The 18th of November, 1944.
A cold November morning broke over the Nebraska plains.
A convoy of trucks rolled across the flat.
Empty landscape carrying something precious and unexpected.
Inside those vehicles sat women, German women, prisoners of war who had crossed the Atlantic in the darkness of a military vessel.
They had been told stories their entire lives about what happened to women captured by the Americans.
They had been warned, threatened, and shown propaganda photographs that depicted cruelty beyond imagination.
But as the gates of Camp Sutton opened before them, and the trucks came to a halt, something unexpected occurred.
There was no screaming.
There were no guns pointed at their faces.
Instead, a woman in an olive drab uniform stepped forward and she smiled.
Her name was Sergeant Kate Morgan.
And in that simple gesture of greeting, she unknowingly set into motion a series of events that would change one woman’s entire understanding of what mercy truly meant.
This is the story of Margaret Hoffman, a 29-year-old German field nurse who arrived at Camp Sutton that cold November morning carrying nothing but a coat, a small satchel of medical supplies, and a deep, unshakable pain in her lower back that would soon become the center of an unexpected lesson about humanity.
Margaret had not always been a nurse.
Before the war, she had worked in a hospital in Hamburg, a place where the smell of antiseptic and hope filled the corridors.
She had loved that work with a passion that seemed pure and uncomplicated.
She had loved the patients, the doctors, and the feeling of purpose that came with saving lives.
But the war had changed everything.
The hospital had been bombed.
Her supervisor had vanished.
Her colleagues had been reassigned or killed.
[music] and Margaret had been swept up in the machinery of war.
Assigned to a field hospital near the front lines where the work was no longer about healing and peace, but about patching up the broken bodies of soldiers destined to return to the fighting.
It was there, in those muddy trenches and collapsing tents, that the injury had occurred.
A shell had exploded near her position, and a section of a wooden framework had collapsed across her lower back.
She had fallen and the pain had been immediate and unbearable.
But there was no time for her own pain.
There were soldiers bleeding out on stretchers.
There were young men crying for their mothers.
There was work to be done.
And so Margaret had gritted her teeth, wrapped her back as tightly as she could, and continued working.
For months, she had hidden the injury.
She had not mentioned it to anyone, not to her commanding officers, not to the other nurses, not even to her own family in the letters she managed to send home.
She had simply learned to move differently, to bend differently, to stand in ways that minimize the shooting pain that would radiate from her lower spine down her legs.
She had learned to sleep on hard ground without moving.
She had learned to carry supplies in ways that kept her spine relatively straight.
and she had told herself that once the war was over, once she returned home, then she could finally seek medical attention.
But the war had not ended the way she expected.
Instead, the Americans had advanced.
The German lines had crumbled, and suddenly she found herself surrounded by soldiers in olive drab uniforms, speaking a language she could barely understand.
The capture itself had been surprisingly gentle.
The American soldiers who had found her and the other nurses huddled in a collapsed dugout had simply gestured for them to come out, to put their hands up, and to walk toward the trucks.
No one had been rough with them.
No one had shouted or threatened.
They had simply been processed, searched, and transported.
Now, as Margaret stepped down from the truck at Camp Sutton, Nebraska, she did so with great care, moving her entire body as one unit to avoid the stabbing sensation that threatened to double her over.
Her back was screaming.
It had been screaming for months, but the confinement of the truck ride, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead had made the pain almost unbearable.
She looked around at the camp, at the barbed wire fences that stretched toward the horizon, at the wooden barracks arranged in neat rows, at the American guards who stood at their posts, looking utterly bored with their job.
She expected fear to overwhelm her, but instead she found herself thinking only about whether there might be a place to lie down.
The other women were processed quickly.
They were given numbers, checked for lice and disease, and directed toward their quarters.
Margaret stood at the medical checkpoint answering questions from a doctor who spoke German with a thick American accent.
She told him her name, her age, her medical background.
She did not tell him about her back.
But when the doctor asked her if she had any injuries or health concerns, she found herself lying and saying no.
She was afraid that if she admitted to the pain, she might be separated from the other women, or worse, that she might be seen as a burden.
The medical examination was thorough but efficient.
