“More than a few words. Seemed like the whole Submariner Corps was going to rain down on you. Even though I’m Luftwaffe, me and the boys would have been on your side. Fucking Koenig; when he was in charge of this camp, he ran it like his own personal fiefdom, using his fucking fanatical U-boat crews and other diehards to push everyone around. He made us march like morons every day, in the rain and the cold, while he stayed warm and dry in his own cabin, being served by a bunch of cocksucking sycophants.”
Neumann laughed and shook the bombardier’s hand. “Glad you are still speaking your mind, Lieutenant. And though I knew your help wasn’t needed, I’m glad to know I still had it.”
“We Luftwaffe may be arrogant assholes, but the submariners are something else. They believe they are God’s gift to the Fatherland.”
“It’s the claustrophobia,” Neumann said. “Being stuck in a metal tube beneath the ocean is hard on the faculties.”
“Ha. Try being stuck in a flying metal tube while being bombarded by flak with Spitfires and Hurricanes shooting holes in you. That is hard on the mental faculties, I tell you.” The bombardier saluted casually, more like a greeting than a military address. “But never mind, glad you are okay, Sergeant. Take care of yourself. I have to go back and build a pyramid.”
Bruhl turned and went back to his mat while Neumann and Aachen turned and went out the door. This time, there was a large number of prisoners gathered around the hall, milling about and anxiously glancing at the door, expecting something to happen. There was a collective sigh of relief when they saw the sergeant and the corporal step outside.
Neumann waved his hands in the air to get the prisoners’ attention. “Everything is fine, gentlemen. Nothing to worry about and nothing to see, so please move on and go back to your regular duties.”
“We don’t have any regular duties,” someone shouted from the crowd, eliciting a laugh.
“Then just disperse and find something else to do. There is no excitement here today.”
The crowd muttered in disappointment and slowly began to disperse. Neumann and Aachen waited by the door as they did.
“That seemed to go well,” Aachen said finally.
“Could have gone better,” Neumann said with a shrug. “At least it didn’t get worse.”
“Yes, you only had to pull a knife on the former camp commander to stop one of his men from killing you. That wasn’t too bad.”
Neumann shrugged again, choosing to not respond to the sarcastic criticism of his underling.
“So, where did you get that knife?” Aachen asked.
“Took it off a radio operator from the 23rd Platoon. He fashioned it using one of the lathes in a workshop and was going to use it on some bunkmate he thought was cheating at cards. I convinced him that would be a bad idea and that if the Canadians caught him with the knife he would get at least two weeks in isolation.”
“If the Canadians catch you with the knife, you’d still get the two weeks.”
“The Canadians won’t catch me with anything cause I’ll probably just plant it on you,” Neumann said.
“Glad to be of service then, Sergeant Neumann.” He paused for a second, then continued. “So, I’m assuming you accused Captain Koenig and some of his men of murdering Captain Mueller?”
“I didn’t accuse him. I just asked him if they did it. I thought asking outright would the most efficient way to guage his reaction. Remember, it’s how they used to operate when he was in charge of the camp, so I was wondering if they were doing it again. Especially since a lot of people thought Mueller was a communist.”
“He wasn’t a communist. He was only a teacher trying to help some of the younger soldiers.”
Neumann looked at the corporal and sighed. “I know you thought highly of Mueller, but already a number of folks have expressed their opinions about his political leanings. And in a climate like this, sometimes someone’s opinion about someone, even though it might not be based in fact, is enough. It’s happened before and it will happen again.”
“For Koenig to do such a thing, to kill Mueller for his so-called political leanings, means more than just what it looks like—it means that he is rebelling against the command of this camp.”
“Not actually rebelling, but making a play for more power. Which is why he threatened me when I asked if he killed Mueller.”
“But why would he do that? There is no way he would be allowed to run camp again.”
“Well, there is a possibility that he sees the invasion of the continent and the despair it has caused many of the prisoners as an opportunity to push back against the present camp command. To show that whomever is in command of our camp is not as disciplined as they should be and that in order for us Germans to feel strong again, Koenig and his crew must take drastic measures. And the killing of Mueller is a message not just to the leadership of the camp and some who would support him, but to the overall population.”
Aachen tucked his hands in his pants pockets and stiffened his body as the wind blew around him. “I really don’t understand why people always seem to need to play these kinds of political machinations.”
“That’s because you have no desire for political power, Corporal Aachen. But you must realize that a crime like murder can involve many motives which may not be in your mind, but are in the mind of the person committing the crime. So while you don’t have to understand them, you have to be aware of them. And you also have to realize that some of those ideas may just be distractions. There is a good possibility that Mueller was killed for a simpler reason.”
“And that would be?”
“I have no idea,” Neumann said with a shrug. “We are very early in our investigation. Mueller was just found this morning and it’s not even lunch yet.”
“So now what?”
Neumann finished his cigarette, put it out on the side of the building, and lit up another one. “I’m assuming your surveillance on Splichal was successful? That he did make contact with someone?”
