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Swiss historical drama ‘Labyrinth of Peace’ shatters the myth of Switzerland’s neutrality in WWII
It’s Switzerland in 1945 and the war has just ended. A group of deeply traumatized, ragged-looking Jewish teenagers recently liberated from Buchenwald have been sent to live in a former Swiss school building.
A young Swiss woman named Klara cares for them, while her new husband, Johann, runs her family’s textile business, whose success is dependent on the work of unrepentant Nazis living in comfort in Swiss exile. Johann’s brother, Egon, home from the war after five years working as a Swiss border guard, is wracked by guilt for having to turn away Jewish mothers and children at the frontier. His new postwar job in the attorney general’s office: hunting down ex-Nazis.
This is the premise of “Labyrinth of Peace,” an engrossing Swiss drama set in the immediate aftermath of the Holocaust that is now available exclusively on ChaiFlicks, the Jewish streaming service in North America, Australia and New Zealand.
Shot in Switzerland and released in the country to great acclaim in 2020, the six-episode series is fraught with drama, romance and moral struggles.
“Labyrinth of Peace” is the brainchild of award-winning Swiss-Italian screenwriter and director Petra Volpe, who wanted to tell the compelling story of a little-known chapter of postwar history while also spotlighting the morally questionable role Switzerland took during and after the war.
“Switzerland wanted to show that they were on the right side of history, since they knew they had failed the Jews by locking down the country” during the Holocaust, and therefore took in Jewish refugees after the war, Volpe said in an interview from her home in Brooklyn. “When actual refugees arrived and they weren’t cute children younger than 12, and someone asked where the little boys were, the rabbi said of the youngest ones, ‘They were all gassed.’ Switzerland wasn’t happy when teenagers showed up. They didn’t treat them as nicely as they should have.”
The Buchenwald Boys, as they were called, had lost their childhoods and most of their families during the war years. More than 60,000 Jews died in Buchenwald — including my great-grandfather, after he, my grandfather and uncle were arrested on Kristallnacht and sent to the concentration camp. But some 900 youths survived and were among those liberated by U.S. forces.
Jewish refugee agencies came to their rescue, and they were sent to various sites in France, England and Switzerland for rehabilitation. “Labyrinth of Peace” turns the story of a group sent to Switzerland into an absorbing historical drama that belies the myth of Swiss neutrality and demonstrates how guilt and moral conflicts ran through families even after combat ended.
“Labyrinth of Peace” illuminates a little-known chapter of postwar history while spotlighting the morally questionable role Switzerland took during and after World War II. (ChaiFlicks)
In the series, the recently liberated Buchenwald Boys find themselves at the heart of many more interests than anyone first realizes.
One of the teens, Herschel, falls in love with the Swiss Klara, whose father’s textile factory profited handsomely during the war. The family home is rich in sumptuous detail, from silk damask wall coverings to lush oriental carpets covering the floors to the gold-rimmed Limoges tea pot from which servants pour drinks. Nearby, the Buchenwald Boys live in empty classrooms without sufficient food or clothing, after arriving in the country wearing little but rags.
In real life, the 370 or so Buchenwald Boys who were sent to Switzerland became political pawns, Volpe says. They were promised several months of rest and rehabilitation, but their stay in Switzerland was cut short when authorities in pre-state Israel told them they were going to Palestine. Most didn’t want to go; some asked to settle in Australia and others wanted to stay in Switzerland.
“Everyone just wanted to bring them to Israel and get them out of sight,” said Volpe, who is not Jewish but is married to a Jewish man. “There’s collective guilt.”
In the series, the character of Egon is based on a real Swiss border guard whose story is known from frequent letters he wrote home to his wife. Egon is introduced to viewers as he arrives home just in time for his brother’s wedding to Klara. He is wracked with guilt and anger.
“Every day he had to drag mothers and young kids back across the border and it’s killing him,” Volpe said.
Desperate for expiation, Egon gets drawn into the U.S. authorities’ search for Nazis who moved to Switzerland and are living under cover with adopted names and identities.
Meanwhile, his brother Johann — Klara’s husband — is trying to transform his father-in-law’s textile business into a success by producing a low-cost synthetic alternative to nylon. Johann touts the achievement as a pure Swiss creation, but it turns out that it’s the work of a Nazi chemist working under an assumed name in the family lab — putting Johann in a morally dubious position and creating conflict with his wife.