The doctor checked her pulse, listened to her heart, looked down her throat, and asked her to bend forward slightly.
When he did, she could not help but flinch.
He noticed his name was Captain James Wheeler, [music] and he had been a surgeon in civilian life before the war.
He had the kind of eyes that had seen too much and understood more than most people would admit.
When she flinched, he did not comment on it.
He simply noted something on her file and sent her on her way.
The barracks where the German women were to sleep was a long, low building with rows of narrow cotss lined up like soldiers at attention.
Each cot had a thin mattress, a single blanket, and a flat pillow that looked as though it had been stuffed with straw.
Margaret was assigned a cot in the middle of the row, and she made her way to it slowly, aware of every eye on her and the careful way she was moving.
The other women noticed her discomfort.
One of them, a woman named Greta, who had been a nurse in Berlin, asked her if she was injured.
Margaret simply shook her head and did not explain.
She laid down on the cod, and the relief was immediate and profound.
The hard mattress, which felt like it might have been stuffed with straw and sawdust, suddenly seemed like the most comfortable bed in the world simply because she was lying down.
That first night in the camp was strange and disorienting.
[music] The darkness outside the barracks was absolute.
The sound of guards walking their routes and the distant murmur of voices from other buildings created a low soundtrack to the silence.
Margaret lay on her cot staring at the ceiling and try to process what had happened to her.
She was a prisoner of war in the United States of America.
The war was over for her, at least in any meaningful sense.
She would not be marching into battle.
She would not be standing in a tent with shells whistling overhead.
She was safe in that sense, but she was also trapped.
And her back, which had become such a constant companion over the past months, was beginning to make itself known again now that the shock and fear of capture had worn off slightly.
The pain was not excruciating at this moment because she was lying flat.
But she knew that when morning came and she had to get up, when she had to stand and walk and begin whatever work the Americans had planned for her, the pain would return and she would have to hide it again, just as she had hidden it from everyone in Germany.
Morning came too early.
A bell rang at , a sharp metallic sound that echoed through the barracks and caused every woman in the building to wake simultaneously.
Margaret pushed herself up on her elbows and immediately the pain returned.
shooting down her legs and radiating across her lower back.
She gritted her teeth and sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the cot one at a time.
Getting dressed was a process that required careful calculation.
She moved as little as possible, as slowly as possible, try to minimize the movements that triggered the worst pain.
By the time she was fully dressed and ready for the day, the other women had already formed a line to move to breakfast.
The dining hall was a large, simple building with long tables and benches.
The food that was served was basic, but more generous than Margaret had expected.
There was oatmeal, bread with butter, a cup of black coffee, and even a small bowl of fruit.
She sat with the other women and tried to eat, but her back was making it difficult to sit upright for any length of time.
The bench offered no support, and the more time she spent sitting, the more she found herself wanting to curl forward to relieve the pressure.
After breakfast, the women were assigned to their work details.
Margaret was assigned to the camp laundry along with a dozen other women.
The work was hard and repetitive.
They washed uniforms, sheets, and towels, moving heavy wet fabric from one basin to another, ringing them out, and then hanging them on lines to dry.
The bending, the [music] reaching, the constant movement and strain, all of it aggravated her back in ways that made her want to cry out.
But she did not.
She worked through the pain, gritting her teeth and reminding herself that this was her situation now, and she simply had to endure it.
The American woman who supervised the laundry was a broad-shouldered woman named Corporal Rose Hickman, who had the kind of nononsense demeanor that suggested she had done heavy physical work her entire life.
She was not unkind, but she was not particularly sympathetic either.
She simply expected the work to be done efficiently and well.
She moved through the laundry area quickly, checking the quality of the work and occasionally stopping to show one of the women a better way to accomplish a task.
One afternoon, [music] near the end of Margaret’s first week of the camp, Corporal Hickman paused beside her as she was ringing out a particularly heavy sheet.
Margaret was bent forward, her back twisted at an angle that she knew was making her pain worse, but she could not find a position that allowed her to ring the sheet without bending.
Corporal Hickman watched her for a moment and then she said something that surprised Margaret.
She said in careful simple English, “You hurt.
You go infirmary.
