The Mechanic

by Alan Gold

  Chasca finished her green salad while she listened to him. He was a good and decent man, she now knew, even if he was mundane; yes, decent, despite his earlier flirtation with the rump of German fascism. How easy it was to get caught up in something so utterly evil when you have nothing to fall back on, and when you think that these people are speaking on your behalf. And he’d been of enormous help in assisting her in her efforts to trace the elusive Gutman. It would have been so easy for him to take the testament at face value and leave it at that. But he’d decided to search beyond the words, and try to find out more about his grandfather through the eyes of someone whom he’d helped.

  Yes, she thought, Gottfried was right. Finding him was more difficult than finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. Joachim Gutman must have been one of the millions of European refugees who wandered the crater-ridden roads and byways of Europe immediately after the war, pushing their entire lives in front of them in their pathetic wheelbarrows or children’s prams, not so much going anywhere, as getting far away from …

  She dabbed the French dressing from the corners of her mouth, and said, ‘Well, we’ve done the best we can. A week isn’t a long while, but my gut reaction is that if he was going to be found, we would have found some trace of him by now.’

  And then he stunned her. ‘Would you like to come to my home tonight and meet my mother? I’ve discussed what we’re doing, and she said that she’d like to read the testament of this man Gutman.’

  Chasca smiled at him and reached over to hold his hand. ‘Yes, I’d love to,’ she replied.

  ‘Good. Then maybe we can fill her in with the missing details about precisely what it was that my grandfather did in the camps. All her life, she’s lived with the fact that her own father was a monster … but Gutman’s testament shows quite the opposite. And maybe we can pick up some of my grandfather’s life from when the war ended and before he was hanged.’

  Palace of Justice

  Nuremberg, Allied Occupied Germany

  June, 1946

  ‘What did your work involve,’ asked Professor Broderick.

  ‘I was a mechanic. When I worked for I. G. Farben, I was in maintenance. I took a number of courses in hydraulics at the Berlin Polytechnik, and assisted the Chief Engineer in the siting of hydraulic systems for the factories. It was when the Chief Engineer, Herr Dr. Martin Schur, was called up and was seconded and began to work for the war effort in 1938 that I was appointed Chief Mechanic, and was responsible for all the hydraulic and mechanical work of the factory.’

  ‘And when were you posted to Auschwitz?’

  ‘Posted? I wasn’t posted! You post people in the armed forces. I was a civilian. A request was made to the management of I. G. Farben to send someone to Poland where urgent and skilled maintenance work needed to be done. I was selected and went there in 1943.’

  ‘Why weren’t you drafted into the army? A man of your skills would, I’d have thought, been essential to the war effort.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir. I suffer quite badly from asthma, and so was rejected in the 1941 call-up. And furthermore, the work I was doing for the I. G. Farben group of factories was considered essential to the war effort.’

  ‘Tell me about Auschwitz. What was your most vivid impression when you first arrived?’ asked the lawyer.

  Deutch thought for a moment and nodded to himself, deep in thought, as though oblivious of the presence of prosecutors and judges and armed American guards. ‘The filth. The desolation. The complete absence of anything human.’

  His answer surprised Broderick. ‘Could you elaborate, Mr. Deutch?’

  ‘Everything seemed so mechanical. People were walking around like robots, dressed in striped prison clothes. I remember arriving at the end of October, and it was bitterly cold. There was a vicious wind blowing from the northeast. Even though I was wearing jumpers and a thick overcoat when I stepped out of the lorry with the SS men, the wind went right through me. I shivered inside. Yet on the other side of the barbed wire, I could see hundreds of prisoners in these thin striped pyjamas and these ridiculous striped caps, just walking around slowly, mechanically. Some of them were wearing yellow stars. I knew these were the Jews. Some were wearing triangles of other colours, with the letters on them signifying their country of origin; or their crime against the fatherland. The crime of being a homosexual, or of being a Jehovah’s Witness, or something else which didn’t happen to please the Führer.

