By the time Paul Schaefer's followers had spent a decade behind the barbed wire of Colonia Dignidad, they were no longer a religious commune. They were, in the words of one former political prisoner, machines. Off. On. Off. And in 1973, when General Augusto Pinochet seized power in Chile, that machinery turned out to be exactly what he needed.
A dictator's willing tool
Pinochet had long admired Nazi Germany — his favorite general was Erwin Rommel, and he'd heard the rumors about the strange German colony to the south, a place already walled off, already wired for surveillance, already full of people trained not to ask questions. In 1974 he paid Schaefer a visit and brought a gift: mining rights to Colonia Dignidad's land. Schaefer gave him a Mercedes-Benz limousine in return. It cost so little to set the machinery of an atrocity in motion.
Schaefer had more to offer than real estate. When the United States slapped an arms embargo on Chile after the coup, Schaefer connected Pinochet with Gerhard "Georg" Mertins, a German arms dealer who'd once helped spring Mussolini from prison. Tanks, guns, rockets, and the makings of biological weapons started flowing in — some of it manufactured right there in Colonia Dignidad's underground workshops.
The professor's students
Pinochet's new secret police force, DINA, was eager to round up and interrogate his political enemies, but eager didn't mean skilled. Schaefer's colony became a training ground. DINA agents came to the colony to learn the finer points of torture from a man they called "the professor" or "the teacher" — an older German with a strange accent who wasn't satisfied with basic cruelty and kept pushing his students toward something worse.
Luis Peebles, a militia commander captured after the coup, survived to describe what happened. Blindfolded, driven for hours into the countryside, dragged down a staircase and strapped to an iron bed frame, he was wired for electroshock — throat, chest, legs, genitals — and left connected for six hours at a stretch. His captors added cattle prods, needles, cigarette burns. At one point the older man with the accent, unhappy that the torture wasn't sadistic enough, drove his own fist into Peebles' groin. Eventually the torture stopped, Peebles' clothes reappeared washed and folded, and he was returned, still blindfolded, to a naval base. He had no idea, while strapped to that grate, that men and women in traditional German dress were weeding potatoes and milking cows directly above his cell.
Other survivors came forward with similar stories — women given electric shocks to the breast and vagina, a mother held prisoner for two years after coming to collect her son from what she thought was a boys' choir trip. Amnesty International published a report in 1975 naming Colonia Dignidad as a DINA torture center; Schaefer sued for libel and, for a while, the silence held.
Where the bodies went
But the colony wasn't just a torture site. Former DINA agents and colonists eventually testified to executions — busloads of prisoners driven into the hills and shot, bodies exhumed and burned years later, their ashes dumped in the river. One former DINA agent said at least 268 political prisoners died at the colony in just four years. The Germans among them had a single, clinical instruction for what should happen to a prisoner: der Tisch. It translates as "eliminate."
Colonia Dignidad didn't just shelter Pinochet's dictatorship — it built it: colonists manufactured his regime's weapons in underground workshops, and secret police officers traveled there to be personally trained in torture by a man they called "the professor." The men strapped to electroshock racks in the basement had no idea that, in the fields directly overhead, other colonists in traditional German dress were calmly milking cows.
A boy's note, a fugitive's flight
Schaefer's downfall came not from the DINA investigations but from a note. A twelve-year-old boy named Cristóbal Parada smuggled a message out of the colony's new "intensive boarding school" to his mother: he raped me. His mother got him out, got a doctor to confirm the abuse, and got in front of Luis Henríquez, Chile's chief detective and a man Pinochet's regime couldn't buy. A warrant was issued in 1996. Schaefer vanished into the colony's tunnel network and stayed hidden for years before fleeing the country entirely, eventually resurfacing in Argentina, where he was arrested in 2005 alongside a small entourage of former colony bodyguards and nurses. Police searching his old bedroom found a trapdoor under the rug — and inside it, a cane that fired bullets and a camera that shot darts.
From torture camp to tourist stop
Schaefer died in a Chilean prison hospital in 2010, still refusing to acknowledge any of it — he even claimed, when confronted with Peebles, that he'd suddenly forgotten how to speak Spanish. The colony he built didn't die with him. It's now called Villa Baviera, a Bavarian-themed tourist resort with a beer festival, a hotel built from the old forced-labor workshops, and a restaurant in the former communal dining hall. You can rent a paddle boat. You can visit Schaefer's bedroom. People get married there. The site won't tell you about the underground torture rooms, but it does have four stars on TripAdvisor, with one reviewer noting the rooms smell a bit like cigarettes.
