple but powerful reminder of the thousands of prisoners whose bodies were burned in the ovens just a short distance away.

This is the main room of the crematorium at Dachau. Several large brick ovens line the wall, each with its own metal stretcher for loading bodies. The scale of the room and the number of ovens made the industrial nature of the killing and disposal of human lives impossible to ignore.

This is one of the ovens inside the crematorium at Dachau. Prisoners who died from disease, starvation, beatings, or execution were brought here to be burned. Standing in front of the open doors and the metal stretcher used to slide bodies into the fire was one of the most difficult moments of the entire visit.

These are two of the four large brick ovens inside the main crematorium building (known as Barrack X) at Dachau.

The first small crematorium was built in 1940. When the death rate rose sharply, the SS constructed this larger facility in 1942–1943. The new building contained four ovens capable of burning multiple bodies at once. Standing in front of these open ovens made the industrial scale of death at the camp feel almost unbearable.

This metal grate is set low in the wall near the floor of the crematorium. The guide explained that it was likely used for removing ashes from the ovens. Seeing this small, ordinary-looking opening made the reality of what happened in this building feel even more concrete and final.

This is another set of cremation ovens inside the main crematorium building. The two large arched chambers sit side by side, with smaller clean-out doors and ash grates below.

This close-up looks straight into one of the cremation chambers. The brick interior is blackened and worn from use.

Someone had placed a small bouquet of flowers and a single flower in a vase on the floor in front of this cremation oven. In the middle of all the cold brick and iron, the simple gesture of remembrance felt deeply human and moving.

Inside the camp there is a long wall filled with the personal testimonies of former prisoners. These two short excerpts are just a small sample of the hundreds of stories visitors can read.

One describes the dreaded “Bunker” — a prison within the camp where floggings, hangings, and shootings took place, and where prisoners were locked in standing cells for weeks at a time.

The other comes from a special prisoner who lived with constant uncertainty, never knowing if the next day would bring freedom or a sudden order for liquidation.

Reading their own words made the history feel immediate and personal in a way that buildings and photographs alone never could.

Nearly all of the original prisoner barracks were destroyed after the war. Only the concrete foundations remain, laid out in long, orderly rows. There were 32 barracks in the main prisoner camp area. These empty outlines give a clear sense of just how densely the camp was packed and how many people once lived here under the constant watch of the guard towers.

The camp was surrounded by an electrified barbed-wire fence. Touching it meant almost certain death. Some prisoners, broken by the conditions, deliberately threw themselves against the high-voltage wires to end their suffering. The twisted strands still look sharp and menacing more than fifty years later.

This long white building with barred windows is the former camp prison, known as the “Bunker.” It was one of the most feared places in Dachau. Prisoners were locked in solitary cells for weeks, sometimes in tiny standing cells only 80 cm by 80 cm. Many were tortured, interrogated, or executed in the courtyard just outside these walls. Looking at it through the chain-link fence, the rows of small barred windows still feel cold and oppressive.

This is the main hallway of the camp prison, known as the Bunker. Door after door lined both sides, each leading to a solitary confinement cell. The paint is peeling, the floor is bare, and the light at the far end only makes the emptiness feel longer. Standing here, it was easy to imagine the silence, the fear, and the isolation that filled these corridors for thousands of prisoners.

This is one of only two barracks that still stand at Dachau. The original 30 accommodation barracks were built in 1937–38 and designed to hold about 200 prisoners each. By the final months of the war they were packed with as many as 1,600 to 2,000 men per building. The originals were demolished in the 1960s; these two replicas were erected so visitors can still see the scale and layout of the living quarters where so many suffered.

Inside the reconstructed barrack are the triple-tier wooden bunks where prisoners slept. Each barrack was designed for around 200 men, but by the final year of the war as many as 1,600 to 2,000 prisoners were forced into a single building. Men slept pressed against one another on these hard wooden platforms, often with only a thin blanket and almost no space to turn. Standing among the empty bunks, the overcrowding and lack of dignity felt almost physical.