  ‘Even the guards were mechanical. They shoved and shouted and bullied, but there seemed to be no life in their eyes, as though by dealing with death every day, they had somehow become a part of it.’

  The lawyer interrupted, ‘Did you know it was a death camp before you went there?’

  ‘Of course I knew. Everyone in Germany knew. You can’t keep genocide, the killing of millions and millions of people, a secret. Oh, they tried. They said that the Jews were being resettled, they were being shifted to the east, and an entire nation was being created which would have armed borders so that the Jews couldn’t get out and infect the rest of Europe. But we knew.’

  ‘And did you object to being sent there? Did you object and fight against the decision to second you when you knew Auschwitz was being used to kill people?’

  He took a sip of water and adjusted his headphones, using the time the translator took to help him think through his answers. ‘What would have been the point of objecting, Dr. Broderick? I would have been shot, and another mechanic would have been pressed into the work.’

  ‘Tell me what you did at Auschwitz … and at Sachsenhausen when you were sent there to find the fault and repair the machinery.’

  ‘Just that. I repaired machinery. Kitchen equipment, roofs, leaking drains, and at times I even managed to practice my specialty, hydraulics … whatever needed doing, I did.’

  ‘And while you were repairing this machinery, did you use slave labour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you abuse that slave labour?’

  ‘No. Quite the contrary.’

  ‘But we’ve heard from people who were employed directly by you that you were harsh and brutal and beat them. We’ve also heard testimony from one witness …’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘Marinus Flockmann, that he was in the factory where you were working when one of the slaves appointed to you caused you some minor irritation. According to Mr. Flockmann, he answered you back, or failed to do something immediately enough for your satisfaction. Mr. Flockmann swore on oath that when this happened to his bunkmate, you complained to a guard. You said that this slave you had been given was, according to his, Flockmann’s, testimony, accused by you of being lazy. That man was beaten to death right at your feet by the SS guard. Mr. Flockmann says that you showed no reaction. You had the body removed, and you continued with your work, demanding out loud that another slave be brought immediately. We’ve also heard evidence that you have personally killed men by dropping heavy tools on their heads just because they caused some minor infraction which displeased you. Would you comment on that, please?’

  ‘Would you believe anything I said in my defense?’ Deutch said quietly.

  The judge looked at him harshly. ‘Just answer counsel’s question. Please don’t ask questions yourself.’

  Deutch thought for a moment. ‘The short answer is no. As to the murders, I never committed them. Dropping tools on men’s heads? I’m not capable of that level of brutality. I couldn’t and didn’t do it. I’m sure the witnesses thought I did it, but I swear before God that they have me confused with some other man. Understand, sir, that there were many repair men, many mechanics, many slaves over many years. How could the witness identify me with certainty?

  ‘As to the other events, well, I’m sure that the event of causing that labourer’s death actually happened in front of Mr. Flockmann, but it wasn’t done by me. As I’ve told you, there were many supervisors of slave labour in the factories and the concentration camp. I’m sure he thought it was me, but it was another ma
n. Maybe another mechanic or guard or supervisor. Look, there was unbelievable brutality and cruelty in those days. Hitler had a pool of a hundred million slaves from the East. Why should the SS care if they worked a man or a woman to death? There were a hundred million more to replace them. Why feed them, when they were expendable?

  ‘But I could never do that to another human being. I swear before God that Flockmann and the others who have testified against me in the past few days are mistaken. Genuine in their belief, but mistaken. The things they said were not done by me.’

  He took a sip of water, looking around the court. ‘I never, ever treated any of the prisoners who were given to me badly. I gave them food, comfort. I eased their suffering as best as I could. Of course, I was severely constrained in how much I could assist these poor wretches. After all, the SS guards with their attack dogs were looking at everything that was going on. They knew how hard a slave should be working. And if a slave wasn’t working hard enough under my direction, then I would be blamed and punished by the commandant. But all in all, I believe I can honestly say that I treated people well. Under very difficult circumstances.’