Many Nazis who fled Germany after the war found new lives in Switzerland, where their pasts largely were overlooked. The same happened in America, too; the U.S. government put ex-Nazi scientists to work developing military hardware and even rockets for the country’s fledgling space program.
The setting for “Labyrinth of Peace” is a verdant Swiss school where Jewish teens recently liberated from the Buchenwald concentration camp are sent to be rehabilitated. (ChaiFlicks)
“Switzerland imported the knowledge of German war criminals,” said Volpe, who grew up near Zurich, lived in Berlin for 20 years as an adult and has resided in New York for the past decade. “They tried to hire scientists from the chemical industry. Swiss economic success is based on knowledge we took from the Nazis.”
Volpe’s series shatters the notion of Switzerland’s ostensible neutrality and demonstrates how many Swiss shared in the war’s sins.
“War criminals were treated like royalty in Switzerland because they had money, and refugees were treated like criminals,” observed Volpe.
“Labyrinth of Peace” was a hit when it aired on Swiss national television, and last year won awards at several Jewish film festivals in the United States. The series is now available nationwide on ChaiFlicks, the subscription streaming service that focuses on Jewish and Israeli content.
For Holocaust Remembrance Day on April 18, the JCC of Manhattan will screen two episodes from the series followed by a Q&A with Volpe.
At the end of the series (no spoilers!), Klara and a friend are shown driving while she opens a thin book that Herschel, the eldest of the Buchenwald Boys who fell in love with her, wrote and gave her. In his introduction Herschel writes, “I have done my best to prevent what was meant to be prevented. The eradication of us and our history.”
“The main message in his diary is: ‘They didn’t erase our voice and I can still tell my story,’ Volpe said. “That’s a form of victory also, and a very important message.”
Watch “Labyrinth of Peace” here.
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Non-Jews Must Stand Up to Indifference: Antisemitism in Modern Europe
Protesters hold up placards against British Prime Minister Keir Starmer during his visit to Golders Green, northwest London, following a terror attack on April 29, 2026, in which two men were stabbed, in London, Britain, April 30, 2026. Photo: Stefan Rousseau/Pool via REUTERS
Fears and anxieties are running high among British Jews, and among Jews across Europe more broadly. There is only so long that a community can project strength and resilience while its members are being stabbed in broad daylight, and while vile antisemitic graffiti stains the walls of cities like Berlin.
At some point, the question must be asked: how much can a society tolerate before its silence becomes complicity?
This is not a theoretical concern — it is already visible in policies, media coverage, and public debate.
What is perhaps most disturbing is not only the rise in antisemitic incidents, now at record highs in many parts of Europe, but the muted response to them. Similar hatred towards other minorities would provoke outrage and sustained debate.
Yet when Jews are targeted, reactions are often subdued and short-lived. Coverage exists, but in everyday conversations and workplaces, the urgency is largely absent.
Living in Germany, I have found that antisemitism is rarely a topic of concern among non-Jews. It does not seem to stir deep emotional reactions or sustained attention. It exists, but almost in the background. This indifference is not neutral. It is part of the problem.
Many Europeans today do not personally know a single Jewish person. Their understanding of Jews is often filtered through biased media narratives.
There is a vague awareness of a connection between Jews and Israel, but little real understanding. Seen mainly through conflict and accusations, Israel often becomes a reason for disengagement. Even when Jewish co-workers may exist, their identity may remain hidden. I was reminded of this when my son told me about a Jewish boy on his football team who was mocked by teammates when they heard that one of his parents is Jewish. I encouraged my son, as captain, to confront such behavior immediately.
When I share such incidents with non-Jewish friends, they are often genuinely shocked and condemn it, unable to believe such things still happen in Germany today. For a moment, this is reassuring. Yet the concern rarely lasts as people move on with their lives.
But antisemitism is never just a “Jewish problem.” It is a societal one.
History has shown, time and again, that what begins with Jews does not end with them. Antisemitism is not an isolated prejudice; it is often a symptom of broader ideological movements that seek control and dominance. Whether in the forced religious expansions of the medieval period, the racial ideology of Nazi Germany, or modern Jihadist movements that weaponize religion, the pattern is clear: once a society tolerates the dehumanization of one group, it opens the door to the erosion of freedom for all.
This is why today’s indifference is so dangerous. It reflects not only a failure to protect Jews, but an unwillingness to confront the deeper threats.