This is the day room inside one of the reconstructed barracks. Large windows look out over the empty roll-call square and the foundations of the other barracks. Simple wooden tables and benches are all that furnish the space. Prisoners spent their few free hours here under constant regulation — everything had to be perfectly arranged or they risked severe punishment.

A simple row of black porcelain toilets with no partitions between them. There was no privacy here. Prisoners had to use these facilities in full view of one another, under constant time pressure and the threat of punishment. As the camp became more overcrowded, the sanitary conditions grew catastrophic and disease spread rapidly.

This vast open courtyard is the former Appellplatz, where prisoners stood for morning and evening roll call. Thousands of men lined up in perfect rows, often for an hour or more, in every kind of weather. If the count was wrong they stood even longer. Many who were already weak collapsed and died right here.

Concrete posts, high-voltage barbed wire, a deep ditch, and a guard tower. This was the multi-layered security system that surrounded the prisoner camp. Anyone who stepped into the “neutral zone” between the fence and the wall was shot without warning. The combination of electricity, barbed wire, and constant surveillance made escape almost impossible.

A lone cyclist rides along the perimeter fence toward the camp entrance. I arrived here on a tour bus with a large group of people. Seeing someone simply pedal up on a bicycle felt strangely casual — a quiet, everyday way of arriving at a place where so much evil once took place. The contrast between that ordinary freedom of movement and the high-voltage barbed wire, concrete posts, and ditch beside the path was hard to ignore.

This large white structure is the former Maintenance Building, built by the SS in 1937–38. It housed workshops, the laundry, the kitchen, and the “shunting room” where new prisoners were registered, stripped, shaved, and issued uniforms. A large inscription from Himmler once ran along the roof facing the roll-call square. Today the building contains the main historical exhibition. The International Monument stands in the open space in front of it.

This bronze sculpture is the heart of the International Monument at Dachau. It was created by Yugoslav sculptor Nandor Glid, a Jewish artist whose own family was murdered in Auschwitz and who himself survived forced labor and later joined the resistance. The monument was inaugurated on September 8, 1968.

The tangled, emaciated human figures are caught in barbed wire, their bodies twisted and stretched in despair. It stands as a powerful symbol of the suffering and dehumanization endured by the prisoners. The dates “1933–1945” mark the years of the camp’s existence. Fresh flowers are almost always left at its base.

My final photograph from the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site — and the only one I shot in color.

This stark stone memorial, topped with white pebbles, notes, dried flowers, and a palm frond left by visitors, bears the French inscription CENDRES DU CONCENTRATIONNAIRE INCONNU (“Ashes of the Unknown Concentration Camp Prisoner”). It contains the ashes of an unidentified victim of the camp and stands as a quiet, universal tribute to the nameless dead.

The tradition of placing stones on the memorial echoes Jewish mourning customs and the countless personal remembrances left here.

Seeing the big Jägermeister logo on the side of the bus made me smile right away. I was already a huge fan — I’d even scored a bottle with Dorte and her family just a few weeks earlier — so spotting that classic stag-and-cross ad felt like a perfect little sign that the day was going to be a good one.

This was the view from high up in Eric’s multi-floor building in the old athletes’ village from the 1972 Olympics. Looking out over the rows of apartments and the iconic tent-roofed stadium in the distance felt surreal — he lived right there in what had once housed the Olympians.

The 1972 Munich Massacre Site from Eric’s Window

This was the view from high up in Eric’s multi-floor building in the old 1972 athletes’ village. Looking out over the apartment blocks, he quietly pointed out the exact buildings where the Black September attack had unfolded — the massacre that killed eleven Israeli athletes and coaches.

I had no idea it had even happened until that moment. Standing there with him, seeing the locations right outside his window, made the tragedy feel immediate and real in a way no textbook ever could.

From high in Eric’s apartment you could see almost the entire Olympic Village and the tent-roofed stadium. He pointed out the exact buildings where Black September had taken the Israeli athletes hostage. I had never even heard of the Munich massacre until that afternoon.