  Broderick also glanced up, but not around the court. He looked surreptitiously at the judge to see if the impassioned plea was believed, but the judge’s face masked his feelings. So he continued, ‘I want to come on now to your work in Birkenau. The reason why you were originally arraigned and put on trial with the men from the Einsatzgruppen. Is it true that you worked on the death chambers and the ovens?’

  ‘Yes. I was ordered to.’

  ‘And could you have objected?’

  ‘Yes, but you must remember that it was late in 1944. September, I think. The ovens in Auschwitz II, Birkenau, were closed down shortly thereafter. The SS were instructed to burn as much as the evidence as was possible. All stops were pulled out to dispose of the Jews before the Russians advanced too far to hide and bury their crimes. By the end of November, it was deemed too late to burn or hide the evidence, and some of the ovens were ordered to be destroyed. Auschwitz was liberated by the Russians on January 27, 1945.

  ‘But in the weeks leading up to the evacuation, there was madness in the camp. Utter chaos. Everyone was desperate to cover his tracks. And that meant, as I’ve said, getting the ovens to work properly. They kept on breaking down. They were needed to dispose of bodies. In desperation, nearing the end of the year, I can’t remember when, but it could have been in late October or November, the SS seconded me to do the work and ensure that they were efficient.’

  Professor Broderick was reading his notes as his witness was giving evidence. But when Deutch gave such calculating information about the mass destruction of human beings, even when the war was lost, the American suddenly forgot who and where he was and snapped, ‘How could you have agreed even to set foot in such a hellhole when you must have known it was all over? Surely, for God’s sake, something deep within you must have revolted and prevented you from walking on the same earth as that charnel house. If there was an ounce of decency, of humanity, in you, surely something inside you would have screamed out that you couldn’t do it.’

  The judge looked at Broderick in astonishment. Such an emotional question from a defense lawyer? He assumed that Broderick was trying to rile his witness as some sort of defense trick. But it didn’t work because Deutch was impassive in his answer.

  ‘Either I obeyed, or I would have been shot. Either I lived and worked in hell, or I would have been killed and sent to hell. So would my wife and daughter. As the war came to an end, the SS became increasingly insane in their actions. They were taking retribution on the families of deserters, shooting them on footpaths, or hanging them from lampposts or arresting them and murdering them in SS headquarters. We all knew what those madmen were doing. We were told it by the Wehrmacht, who were terrified of them … possibly more terrified of the SS than of the Russians and the Americans. So what choice was there for me, Professor Broderick? What choice for other ordinary Germans caught up in this nightmare?’

  He waited for an answer. Deutch looked around the silent courtroom.

  ‘Well, Professor? What choice did I have?’ he asked quietly.

  Allied Occupied Germany, June, 1946

  From the memoirs of Joachim Gutman:

  ‘Of course, it’s easy to determine precisely when a war has ended when you have the certainty and perspective of history. We can look back and say with confidence, ‘It ended at such and such a time, on such and such a day as a result of such and such an event.’

  But when you’re in the middle of it, when you’re a foot soldier on a battlefield, and a commander calls out, ‘Cease firing’, you’re waiting hours, sometimes days, for information. ‘Is it really the end? What do we do now? Can we go home?’

  In Auschwitz, we knew the end was coming, but we didn’t know when. Or where. Or how. Or whether we’d be left alive in the frenzy of the Germans. Frenzy? Oh yes. In those last days, the normally efficient and precise Germans were visibly going to pieces. Screaming, shouting, barking, pushing, shoving … not against us; not because we were Jews or anything; but because they were in a terrible panic. They had to cover up their crimes. They had to destroy any evidence which might lead the Russians to suspect what the buildings at Auschwitz … and worse, Birkenau … were really used for.