There is yet another dimension to the issue of antisemitism that is often overlooked: the position of non-Jewish allies.
Across Europe and beyond, there are Christians, Hindus, Muslims, and other righteous individuals who stand up against antisemitism and support Israel, often at significant personal cost.
They lose friendships, face tensions within their families, and encounter hostility in their workplaces. Unlike Jewish communities, which are bound by a strong sense of shared identity and belonging in Am Israel, these allies often stand alone. They do not always have a community to turn to.
This raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: what happens to these individuals if antisemitic rhetoric continues to escalate into physical violence? Jews, despite the immense challenges, have Israel — a homeland that represents refuge and continuity. For Diaspora Jews, aliyah remains an option, however challenging it may be.
But what about those who stand with them, who have tied their moral convictions to the fight against antisemitism? Who protects them?
They may well be the next in line — not because of who they are, but because of what they represent: resistance to hatred, commitment to truth, and refusal to conform to dominant narratives.
This is the hallmark of an unhealthy society — not only the presence of hatred, but the isolation of those who oppose it.
There is a broader irony: many who champion progressive values like anti-oppression, anti-colonialism, and human rights, fail to see how their silence or selective outrage contributes to the problem. In overlooking antisemitism, they undermine the very principles they claim to uphold.
The solution is neither simple nor immediate. But it begins with something fundamental: speaking.
We must continue to talk about antisemitism. We must do it consistently and persistently. There is a lesson in the propaganda strategies of the past: repetition shapes perception. Just as the Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels demonstrated how repetition can amplify lies, it can also strengthen truth.
Silence allows distortion to take root. Speaking up on the other hand, creates the possibility of change. There is still hope that people will listen. Because the cost of silence is not only borne by Jews. It is borne by society as a whole.
Paushali Lass is an Indian-German intercultural and geopolitical consultant, who focuses on building bridges between Israel, India, and Germany.
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I Confronted the Palestinian Authority: I Saw a Culture of Fear and Discrimination Against Christians
Palestinian Olympic Committee President Jibril Rajoub, who is also the secretary-general of Fatah’s Central Committee, holds a news conference to update the media about challenges facing Palestinian sports ahead of the Olympics in Paris, in Ramallah, in the West Bank, June 12, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Ammar Awad
“Excuse me. This is not true. This is not true. Excuse me … I never supported killing civilians or kidnapping kids and women. Never! Even in the past. Okay?” shouted Palestinian leader Jibril Rajoub during an interview that I independently conducted with him at his office in Ramallah last summer.
The secretary-general of Fatah’s Central Committee, Rajoub is one of the most powerful figures in the Palestinian Authority (PA) and is widely regarded as a potential successor to President Mahmoud Abbas. Previously sentenced to life imprisonment for lobbing a grenade at an Israeli army bus, Rajoub later became infamous for torturing political dissidents during his stint as the head of the West Bank’s Preventive Security Force from 1994 to 2002.
As a 19-year-old American student living and working in the largely Palestinian Christian town of Beit Sahour, landing the interview was surprisingly easy.
After confirming a time with Rajoub’s assistant, I hopped into an orange minivan (a common form of public transportation in the West Bank), and headed to Ramallah from Bethlehem. During the ride, I asked my driver — who knew that I was scheduled to meet a Palestinian politician — what his main grievances with the PA were. He replied, “They don’t do anything for us.”
I told him that I’d bring this criticism up. He immediately blurted out, “No, don’t do that!”
At the behest of Rajoub’s assistant, I arrived at the entrance of a corporate office building in an upscale Ramallah neighborhood. Moments later, Rajoub’s assistant appeared, and I was led to a different building. Upon entering this other building, which I did not know, I was greeted by a gigantic mural of former Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) Chairman Yasser Arafat.
While waiting for Rajoub, who was half an hour late to the interview, I chatted with Fatah-affiliated staff members, who explained that the building was the meeting ground for members of the Fatah Central Committee.
As I asked Rajoub various questions — such as, “What do you think is the most legitimate criticism directed toward the PA today?” — I came to realize that he was a master at evading accountability.
Throughout the interview, Rajoub became increasingly fed up with me, often uttering phrases such as “listen” and “excuse me.” But it was when I attempted to ask Rajoub about his comments following Hamas’ terrorist actions on October 7, 2023 (which he ridiculously blamed Israel for) that he cut me off and started yelling. After I became visibly intimidated, Rajoub had the nerve to tell me, “I’m more democratic than you expect.”