“Yes, the civilian driver. He pretended something was missing from the manifest, but I’m sure that was the contact.”
“You are probably right. No way he would come out for a small mistake like that. Anything else?”
“About the contact, not really. Although I did slip to a couple of prisoners that Splichal may be an informant for the Canadians even though you asked me not to. And when he made contact, they saw it was the truth.”
“You slipped?”
“I guess I felt a bit angry when the chef bribed me then threatened me. No doubt he’s done the same to other soldiers, probably with better success than with us. I didn’t feel that he should be allowed to do such a thing without some form of punishment.”
Neumann laughed deeply, slapping the flat of his hand against the wall of the Rhine Hall. “You claim you don’t understand how and why the game works and you just made a fantastic play. I hope those boys aren’t too rough on Splichal—we do need him as a cook.”
“I told them to leave something for us to deal with.”
“Well done, Corporal, well done.” The sergeant leaned back against the wall, laughing and enjoying his cigarette.
Aachen looked about with a smile but still fidgeted slightly. After a moment, he spoke. “So is there something we should do now about Mueller?”
“Let me finish my cigarette first,” Neumann said squinting at the sky. “And then let’s go see what the doctor’s been doing.”
11.
Back at the classroom, Mueller was no longer hanging. His body was laid out on the teacher’s desk, part of the rope still around his neck but cut in order to free him from the hook.
Despite being dead, Mueller did not look peaceful. His face was so contorted that he resembled a gargoyle: his eyes were wide with shock and his mouth was twisted with his tongue hanging out. A line of dried blood trailed from the
same side of his mouth, across his chin, and down his neck. Mueller’s shirt was also opened, revealing the front part of his torso. The skin was pale and hairless. There was not a single mark on it, save for some moles and old scars.
Standing over the body like a butler looking at a tea setting was Doctor Hermann Kleinjeld. The doctor was a tall, thin man with an aristocratic air about him. His cloak was always clean and his hair was shaved short above the ears. He resembled Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler with his wire-rimmed glasses that perched on his nose, but the good doctor was far less an intimidating and ominous figure.
Despite having to deal with a wide variety of ailments and injuries in the camp, from the basic cold and flu to sports and work injuries, from alcohol poisoning to damages caused by violent confrontations between bored camp members, he regarded almost everything with a uniformly somber, calm tone. Even as he leaned forward, probing Mueller’s mouth with his long, elegant fingers, he seemed as if he was just window-shopping for a pair of cufflinks to wear that evening.
Also in the classroom with Doctor Kleinjeld was Corporal Knaup. Knaup was not calm and collected like the doctor. He sat in one of the classroom desks, his hands shaking as he nervously smoked. He stared in horror as Doctor Kleinjeld expertly prodded and poked at Mueller’s dead body on the front desk.
Neumann entered the room and went immediately to talk to the doctor. It was Aachen who came up behind Knaup and set a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you very much for this, Aachen,” he said with sarcasm. “I’m really glad to have been of assistance to you.”
“Come on, Knaup, you’ve seen many dead bodies,” Aachen replied. “What’s another one?”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping never to see one again.”
“War’s not over yet.”
Knaup grunted. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me what was really going on? You couldn’t tell me that Mueller was dead?”
“We couldn’t tell you that Mueller was dead because anybody could have heard, even through the walls of the barracks we were standing next to. And then this room would have been filled with curious prisoners and Doctor Kleinjeld wouldn’t have been able to conduct his investigations in peace,” said Aachen.
“You could have at least told me something,” Knaup said, shaking his head slightly.
“Sergeant Neumann asked you to give a message to the doctor. And to help him,” Aachen said. “He trusted you that much.”
Knaup grunted, but did not reply. He turned to watch the doctor further inspect Mueller’s body.
Neumann stood opposite the doctor with Mueller in between them on the desk.
“Sergeant Neumann, this—” he tapped Mueller’s chest with a finger, “was a very unpleasant surprise. I liked Mueller. He was a good man, very helpful to the young lads. And to find him like this was … disagreeable.”
“That’s how I felt when Corporal Aachen and I came upon him this morning. I liked Captain Mueller as well.”
“You obviously didn’t like him enough to not leave him hanging, leave him for me and poor Knaup there to cut down.”
“Knaup will be fine. He’s been in the Wehrmacht for more than five years. He’s seen much worse than this.” Knaup shook his head, stood up, and left the room.
“Quite,” the doctor said a moment later. “Still, I don’t understand why you didn’t cut Mueller down yourself.”
“I wanted a professional to see him first.”
“You are a professional yourself, Sergeant Neumann. Or, at least you were before this war began. You could have easily dealt with this scene before I got here.”
“I meant a medical professional. I wanted someone who knew more about anatomy and injuries to look at Mueller before I stuck my nose in.”
“Yes, well, you came to the right person. Although this is very unpleasant, as I said. Captain Mueller was a good man. Shame to see him die in such a manner.”
Neumann put his hands on the desk, ensuring he wasn’t touching the body and leaned slightly forward. “So, in what manner did he die?” he asked quietly.