  Of course, if the guards and the administration were in a panic as the Allied planes filled the sky like huge cockroaches, or the wind blew from the East and carried with it the sound of cannon fire, then we inmates were in a state of euphoria. Our emotions were almost insuppressible. Sure, we knew that we were likely to die at any moment. We weren’t stupid. We knew that we were witnesses to horrible crimes which the Nazis had committed. But we couldn’t suppress our thrill at what was happening.

  There was exultation in the barracks every night. Whispered conversations underneath blankets, guesses, debates … but along with the joy came hideous insecurity. Many of us felt not the excitement of winning a competition, or the bubbling ferment of children about to go on holiday, but a fear of the unknown.

  For those of us who truly knew the minds of the Nazis, our excitement was much more realistic. ‘Will they shoot us all before the Russians arrive? They’ll have to bury the evidence … does that include us? Where will they take us? Who’s heard of this forced march back to Germany? Can you walk that far without dying?’

  Because of my work for Hauptsturmführer Frauenfeld, I had a vague idea of what was going to happen. I’d been his amanuensis now for three days, and he seemed delighted with my work. He’d even confessed to me what the Commandant of Auschwitz was preparing to do. But he’d sworn me to secrecy, and I had no qualms about keeping his information a secret. What, after all, did I owe these other Jews? If I played my cards right, I could avoid being shot, or locked in a building which the SS were going to blow to smithereens, or being force-marched back to Germany. The Hauptsturmführer told me that he needed a witness, a Jewish prisoner witness, somebody who had worked with him over a period of years and seen the humanitarian side of his nature. He told me it was important for him to be able to prove to the Russians that he hadn’t participated in the brutality of what the other SS men had done. And because he brought me good food and coffee and treated me kindly, there was no reason why he shouldn’t choose me as his witness.

  While he stood over me with a gun to my head, it was in my interest to nod and tell him that I’d be delighted to act as the Hauptsturmführer’s referee. That, should there be a trial, I’d happily stand as a witness on his behalf. I don’t think he believed me, but it suited us both to live the fiction.

  And in the meantime, the frenetic activity of the headquarters where I turned up for work every morning became more and more chaotic. As I’ve said, the whole scene was so unusual for the Germans. Normally, they had things ordered down to the last detail. They were always so precise. Now, while they were running down corridors instead of walking; while they were burning records in braziers out in th
e open; while they were screaming orders at one another as well as at us, I simply sat in splendid isolation from all the mayhem in my comfortable attic room, hastily concocting lies in a book which I knew, in the end, would count for nothing. Ah well, it was all my part in the war effort!

  I saw the mechanic many times during each day. He was now working without supervision. Nobody was interested in repairs any more, nor in how well things worked, nor even in keeping things going. If things fell apart, there were far more important things to worry about than fixing them. So he spent his days up on the roof of the administration building doing this and doing that, while far below him, the world devolved into chaos.

  But he often used to swing on his hoist down from the gables and on to the sill of my window, tapping on the pane for me to open up. In some ways, his increasingly regular visits were dangerous for me, not because I didn’t enjoy his company, but because he was holding me up. Increasingly, the Hauptsturmführer would come upstairs to the attic at unpredictable times in order to check on how my work was progressing.

  It was during these two weeks of working on the ledger that I really got to know the mechanic. For the first time, he opened up to me, telling me about why he entered the Nazi party, why he stood on the pavements and cheered as the bully boys marched past, why he went to the rallies and stood on his seat at the end of Hitler’s speeches, arms upraised, screaming out ‘Sieg Heil’ at the top of his voice. For some reason, he seemed more relaxed as the war was ending than he’d ever been while I knew him.

  In Sachsenhausen, he was guarded and diffident; in Auschwitz he was cautious and somewhat secretive; in Birkenau, he was a co-conspirator in setting me free, but because of the circumstances, I wasn’t able to notice his mood. But now, chatting amiably to me in my eyrie, talking to me about his background and his family, he didn’t seem to be nearly as nervous as the other Germans were of the spectre of the Russians, who were now approaching rapidly, if the rumours we heard were true.