” It was not a question.
It was a direct statement followed by a direct instruction.
Margaret tried to deny it.
tried to wave her hand and say that she was fine, but Corporal Hickman had already turned away and was calling for one of the American guards.
She spoke to him briefly and then he came over to Margaret and told her that she should go to the infirmary to see the medic.
Margaret felt a flutter of fear.
[music] In her experience, being singled out for medical examination usually meant being separated from a group.
It usually meant being marked as weak or unreliable.
But she could not refuse a direct order.
And so she set down a sheet she was working on and followed the guard out of the laundry.
The infirmary was a small building near the center of the camp, a singlestory structure with clean white walls and a low roof.
Inside [music] the air smelled of antiseptic and soap, a familiar smell that took Marret back to her hospital work in Hamburg.
The medic was an older man named Sergeant Harold Moss, who had the kind of weathered face that suggested he had lived a long and complicated life.
He was not a doctor, but he had been trained in field medicine and he had the calm, competent manner of someone who had seen many injuries and ailments and knew how to respond to them effectively.
He asked her to sit down and then he asked her through a translator what the problem was.
Margaret found herself unable to lie anymore.
Perhaps it was the combination of pain and the familiar hospital setting.
Perhaps it was the simple kindness in Sergeant Moss’s eyes.
Or perhaps it was simply that she was exhausted from hiding the injury.
Whatever the reason, she told him the truth.
She told him about the collapse at the field hospital months ago, about the way the wooden framework had struck her lower back, about the months of pain that she had been managing by careful positioning and constant medication in her movements.
She told him that she had not mentioned it before because she had been afraid of being separated from the other women.
Sergeant Moss listened without interrupting, his expression remaining calm and focused.
When she finished, he asked her to remove her shirt and lie face down on the examination table.
Margaret did so, her face burning with embarrassment at being exposed, even in a medical context.
[music] Sergeant Moss examined her back carefully, feeling along her spine, asking her where the pain was most severe, testing her reflexes and her range of motion.
It was clear to her that he knew what he was doing and that he was concerned by what he was finding.
When he finished the examination, he helped her sit up and told her through the translator that he wanted the doctor to see her.
That doctor, he explained, was Captain Wheeler, the same doctor who had examined all of them when they arrived at the camp.
Captain Wheeler arrived within the hour, and he performed his own examination of her back.
He was gentler than Sergeant Moss, but more thorough, asking detailed questions about the nature of her pain and how it affected her movement.
When he finished, he told her through the translator that she had a significant sprain of the muscles and ligaments in her lower back, possibly combined with a compression of one of the nerve roots that ran down her spine.
He said that the injury was not new and that it had likely been made worse by the months of hard labor and the bouncing ride across the ocean.
He said that she would need rest, proper support, and some medication to help manage the inflammation.
And he said something that surprised her.
He said that American medical protocol required that she be treated regardless of her status as a prisoner of war.
Over the next several days, Margaret found herself being treated more thoroughly than she had been treated for any ailment since before the war.
Captain Wheeler prescribed her medication, a powerful pain reliever that made her slightly drowsy, but that dramatically reduced the constant ache in her back.
Sergeant Moss showed her exercises that she could do to strengthen the muscles supporting her spine and to improve her flexibility.
And then one afternoon, something happened that would stay with her for the rest of her life.
She was returning to the infirmary for a follow-up appointment when Sergeant Moss pulled her aside and led her to a small store room off to the side of the main infirmary space.
Inside, he showed her a wooden chair with a specially shaped cushion attached to the back.
The cushion was firm, but with enough give to provide support, [music] and it had been designed to cradle the lower back in a way that would keep the spine properly aligned while she was sitting.
Sergeant Moss explained to her through the translator that this was a special support cushion that had been made by one of the German prisoners who had some carpentry skills.
It had been designed specifically for her based on the shape and nature of her injury.
He said that Captain Wheeler had authorized its creation as part of her medical treatment.
Margaret stared at the chair and the cushion for a long moment, unable to process what she was seeing.
A special piece of equipment had been made for her.
her, a prisoner of war, a German woman on the wrong side of the war.
Resources had been dedicated to her comfort and healing.
