“Stop asking me questions,” Neumann said, tiring of the game. “Send me back to my camp and let me do my fucking job.”
The major shook his head and smiled. “Suit yourself, Sergeant Neumann, it makes no difference to me. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a shit how this Mueller died. Don’t care if you killed him, someone else did, or he killed himself. Maybe after the war someone might but now, he’s just another dead Kraut. And the more dead Krauts we have in this war, the better.”
MacKay gathered up his file. “Please note, Sergeant Murray, that I attempted to interrogate the prisoner about the situation and in the end, he refused to further answer my questions.”
“Noted,” said the Canadian sergeant.
“And lock him up,” he said to Murray. The large Canadian sergeant nodded.
Within moments, Sergeant Murray was roughly shoving Neumann into a three metre by three metre concrete cell. The large Canadian guard chuckled as he shut and locked the door.
For several seconds, Neumann stood in the middle of the room, staring at the wall across from the door. The only furniture was a small twin bed with a straw mattress covered by a rough wool blanket. A metal sink and toilet were bolted to the floor. Light slanted into the room from a small window near the top of the ceiling.
He thought about the situation regarding Mueller, but pushed it aside. It was obvious that someone in the camp had killed Mueller, but there was no real rush to figure out who it was. He had done enough for one day and nobody in the camp was really going anywhere.
Besides, for the first time in more than five years, he was alone. There was no one above him, no one on the ground next to him. He sat down on the bed, smiling, enjoying the solitude and silence. He sighed, then lay down on the bed, and fell asleep.
16.
After the Canadians took Sergeant Neumann away, Corporal Aachen helped Doctor Kleinjeld and Corporal Knaup take Mueller’s body to the hospital. They fashioned a litter of sorts by removing the top of the teacher’s desk. It was heavy work—the distance between the classroom and hospital was a couple hundred metres—and a good many of the prisoners crowded around as they made their way through the camp, coming up in groups or individually to see who was dead. Many already knew it was Mueller, but were curious to see the body for themselves.
Doctor Kleinjeld attempted to order the prisoners out of the way, to give them room to travel, but to no avail. Aachen wished Sergeant Neumann was there because he had the authority, not just in his position, but in his person, to clear the crowd. But Neumann was in the hands of the Canadians and Aachen had no idea when they would release him.
So it took almost half an hour before they managed to get the body into the hospital and over to the morgue. It was there that Doctor Kleinjeld was able to prevent those with a morbid sense of curiosity from following them.
When they finally transferred the body onto a table, Knaup stepped away and collapsed on a chair, puffing and covered in sweat. Kleinjeld attended to Knaup first, offering him a drink and then calling for an orderly to get the corporal to a bed where he could rest and get some fluids in him. “Don’t let him get heatstroke, and make sure he’s completely hydrated before you let him go,” the doctor ordered. “Let him sleep if he wants. Don’t push him.”
The orderly, a slight private with a pencil-thin moustache, nodded and then led Knaup out of the room. Kleinjeld then turned to Aachen.
“How about you, Corporal? Are you feeling well?”
“I’ll be fine,” Aachen said. “It was difficult work, but my training has accustomed my body for such an effort.”
“Of course, but make sure you drink some water and get something to eat before you leave. Some fruit will be good.”
“I’ll be fine,” Aachen repeated.
The doctor nodded and the two of them stood in the room with Mueller’s body on the table between them. They silently looked at each other for several seconds. After a few moments, Kleinjeld cleared his throat.
“You do not have to stay, Corporal. I appreciate your help transporting Captain Mueller over here, but you may go.”
“With all due respect, Doctor, I believe it’s important that I remain here as you conduct your autopsy on Captain Mueller. It’s something Sergeant Neumann would have done and since he is … indisposed at the moment, it falls to me to carry out his duties.”
Doctor Kleinjeld stepped around the table and touched the corporal gently on the forearm. “I’ll be sure to mention your dedication to duty the next time I see Sergeant Neumann. But it’s better if you go.”
“I prefer to stay.”
“Well, there really is no need for you to stay because I wasn’t going to conduct the autopsy on Captain Mueller anyway.”
“But the Canadians…”
“I already know how Captain Mueller died. And so do you, so there is no need for me to cut him open, remove his organs, weigh them—all that nasty business. Best to leave Mueller in peace, don’t you think?”
“Are you sure that’s best? Won’t an autopsy better determine how and why the captain died?”
“Probably, but as I said, we both know how he died.” The doctor stepped back and moved towards the door of the room. He turned to look at Aachen. “And so does Sergeant Neumann.”
Aachen didn’t move, choosing to stay next to the table and Mueller’s body. “But you told the Canadians that Mueller killed himself. And a Canadian doctor may be called to conduct his own autopsy. Won’t he be able to tell that Captain Mueller was beaten first?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think they’ll do one. An autopsy is a lot of work and since there is already a doctor who has done some kind of investigation, they’ll probably take my word for it. And my word will say that Captain Mueller died of asphyxiation as a result of hanging. That will be enough, even for a Canadian doctor.”