What happened here in 1972 completely transformed every Olympics that followed. At the next Games (Innsbruck and Montreal 1976) security exploded — electric fences, thousands of armed personnel, and a permanent shift from the relaxed “Games of peace and joy” atmosphere to the heavily fortified Olympic Villages we know today. The tragedy that unfolded in 1972 is the reason athletes now live behind layers of checkpoints, snipers, and intelligence screens.

Eric took me inside the swimming complex, which was still very much alive and being used by the people of Munich. It was packed that afternoon. Standing there looking up at the Olympic diving platforms, I was struck by just how high they really were — suddenly I had the same kind of respect for those divers that I’d felt for the ski jumpers in Lillehammer.

When we came out of the swimming hall I noticed the lights were on in the Olympic Stadium. Eric said it was used all the time — it could have been for a local soccer game or even a concert. Seeing the big floodlights blazing and the stadium still alive more than twenty years after the Games made the whole Olympic Park feel like it never really shut down.

Eric told me the building was designed to look like a four-cylinder engine — and once you know that, you can’t unsee it. Standing there at night with the traffic streaking past and the round BMW logo glowing on top, the whole tower really did look like a giant engine block rising out of the Olympic Park. It was a cool piece of architecture.

This is the famous Hofbräuhaus am Platzl, Munich’s oldest and most legendary beer hall. It was originally built in 1589 by Bavarian Duke Maximilian I as an extension of the royal brewery, and the general public was first admitted in 1828 by King Ludwig I. Almost the entire building was destroyed in World War II bombings and carefully rebuilt afterward.

Eric brought me here for dinner, wouldn’t let me pay for a single thing, and we drank our beers by the liter while an Oompah band played. I had an absolute blast — Wiener schnitzel, bratwurst, and more beer than I could count.

Classic Bavarian Weisswurst served the traditional way — floating in hot water — with a big soft pretzel and sweet mustard.

Eric grabbed my camera and took this picture of me. I was holding a Maß (pronounced roughly “mahs”) — the traditional Bavarian one-liter beer mug that is the standard serving size at the Hofbräuhaus and every real Munich beer hall. Big smile, big liter of beer, and one of the best nights of the whole trip, all thanks to one of the friendliest South African I’d ever met.

One of the musicians from the live Oompah band that played the whole time we were there. Full Lederhosen, white socks, and a trumpet — pure classic Bavarian beer-hall atmosphere. Eric and I sat right in the middle of it with our Maßs while the band kept the whole place singing and stomping.

That’s the loose English translation of “Blaskapelle Reinhold” — the name written on the sign on stage with them. They were the live Oompah band playing at the Hofbräuhaus that night.

Accordion, brass, dirndls, Lederhosen, and pure Bavarian beer-hall energy.

The Hofbräuhaus is open every day from 11:00 a.m. to midnight, with the kitchen closing at 10:00 p.m. and last drinks around 11:30 p.m. The live brass bands usually play in the main hall from noon to 4:00 p.m. and again from 6:00 p.m. until closing

The long tables at the Hofbräuhaus are meant to be shared — no reservations in the main hall, you just sit down with whoever’s there. Eric and I ended up with this rowdy, laughing group of Japanese tourists who were clearly having the time of their lives. They might have been having even more fun than I was!

One of the Japanese guys from our shared table got pulled up on stage to “conduct” the Blaskapelle Reinhold. He grabbed the baton and played along while the band kept the Oompah going strong. I jumped into full concert-photographer mode and snapped this picture.

I moved around to the side for a much better shot and caught the guest conductor really getting into it with his baton, while the accordion, sax, and brass kept the Oompah going strong.

After the guest conductor’s big moment ended, the regular maestro stepped back up with baton in hand and took full command again.

After the guest conductor wrapped up and the real band took back over, I grabbed a couple of fresh ones and went full two-fisted mode with these absolute units. Pure Hofbräuhaus victory pose!

Months later when I finally developed the film, this shot of me and my new friend came out completely out of focus. I had handed my camera to one of the drunk Japanese tourists at our table, thinking he would do a great job — and instead the auto-focus, which was designed to focus on whatever was in the middle of the frame, chose the back wall instead of us. Classic pre-smartphone heartbreak. Doh!