She sat down carefully in the chair, and when her back settled into the support of the cushion, she felt a wave of relief so profound that tears sprang to her eyes.
The pain did not disappear entirely, but it changed.
It transformed from a constant stabbing agony into a manageable ache.
For the first time in months, she could sit upright without feeling like her spine was being slowly crushed.
For the first time in months, she could imagine a life where the pain was not the central fact of her existence.
Sergeant Moss watched her for a moment, and then he did something unexpected.
[music] He reached down and patted her shoulder gently and said in his careful German, “You feel better now?” “Yes.” She nodded, unable to speak.
“He said, “Good.
You work with us now.
We take care of our people.
The words were simple, but they carried a weight that she felt in the center of her chest.
She was being told that she was considered a person worthy of care, that her well-being mattered, that the Americans saw her not as an enemy or a burden, but as a human being deserving of treatment and respect.
The chair and cushion followed her from the infirmary back to the barracks.
The other women noticed it immediately.
One of them, Greta, asked her how she had managed to acquire such a thing.
Margaret explained about her back injury and about Captain Wheeler’s decision to authorize treatment.
Greta listened with a mixture of surprise and something that looked like envy.
She said quietly, “They’re not what we were told they would be.
” Margaret agreed.
They were not what anyone had been told they would be.
Over the following weeks, Margaret found her relationship with the camp transforming.
She was no longer assigned to the difficult laundry work.
Instead, she was given a position as an assistant in the infirmary, working alongside Sergeant Moss and helping to care for the prisoners who became ill.
[music] It was work that made sense to her, work that used her training and her skills.
And it was work that kept her in a place where she was surrounded by evidence of the Americans commitment to treating the prisoners fairly and humanely.
She saw them allocate precious medical resources to German soldiers who were sick.
She saw them document every injury and every treatment in careful records.
She saw them follow procedures and rules that were designed to protect the prisoners rather than to exploit them.
But it was not just the medical treatment that struck [music] her.
It was the small gestures, the daily acts of decency that most people might not even notice.
the guard who brought her an extra blanket when he noticed she was cold during a night shift.
The cook who saved her an extra portion of fruit because he had noticed that she was hungry and that her work was hard.
The American nurse named Elizabeth who sat with her one evening and told her through a translator about her own family back home in Kansas and about how she worried about them every day just as Margaret worried about her family in Germany.
These small acts of kindness accumulated, creating a foundation of trust and respect that Margaret had never expected to find in a prisoner of war camp.
She began to write about her experiences in a small notebook that one of the translators had given her.
She wrote about the chair and the cushion and about how sitting in it had changed her physical reality.
She wrote about the medication that had reduced her pain from unbearable to manageable.
She wrote about the care that she was receiving and about the cognitive dissonance between what she had been told to expect and what she was actually experiencing.
One entry from early December 1944 read, “I came here expecting to be treated as an enemy.
Instead, I am being treated as a person.
The chair they gave me is not just a piece of furniture.
It is a statement.
It is proof that they see me as someone worthy of comfort and care.
This is confusing.
This is frightening.
This is also the most hopeful thing I have experienced in months.
She did not know it then, but this notebook would become one of the most valuable documents of her later life.
A testament to a truth that many people refused to believe.
The fall turned to winter and the Nebraska plains transformed into a landscape of snow and cold [music] wind.
The camp took on a different character in the winter months.
The work continued, but there was a greater emphasis on staying warm and staying healthy.
Margaret worked in the infirmary more and more, and she found herself becoming indispensable to the operation.
She knew how to sterilize equipment.
She knew how to assist with simple medical procedures.
She knew how to document symptoms and understand diagnosis.
She knew how to speak German and to comfort the prisoners who became sick and frightened.
And because of all of this, she was given a small measure of respect and autonomy that the other prisoners did not have.
One day in early December, Captain Wheeler called her into his office and explained through a translator that he was considering allowing her to take on more responsibility in the infirmary.
He said that he had observed her work and that she was skilled and conscientious.
He said that if she was willing, he would like her to become the German liaison for medical issues.
Someone who could help translate and advocate for prisoners who needed medical care.