Doctor Kleinjeld looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Well it’s not a way I would like to go.” He took off his glasses and used them to point at Mueller’s face. “Look at the bruising around his lip.”
“Looks like someone hit him.”
“Yes.” Kleinjeld poked at Mueller’s body in several places with his pen. “But why is there no bruising on his body? Almost every rib on this side of his body is broken and I’m pretty sure there’s probably some internal damage as well. But there’s not a mark on his body.”
“That’s unusual.”
“Very. When someone is injured in this way, there is at least some bruising.”
“Unless someone beat him in a manner that does not leave much bruising,” said Neumann. “Before this war, I had a few colleagues who used rubber hosing or bags of rotted vegetables and fruit to punish certain people. Since they had no visible injuries, there wasn’t any proof of police brutality.”
“I hope you didn’t stoop to such tactics, Sergeant.”
“Waste of time and effort. There are better ways to deal with troublemakers than violence such as this.”
“But you and I both know that Captain Mueller was not the kind of man one would classify as a troublemaker. He was an educated man from a good family.”
“I’m an educated man from a good family,” Neumann said, “but I’ve been called worse, especially by members of my own good family.”
“You are certainly a different sort of fellow. No doubt the black sheep of your family,” Kleinjeld said with a slight smile. “Still, Captain Mueller was a different sort of man than you.” Kleinjeld tapped the chest of Mueller’s body again. “He was refined, respected—not the sort of man who would become the head of a local police detachment, no offence.”
“None taken. I understand. Mueller was cultured man. He would have made a terrible policeman.”
“So we agree. Having two teeth knocked out is out of character for him.”
“Two teeth knocked out?”
“Yes, two. Found one, he probably swallowed the other.”
“So he was attacked?”
“Of course he was attacked. Despite his refined demeanor, I did hear that Mueller was an excellent strategist on the battlefield. That he was quite adept at destroying enemy tanks. So that tells me he was not the kind of person to back away from a fight, if someone forced him into it.”
“So you’re saying that he was in a fight.”
“Not a fight, per se…” The doctor pointed at one of Mueller’s hands. A couple of fingers were bent at odd angles and the knuckles were cut in various places. “These injuries show that he did try to protect himself. “
“Was he rendered unconscious?”
“Possibly. Broken ribs are extremely painful. He might have passed out, he might not have.”
“And were these injuries bad enough to kill him?”
Dr. Kleinjeld pondered the question for a moment. “Not immediately. Possibly over time, but the cause of death here is obvious: asphyxiation.”
“No broken neck?” Neumann asked.
Kleinjeld shook his head. “His neck is fine, save for some bruising and abrasions due to the rope and the weight of his body.”
“So he choked to death. Because of the noose around his neck.”
The doctor gave a small shrug. “Could be. But I also found this.” Kleinjeld put his glasses back on his nose, grabbed his tweezers off the desk, and used them to pick up a small cloth, which was sitting next to Mueller’s right hand. It was crumpled and torn, with small red stains on it.
“Where did you find that?” Neumann asked, squinting.
Using his other hand, the doctor pointed to Mueller’s mouth. “In his throat.”
“His throat?” Neu
mann hissed with surprise. “That was in his throat?”
The doctor nodded. “So it’s possible that he asphyxiated because of it. Or because of the noose. Or both.”
“You can’t determine which?”
“Impossible. All I can do is look at what I saw—a dead man hanging from a hook with a rag in his throat—and determine that he probably died from asphyxiation. He could have had a heart attack as he was choking, though.”
“You can’t determine that?”
The doctor chuckled. “I’m a skilled doctor and despite being in a prisoner camp, our hospital is well-equipped and well-stocked. But I cannot, at the moment, determine with surety what exactly killed Captain Mueller. I’m pretty sure he did suffocate. But whether it was due to the noose, the cloth, or both, I cannot say.”
“What if you did further study? If we took him back to the hospital?”
“We have fifty-eight patients at the moment in the hospital. We’re in the midst of football season and with the heat, I’m expecting more. I think it would be best if we take Captain Mueller to the morgue.”
Neumann nodded and stepped back from the table. He looked at Mueller for a few seconds and then grabbed Mueller’s jacket and pulled it over his head. He stepped back, looking at the doctor.
“One more thing, Doctor Kleinjeld, if you may?” The doctor raised his eyebrows.
“Do you think Captain Mueller took his own life?”
Kleinjeld removed his glasses and rubbed the spot of his nose where they had sat. He paused for several seconds looking down at the body. He then put the glasses back on and rubbed his head.
“I’m not an expert in human psychology so I have no idea if Captain Mueller was hiding something, if he had some deep pain that he did not show the world. And, in my long medical experience, suicides can be very surprising, even to those who knew someone very well.”
“In my experience as well. But take your best guess, Doctor.”
Again, Kleinjeld paused to look at the body. After a moment, he sighed. “I doubt it. Mueller didn’t seem like the kind of person to kill himself.”
The Traitors of Camp 133 Page 9
