In March 2005, Argentine police finally caught up with an 83-year-old man living quietly in a gated community outside Buenos Aires. He'd spent a decade dodging arrest warrants, but the world knew him by an older, stranger title: Permanent Uncle. For more than thirty years, Paul Schaefer had run what looked, from a distance, like a peaceful German farming commune in the Chilean countryside — Colonia Dignidad, the Settlement of Dignity. Up close, it was a fenced, wired, guarded compound built on forced labor, torture, and the systematic abuse of children.
A preacher's fearful gospel
Schaefer's path there started, oddly enough, with an Indiana faith healer. Born in Germany in 1921, Schaefer became fixated on William Branham, an American Pentecostal preacher who declared himself a modern Elijah, preached constant terror of nuclear annihilation, and taught a doctrine called the Manifest Sons of God — the idea that a chosen elite of believers would become literal, immortal incarnations of Christ at the end of the world. Branham's ministry would later help shape a young Indianapolis preacher named Jim Jones, whose People's Temple ended in the mass deaths at Jonestown. Schaefer studied Branham's playbook just as closely and drew the same lesson: fear plus absolute loyalty equals control.
A thin, strange résumé
Schaefer's own résumé before any of that was thin and strange. At six, trying to untangle a knot in his shoelace, he stabbed himself in the eye with a fork and lost it, earning the nickname "Glass Eye." He quit school at fourteen, was drafted first into the Reich Labor Service and then, in 1941, into the German military as a paramedic, ferrying wounded soldiers at a field hospital in occupied France. After the war he drifted from job to job as a youth leader, repeatedly fired amid quiet, rarely reported concerns about his conduct with the boys in his care. By 1959 a German warrant accused him of sexually abusing two boys. Rather than face it, he fled with a band of followers, eventually landing in Chile in 1961 after a chance meeting with the Chilean ambassador to Germany.
Building the compound
With the blessing of Chile's president, Schaefer bought a few thousand acres of land south of Santiago and began building Colonia Dignidad. What followed was total control dressed up as devotion. Children were taken from their parents and raised in a hospital ward for their first year of life. Married couples lived apart. Colonists owned almost nothing — not even their own shoes, which were locked away. Private conversation itself was forbidden: "If two are gathered, they are under the devil," Schaefer taught. "If three are gathered, they are under Jesus." Twice a day, colonists wrote the names of suspected sinners on a blackboard, and Schaefer, seated alone at a microphone, called them out one by one to confess in front of everyone.
Work was unpaid, framed as service to God, and the compound grew to more than 32,000 acres, protected by armed patrols, guard dogs, eight-foot barbed-wire fences, watchtowers, and a buried alarm system worthy of a military base. Schaefer forced women into shapeless dresses and grueling labor meant, he claimed, to burn off their supposed sinfulness, and he discouraged childbirth so thoroughly that only sixty babies were born at the colony in thirty years — none at all between 1975 and 1989.
Colonia Dignidad still exists under a new name, and you can book a stay there right now through ordinary travel sites like Expedia and TripAdvisor — a former Nazi torture compound sitting one click away from a Bahamas trip in the same search results.
Punishment behind closed doors
Punishment for even suspected disloyalty was severe. A Chilean boy named Franz Baar, adopted into the colony as a child, was accused of theft, beaten with electrical cables until his skull fractured, and then kept a drugged, controlled patient in the colony's hospital for the next thirty-one years — sedated daily, worked in the carpentry shop, and, in secret rooms numbered 9 and 14, subjected to electroshock sessions administered by a doctor who colonists say seemed to enjoy his suffering.
Schaefer also kept a rotating group of favored boys, called Sprinters, whom he drugged, bathed, and abused, unwilling to share the children's devotion with anyone — not even a myth. One December, he loaded the colony's children onto a bus, told them Santa Claus was coming to visit by raft down a nearby river, and then, as the children cheered, pulled a handgun and shot the man in the Santa suit, letting him sink beneath the water. From then on, the only holiday celebrated at Colonia Dignidad was Schaefer's own birthday.
The convent, and what came next
When a neighboring convent refused to sell its land, Schaefer's colonists cut its water, stole its animals, beat children on their way to catechism class, and eventually burned it to the ground with the nuns inside. Bribery kept Chilean officials looking the other way through all of it — the hospital, meanwhile, did real good for the surrounding region even as horrors unfolded in its off-limits wings.
By the mid-1970s, this isolated, brainwashed, self-policing colony had everything a dictator might need: a hidden compound, tunnels, soundproofed rooms, and a population trained to obey without question. That's where the story picks up next — when General Augusto Pinochet came calling, and Colonia Dignidad's leadership decided lending a hand wasn't such a hard choice at all.