She would be given slightly better quarters, slightly better food, and a small stipen of camp currency that she could use to purchase small comforts at the camp store.
In exchange, she would be expected to work longer hours and to maintain the same standards of care and professionalism that he expected from all of his medical staff.
Margaret accepted without hesitation.
This was an opportunity not just to improve her own situation, but to help the other prisoners to serve in a capacity that made use of her training and her understanding of both cultures.
She wrote in her notebook, “I have been given a position of trust by an enemy.
I am being treated like a colleague rather than [music] a burden.
This is the most profound thing that has happened to me since I arrived in this country.
My back still hurts, but I can stand straighter now.
Not just because of the cushion, but because I’ve been given purpose and dignity.
The winter of 1944 and 1945 was a time of transformation for Margaret.
She worked closely with Captain Wheeler and the other medical staff and she began to understand the careful system that the Americans had created to ensure that the prisoners were treated with respect and fairness.
There were regulations that governed what prisoners could be made to do.
Regulations that ensured they were paid for their labor.
Regulations that protected them from abuse and mistreatment.
There were procedures that had to be followed before any punishment could be administered.
There were regular inspections by officers from the Red Cross to ensure that the camp was being run in compliance with the Geneva Convention.
Everything was documented and recorded.
Every decision was made with an awareness that there would be accountability, that someone outside the camp would be watching and checking and making sure that the rules were being followed.
This structure, this commitment to rules and fairness fascinated Margaret.
She came from a world where rules have been used as tools of oppression, where authority had been exercised through fear and violence.
Here she saw rules being used as tools of protection, as a way of ensuring that even in the midst of war and captivity, human dignity could be preserved.
She discussed this with Sergeant Moss one evening as they were finishing up a shift in the infirmary.
She asked him why the Americans bothered with all of this.
Why they devoted so many resources to caring for prisoners when they could simply have treated them poorly and no one would have stopped them.
Sergeant Moss thought about the question for a long moment before answering.
He said in careful German, “We fight this war because we believe in something.
If we forget what we believe in the moment we win, then what do [music] we win? We win nothing.
We have to remember who we are even now.
especially now.
The word stayed with her.
She repeated them to herself many times, and each time they seemed to deepen in meaning and significance.
She shared them with the other women in the barracks, and she saw them begin to process their own experiences in the camp through this new framework.
The Americans were not treating them well despite being the enemy.
They were treating them well precisely because of certain beliefs that they held about what it meant to be a human being.
What it meant to exercise power responsibly, what it meant to maintain your own humanity, even in the face of your enemy’s humanity.
By the spring of 1945, it became clear that the war in Europe was coming to an end.
News from home was difficult and confusing.
Margaret received a letter from her mother, a thin envelope that had been censored and resealed multiple times.
Her mother wrote that the city of Hamburg had been heavily bombed, that entire neighborhoods have been destroyed, that thousands of people had died.
She wrote that food was scarce and that many people were sick.
She wrote that Margaret’s father, who had been conscripted into the army years earlier, had not been heard from in months and was presumed dead.
She wrote that Margaret’s younger sister had been sent to work in a factory and that her brother was somewhere on the Eastern Front.
She wrote, “I’m glad you were safe, even if you were a prisoner.
At least I know where you are.
At least I know you are fed.
Please come home when you can.
We need you.” Reading these words, Margaret felt the full weight of her complicated situation come crashing down on her.
She was safe and fed in a prisoner of war camp in America while her family was starving and suffering in a destroyed Germany.
She was receiving medical care and kindness from the enemy while her own country was collapsing.
She could stand straighter because she was sitting in a special chair while her mother was living in ruins.
The guilt was overwhelming and she found herself unable to work for several days, unable to focus or think clearly.
It was Elizabeth, the American nurse, who finally drew her out of this darkness.
Elizabeth found her sitting alone in the corner of the infirmary one afternoon and sat down beside her.
Without words, without explanation, Elizabeth simply sat with her.
After a long time, Margaret told her about the letter, about the destruction of Hamburg, about her father’s probable death, about her mother’s suffering.
[music] Elizabeth listened without judgment.
And when Margaret finished, Elizabeth said something that Margaret would remember for the rest of her life.