Aachen stood there for several seconds, confused over what to do next, staring down at the sheet covering Mueller.
Kleinjeld rescued him from his thoughts. “You are a very dutiful soldier, Corporal. I see why Sergeant Neumann always speaks highly of you.”
Aachen waved the doctor’s compliment away then shook his head and crossed the room in three strides to stand next to the doctor.
“You are correct, Doctor Kleinjeld. I cannot stay here; I must get back to work. That is what Sergeant Neumann would have done. And since he is not here, I must report what has happened to him to command so we can determine a course of action until he returns.”
“Are you sure that is wise, Corporal?”
“And I will need your help, Doctor. I will need you to come with me.”
“I have a lot of work to do here. This weather has resulted in many heatstroke and sport injuries.”
“You must realize that since Sergeant Neumann is now with the Canadians, there are those who may look on him as an informant. And if it’s just me that files a report saying that he went unwillingly with the Canadians, that informant stigma will likely remain because I am considered a biased party, only looking to protect my direct superior. However, if you, a respected and impartial member of the camp, comes with me and confirms that Sergeant Neumann was taken by the Canadians against his will, the thought that he is an informant will be diminished.”
“No one will think ill of Sergeant Neumann. He is a great hero of the Fatherland. Nothing can diminish that. And no doubt the Canadians have reported that they have taken him into custody so there is no need for you to get involved.”
“But there are those who may look upon this situation and become suspicious of the sergeant’s actions.”
“Then it would be best if we don’t further attract their attention by doing what you suggest.”
“I only wish to help the sergeant.”
“I know that, Corporal, and I commend you for it. Again, I see why Sergeant Neumann has you as his assistant. B
ut in my opinion it’s best if we just let this stand as it is.”
“I don’t understand.”
Doctor Kleinjeld looked around and then stepped forward so he was very close to Aachen. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke. “As you said, Corporal, there are those in this camp who will be suspicious that the Canadians have taken the sergeant. However, if you and I go traipsing into their offices to claim that there is nothing suspicious about the sergeant being taken by the Canadians, it will only make things worse.”
“Why?”
“Because these are the kind of people who see suspicious things everywhere, especially in places where there aren’t any,” Kleinjeld said, lowering his voice further. “They won’t see your report as a means to exonerate your sergeant, but as your attempt to protect him. And having me there to back you up will only exacerbate the situation further and draw further suspicion on the sergeant, as well as on me and you.” The doctor stepped back. “You know I am right in this,” he said after a pause.
“But I must do something,” said Aachen.
“Well, there is nothing for you to do here. Nothing you can do for Captain Mueller and nothing you can do for the sergeant. I know it must be hard to accept that, but find something else to do to pass the time. Do some KP, train for your match, take a nap, anything, but don’t try to help Sergeant Neumann. That will be a waste of time and only hurt him in the end.”
Aachen sighed, then nodded. “Thank you, Doctor, for everything,” he said with a salute. “I will leave you with your patients.”
And before the doctor had a chance to reply, Aachen marched out of the morgue and the hospital. He grimaced as he stepped out into the harsh wind, but did his best to ignore it.
17.
Aachen was planning to take the doctor’s advice, but only part of it. He planned to do some more KP and a bit of training, but first he had another duty to perform. He walked over to one of the buildings originally designed to be a classroom that housed the German administration. Located about fifty metres directly south of the hospital, the rooms were filled with desks where various officials oversaw the operation of the camp with typical German efficiency.
Every prisoner had a file and that file not only included all the typical military information—what unit all the prisoners had served, where they had served—but also where and when they had been captured, and which building and bunk they were now housed in.
Other officials oversaw the movement of supplies, be it food, medical, recreational, or otherwise. Every single detail needed to run a camp of this size was overseen from this building. There was even another building, slightly smaller than the main administration, where every single piece of mail, incoming or outgoing, was inspected to ensure the contents were proper—not just for military purposes, but for political and social ones as well. And any inappropriate or irregular comments were severely censored as well as noted and reported for possible discipline, depending on the type of transgression.
But the room Aachen was heading for was in the back of the main administration building tucked in the northeast corner, an area of the building that rarely got any direct sun. Aachen paused outside the room, took a deep breath, and then stepped in through the door.
There was a reception desk of sorts, a wooden table devoid of papers, save for the one single sheet on which the receptionist was writing. He was an officious-looking lieutenant, thin but not skinny, his hair slicked back, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He sat erect in his chair, his posture perfect, and the only parts of his body that moved were his arm, hand, and wrist as he made notes on the sheet of paper. He wrote quickly, each pen stroke sharp and determined, like he was carving a piece of wood.