As I left Rajoub’s oversized office, he asked, “Where are you going next?” After I told him that I was returning to Bethlehem, I realized my mistake. I thought, “If they didn’t know before, the PA definitely knows where I live now.”
On the drive back, I was silent and aloof. Thinking that I may be targeted by the PA, the days following the interview filled me with dread. I knew that some American citizens had been tortured by PA forces. When I volunteered at a summer camp, I told a Palestinian Christian colleague about what happened in the interview. She replied, “If we [as Palestinians] asked [Rajoub] what you did, we’d be sent to Jericho.” In the PA’s Jericho prison, Palestinians are routinely tortured.
What this experience revealed to me was that Palestinians in the West Bank live in a constant state of fear due to authoritarian PA rule, which severely restricts basic freedoms. But I quickly noticed that this culture of fear doesn’t affect each group in Palestinian society equally.
“There is a level of [discrimination] organizationally. There’s always a favoritism [toward] Muslims versus the Christians. I’ve seen that happen over and over again,” said Christy Anastas, a Christian Bethlehemite, who fled due to religious and political persecution. The West Bank’s culture of fear disproportionately affects Christians, the most vulnerable demographic.
In 1950, Bethlehem and the surrounding villages were 86% Christian. In 2017, Christians constituted approximately 10% of Bethlehem’s population and 1% of the West Bank’s.
While the number of Christians has marginally increased since the PA’s first census in 1997, the percentage of Palestinian Christians has rapidly dwindled, which is partly the result of emigration. Christian flight is the consequence of various factors, including economic hardship, political instability from the Mideast conflict, theological reasons, better opportunities abroad, corrupt and repressive Palestinian governance, and religious discrimination/extremism.
A 2020 study found that Christians are overwhelmingly worried about the presence of Salafist groups (77%) and armed factions such as Hamas (69%). Two-thirds were fearful of rising political Islam and Sharia-based PA rule. Finally, 70% reported hearing statements that Christians would “go to Hellfire,” 44% believed that Muslims don’t wish to see them in the land, and an identical percentage perceived discrimination when seeking jobs.
Additionally, Christians are commonly cursed on mosque loudspeakers. Rajoub himself has made anti-Christian comments. Unlike Muslims, who similarly experience PA repression, Christians face discrimination in many areas of daily life because of their religion.
Sometimes, anti-Christian discrimination is subtle. “As a Christian who went to an Islamic university uncovered, I used to get sexually harassed the whole time just because I had a cross and I didn’t have a headcover. I personally experienced that over and over again. It’s subtle. You can’t go up and say, ‘It’s because I am a Christian.’ You can’t prove it. That’s part of the problem,” Anastas explained. Other times, discrimination manifests in anti-Christian violence. In December 2025, Muslims severely beat a Christian man in Beit Jala. Some days later, Muslim extremists set ablaze a Christmas tree in Jenin’s Holy Redeemer Church.
However, most Palestinian Christians are afraid to speak about this discrimination.
“They will not talk about it [discrimination] publicly. They will not talk about it in groups,” said Luke Moon, Executive Director of the Philos Project. When I asked Anastas what happens when Christian-Muslim issues do occur, she told me that Palestinians are “always trying to manage it within the society, shut it down, and think, ‘It’s the Israeli occupation trying to create fractions between us.’”
Since Palestinian society perpetually aims to project a false image of unity, it’s uncommon for stories of anti-Christian violence to appear in international media. Consequently, it’s typical for these media outlets to inaccurately place the blame for Christian suffering entirely on Israel, while ignoring the problems within Palestinian society.
A 2024 study found that Christians don’t typically report incidents of harassment (or worse) to the police because it may instigate further oppression. As I questioned Maurice Hirsch, the study’s first author, about the interviews he conducted with Christians, he said that his sources “cannot be named. These people suffer the effects of PA retribution.”
Similarly, Anastas explained that the consequences of reporting discrimination are unpredictable: “Sometimes you go into Stockholm syndrome, where you’re inside an oppressive system, and you’d rather make friends with the oppressive system to be able to survive, versus try and fight it, because you never know what the consequences are. The consequences are unpredictable. Sometimes, you can get away with it. Sometimes, you can get killed for it.”
What I experienced in Ramallah was not simply an interview with a senior Palestinian official, but a glimpse into the culture of fear that operates in the West Bank. This casts a shadow on the future of Israeli-Palestinian relations.