She said, “The war is not your fault.
[music] You are not responsible for what has happened to Germany.
All you can do is be responsible for yourself, for your own humanity, for the choices you make going forward.
And you have made good choices, Margaret.
You have chosen to help people.
You have chosen to believe in fairness.
that matters.
As the war came to an end in May 1945, the camp was filled with contradictory emotions.
There was relief that the fighting was over, that the killing and destruction would stop.
But there was also grief and anxiety.
For the Germans, the war had ended in defeat.
Entire cities have been destroyed.
Millions of people have been killed.
And the future was uncertain and frightening.
Margaret worked through this time as a kind of emotional anchor for the other women in the camp.
They came to her with their fears and their grief and she listened and tried to comfort them as best she could.
She also advocated for them with Captain Wheeler and the other American staff, making sure that their needs were met, that they were being treated fairly, even as the camp transitioned from a wartime facility to something more like a holding facility for people waiting to be repatriated.
The decision about what would happen to the prisoners was made slowly and with considerable deliberation.
The Americans determined that German prisoners would be returned to Germany as soon as possible, but in an orderly fashion that would not overwhelm the already chaotic situation there.
Margaret was told that she would be going home, that she would be released and allowed to return to Germany.
The date of her departure was set for late June 1945.
She had less than a month to prepare for the transition back to a reality that had been fundamentally transformed by war and defeat.
As the days counted down to her departure, Margaret made a decision.
She went to Captain Wheeler and told him that she wanted to take the special chair and cushion with her when she left.
She explained that the injury to her back was permanent, that it would continue to trouble her for the rest of her life, and that the cushion had made such a difference in her ability to function that she did not want to leave without it.
She said it in a way that was humble and respectful that made clear she was not demanding anything, but simply making a request.
Captain Wheeler approved the request without hesitation.
He said that it was important to him that she understand that the care she had received at the camp was not a temporary thing, a special arrangement that ended when she left.
He said that the principles that had guided their treatment of her and all the prisoners should continue to guide her life going forward.
He said the world will try to convince you that fairness is weakness.
The world will try to make you believe that power comes from fear and from cruelty, but you have seen that it is not true.
You have experienced a different way of exercising power, a way based on respect and rules and a fundamental belief in human dignity.
Remember that.
And when the opportunity comes, act according to those principles.
On the morning of her departure, Margaret packed her few belongings into a small bag.
She included her notebook, the letters from home, and a small carved wooden figure that Sergeant Moss had given her as a parting gift.
The chair, disassembled so that it would be easier to transport, was carefully wrapped and packed into a crate that had been labeled with her name and marked for transport to Germany.
She said goodbye to Elizabeth and to Sergeant Moss and to the other American staff who had become in some sense part of her life.
They shook her hand, wished her well, and told her that they hoped she would do well in Germany and that she would remember the lesson she had learned at the camp.
The transport ship that carried her back across the Atlantic was crowded with German prisoners and a smaller number of German civilians who had been in the United States during the war.
The voyage was long and often uncomfortable.
But Margaret found herself spending the time reflecting on everything that had happened to her, everything that she had learned.
She thought about the chair and the cushion and about what it represented.
It represented a commitment to treating people well, even when there was no requirement to do so.
Even when there was every reason to do the opposite.
It represented a belief that human dignity could not be stripped away by war or by victory or by the power imbalance that comes with being a prisoner.
When a ship finally arrived in Germany, Margaret was astonished and devastated by the sight before her.
Hamburg, her home city, was barely recognizable.
Entire sections of the city had been reduced to rubble.
Whole neighborhoods had simply ceased to exist.
The destruction was on a scale that she had not fully been able to comprehend from her mother’s letters.
She made her way slowly through the ruins, following directions to the address where her mother was sheltering.
It took her hours to navigate through the broken landscape, and she had to ask for directions multiple times from other refugees who were also trying to make sense of the new geography of their destroyed city.
When she found her mother, she barely recognized her.
The woman who opened the door to the shelter was thin and aged and worn down in a way that time alone could not explain.
She had aged years and the years that Margaret had been gone.
When her mother saw her, she cried and they held each other for a long time without speaking.