Instead of the typical prisoner outfit with the red circle on the back, the lieutenant wore a uniform similar to Aachen’s. But Aachen knew that the lieutenant had never served in the Wehrmacht. He only wore the uniform because no prisoner was allowed to wear SS or Waffen SS uniforms or insignia.
Aachen did not move close to the desk, did not let his gaze linger on the lieutenant or what he wrote, and instead stayed just inside the doorway, head erect, body somewhere between attention and at ease. He made no sound to draw attention to himself or to distract the SS officer from his task.
Even so, the lieutenant finished a line, flipped his sheet over, and set his pen parallel to the paper. He looked up, his expression empty as he gave Aachen a brief appraisal, quickly determining which card catalogue he belonged in.
“Corporal Aachen,” he said in a quiet tone.
Aachen knew better than to expect anything else—a query on why he was there, and if he needed assistance. It was assumed that anyone entering this space had a definite reason to do so and had better get on with explaining what that reason was and not waste time.
He took two steps forward, snapped to attention, and saluted. The SS officer offered only a nod in response, not a salute, not even a “Heil Hitler.”
“I’d like to report that Sergeant Neumann has been taken by the Canadians,” Aachen barked.
The SS lieutenant blinked. “This occurred at what time?”
Aachen told him. And gave a quick description of what had occurred: Mueller’s death, the arrival of the Canadians, and how they took away Sergeant Neumann. He said nothing of their discussions with General Horcoff or Captains Splichal and Koenig. The SS lieutenant took no notes of what Aachen said, again filing the information away in some type of mental card catalogue.
“We were aware of this situation, Corporal Aachen, but your report will be added to the information we presently have.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Aachen said.
“Is there anything you wish to add?”
“No, Lieutenant. I just felt you should be aware of the situation.”
“Yes. We…” the SS lieutenant paused for a second, searching for the proper word, “acknowledge that you have come here and given us this report.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“And you have nothing else to add?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
The SS officer stared at Aachen for a couple of seconds, blinked once, then flipped over his sheet, grabbed his pen, and started writing again.
Aachen saluted—the gesture went unacknowledged—turned on one foot and made to step out of the room. However, the SS lieutenant called out “Corporal Aachen”, stopping Aachen mid- step. He put his foot down, spun on the ball of that foot to face the desk, and saluted again.
“Lieutenant.”
“Our reports state that you have taken a number of classes with Captain Mueller.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I studied mathematics and physics with Captain Mueller. For my Abitur.”
“And did Captain Mueller discuss anything besides mathematics or physics in these classes?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
“No political discussions, no references to the war or situations related to life in Germany or this camp.”
“No, Lieutenant. The only real life references he discussed related to the mathematics and physics he was teaching us.”
“Please explain.”
“Since Captain Mueller was a tank commander, I recall he did discuss the calculations involved in determining the parabolas for firing the main guns and how those numbers would change during the movement of the tank.”
“He made no comment about the necessity of these kinds of attacks or criticize them in any way?”
“No, Lieutenant. He only focused on the numbers.”
“He made no political remarks at all. No criticism of the war effort, of the leadership of this camp, or of Germany as a whole.”
Aachen remembered that Sergeant Neumann told him if he was asked this question, he should say he reported the matters to Neumann. But he decided that the sergeant could be in enough trouble already. “No, Lieutenan
t.”
“You are absolutely sure.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I would report such remarks to you.”
“You mean would have reported such remarks?”
Aachen paused, but only for a second. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
The SS officer went on as if not hearing what Aachen had said. “Because such comments would be considered traitorous. Furthermore, if someone hears such remarks and fails to report them, as you well know, Corporal Aachen, then their lack of action is just as traitorous as those who speak those words.”
Aachen said nothing in response; he only stared at the wall several feet behind the SS officer.
“You do understand what I am talking about, Corporal Aachen?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“So there is nothing you wish to add to your report that you have just submitted to me?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
The SS officer stared at Aachen for a while longer. Finally, he put his head down and started to write on his sheet again. He said nothing to indicate dismissal but Aachen didn’t need him to. He saluted, and again there was nothing in return from the lieutenant, then turned on his heel and walked out of the office.
Aachen strolled out of the building as if nothing was wrong, the speed of his footsteps never wavering. It was only when he got outside that he took a breath.
18.
Aachen strode quickly away from the administration building, across the camp, through a series of barracks, and into the kitchen for another round of KP. For about an hour or so he chopped a variety of root vegetables to be used for a stew planned for that night’s dinner. Even though other prisoners whispered about him as he chopped, no one approached him or talked to him directly. Everyone kept their distance like he was some kind of pariah or a person with an infectious disease.
It was the same at the workshop building, which had been turned into an athletic training centre. Even though the place was filled with the prisoners who regularly trained there, including many he had wrestled with in the camp as well as in Africa, no one offered to spot him as he did his routine of weightlifting. No one even offered to throw a medicine ball back and forth with him. He resigned himself to bouncing the medicine ball off a wall.
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