By maintaining an atmosphere of fear, the PA undermines the possibility of reform. A society that intimidates its own citizens (and especially religious minorities), engages in torture, discourages self-criticism, and incentivizes martyrdom is not a viable partner for peace. Until this changes, moderate Palestinians won’t have the ability to create a future where values such as freedom, justice, and peace with Israel are upheld.
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What It’s Like to Be in High School and Run for Cover From Rockets in Israel
FILE PHOTO: A drone view shows people stand around apparent remains of a ballistic missile lying in the desert, following an attack by Iran on Israel, near the southern city of Arad, Israel October 2, 2024. Photo: REUTERS/Amir Cohen/File Photo
I found myself barefoot as I sprinted across a courtyard in the early hours of Shabbat, pulled from my sleep by the sound of a siren. This was not the soft, steady siren that gently welcomes Shabbat in cities across Israel. This was different — a sharp, urgent, rising and falling sound that demanded immediate shelter.
There was no time to think, or put on shoes — only to move. I ran to the nearest shelter alongside a group of others torn from their beds, my heart pounding in sync with the alarm.
I am one of 13 girls in the inaugural cohort of the Nelech Program, spending a semester of 10th grade in Israel. On Shabbat Zachor, February 28th, we were gathered for a school Shabbaton, expecting a weekend of connection and calm. Instead, we were met with uncertainty. Without our phones, we didn’t know that this siren marked the beginning of a war with Iran. We assumed it was a missile alert. But the distinction didn’t matter in that moment. A siren is a siren, and it sends you running.
That first alarm was the beginning of a Shabbat spent moving in and out of shelters, a pattern that would continue for weeks. Nelech’s goal is to give American students a glimpse into the life of a typical Israeli 10th grader. What I experienced instead was something deeper: a glimpse into the resilience of a people living in Israel during wartime.
Life quickly changed. Sirens became part of the rhythm of our days and nights, waking us up at unpredictable hours. Schools closed. Parents stayed home with their children. Public spaces like beaches, hiking trails, and movie theaters went quiet. Every outing required awareness: Where is the nearest shelter? How quickly can I get there? Gatherings were limited and celebrations were postponed or reshaped. Weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs, even daily prayers, were adapted to fit the reality that everyone learned to navigate.
And yet, throughout all of this, something remarkable revealed itself. On that first Shabbat, as we hurried in and out of the shelter, the Israeli girls comforted us. They checked in, made sure we were okay, and then, unbelievably, began to sing. Songs of emunah and “Am Yisrael Chai.” The sound of voices singing together transformed the space. Someone found an Israeli flag, and suddenly the shelter was filled not just with fear, but with strength, unity, and life.
I began to notice this everywhere. Israelis have an incredible ability to face fear with strength, and to answer uncertainty with connection. At a bat mitzvah I attended during the war, a siren interrupted the celebration. But instead of ending, the party moved into the shelter. The music continued and the dancing intensified. The joy didn’t disappear, it adapted.
There is also a strong sense of responsibility toward one another. During sirens, people open their homes to strangers without hesitation. In those moments, there are no strangers, only people who need each other.
I felt this same unity on Yom HaZikaron — Israel’s memorial day. When the siren sounds on that day, it is flat, steady, and unbroken. A sound of mourning. The entire country comes to a standstill, once at night and once during the day. Cars stop in the middle of highways. Conversations stop. For a few minutes, an entire nation, as one, remembers those who gave their lives. Everyone remembers a name, a face, a story.
On Yom Ha’atzmaut — Israel’s independence day — the same nation that stood in silence rises together in joy, honoring not just loss, but life.
Before coming to Israel, a siren was just a sound, an interruption or background noise to me. Now, it has more meaning. It is fear, but also courage. It is loss, but also unity. It serves as a reminder of both vulnerability and strength.
As I write these lines, I am still here. Yom Yerushalayim is approaching, then Shavuot. Plans are still made with a question mark. Schedules shift. The possibility of another siren is never far.
But neither is something else. People still find each other. Celebrations don’t disappear; they move, they shrink, they adjust. And when the siren fades, the singing begins again.
Aliza Pollack, from White Plains, NY and a student at SAR High School, is a participant in the Nelech Program — a unique initiative of the Ohr Torah Stone network and the Tzemach David Foundation bringing North American 10th graders to Israel for an immersive semester of living and learning.