Later, when Margaret told her about the camp, about the chair, about the kindness of the Americans, her mother listened with an expression of profound confusion and disbelief.
She said, “They were kind to you? Why would they be kind to you? We were their enemies.
We bombed their cities.
We killed their soldiers.” Margaret said, “Yes, but they chose to be kind anyway.
They chose to maintain their principles even though they had the power to do otherwise.
And that choice, that commitment changed everything for me.
It changed how I see the world.
Over the months and years that followed, Margaret worked to rebuild her life in the ruins of Germany.
She found work as a translator for the Allied occupation authorities, helping to bridge the communication gap between the Americans and the German population.
and she brought the chair with her, setting it up in her small apartment.
It became a symbol for her, a physical reminder of the lessons she had learned.
Every time she sat in it, she felt the support of the cushion against her aching back.
And she remembered that fairness and kindness were possible even in the darkest circumstances.
She remembered that rules and structure could be used to protect people rather than to oppress them.
She remembered that you could choose to be humane even when you had the power to be cruel.
Years later, when she was old and living in a small house in a suburb of what had become West Germany, she would tell her grandchildren about her time as a prisoner of war in America.
She would tell them about Captain Wheeler and Sergeant Moss and Elizabeth and all the others who had treated her with respect and dignity.
She would tell them about the chair and the cushion and about how something as simple as proper support for an injured back could carry such profound meaning.
She would tell them about the belief that had motivated the Americans to behave the way they had behaved.
The belief that principles mattered more than convenience, that humanity was worth preserving even in the midst of conflict.
Her grandchildren would listen with the kind of skepticism that only young people who have never experienced true hardship can muster.
They would say things like, “But the Americans also dropped bombs on Germany, didn’t they?” [music] And Margaret would say, “Yes, they did.
War is complicated.
You could drop bombs from the sky and still treat prisoners with respect.
You can be an enemy and still be capable of kindness.
The world is not divided into good people and bad people.
It is divided into people and people are capable of both cruelty and compassion.
The question is which one you choose to practice.
One day when she was in her 70s, Margaret received a letter from the United States.
It was from Elizabeth, the American nurse who had managed to track her down after decades of searching.
Elizabeth wrote about her own life, about the family she had raised, about her work in hospitals, and her continued belief in the importance of treating all patients with dignity regardless of their background or circumstances.
She wrote, “I have thought about you often over the years, and I have wondered what happened to you, whether you were able to rebuild your life, whether you carried forward the lessons we learned together in that camp.” I hope that you did.
I hope that somewhere in the world there are people whose lives are better because you chose to believe in fairness and humanity.
I hope that our experiences together mattered enough to ripple outward and touch others.
Margaret wrote back and they exchanged letters for several years before Elizabeth passed away.
But those letters were among the most precious things Margaret possessed.
They were proof that the connection she had made with an American nurse across the Gulf of War and culture had been real and meaningful and lasting.
By the end of her life, Margaret had become something of a local historical figure.
Journalists and historians sought her out to ask about her experiences as a German prisoner of war in America.
She would tell them her story and she would make sure to emphasize the same point every [music] time.
She would say, “They did not have to treat us well.
They had no obligation.
They had every reason to treat us poorly, but they chose to treat us with respect and dignity because of principles they held about what it meant to be a human being.
That choice mattered.
That choice showed me something about the world that I desperately needed to know.
And it changed me and it made me who I became.
In her final years, she established a small scholarship fund in her will.
Money that was to be given to students studying international relations and the history of the Second World War with preference given to students who were interested in understanding how different nations had treated prisoners of war and what that said about their values and their characters.
She wanted future generations to know that even in the darkest times, even in the midst of war, it was possible to choose humanity over cruelty, fairness over advantage, and principle over convenience.
When she passed away at the age of 94, her local newspaper ran an obituary that highlighted her remarkable life, her journey from captured nurse to witness for the power of human decency.
In a small museum in Nebraska near where the camp had once stood, they placed a photograph of the chair and the cushion alongside her story so that visitors could understand what they represented.
The label beneath the photograph read, “This chair was constructed by a skilled prisoner and given to a German nurse as part of her medical treatment during her captivity And
