A Murder in Auschwitz
By J. C. Stephenson
Text copyright © 2013
John Craig Stephenson
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, shared in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the express permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Cover design: JC Stephenson
For Anna
Table of Contents
A Murder in Auschwitz 1
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 6
Berlin, 14th November 1929 8
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 12
Berlin, 18th November 1929 15
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 21
Berlin, 18th November 1929 23
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 26
Berlin, 24th December 1929 28
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 31
Berlin, 24th December 1929 34
Auschwitz, 25th July 1943 38
Berlin, 17th July 1930 40
Auschwitz, 30th July 1943 43
Berlin, 30th July 1930 45
Auschwitz, 17th August 1943 48
Berlin, 30th July 1930 50
Auschwitz, 29th October 1943 54
Berlin, 10th February 1931 57
Auschwitz, 1st December 1943 59
Berlin, 15th June 1931 62
Auschwitz, 13th December 1943 65
Berlin, 16th June 1931 66
Auschwitz, 3rd February 1944 70
Berlin, 2nd August 1934 71
Auschwitz, 4th February 1944 74
Berlin, 20th May 1936 77
Auschwitz, 4th February 1944 81
Berlin, 29th January 1938 82
Auschwitz, 5th February 1944 83
Berlin, 3rd May 1939 86
Auschwitz, 6th February 1944 89
Berlin, 7th November, 1941 94
Auschwitz, 7th February 1944 95
Berlin, 2nd May 1942 100
Auschwitz, 7th February 1944 104
Berlin, 19th July 1943 107
Auschwitz, 9th February 1944 109
Berlin, 20th July 1943 111
Auschwitz, 10th February 1944 113
Germany, 23rd July 1943 118
Auschwitz, 10th February 1944 120
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 122
Auschwitz, 10th February 1944 122
Epilogue 126
“We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943
MANFRED Meyer stood in line. His eyes darted from left to right as he tried to take in as much about this place as possible without standing out. Or perhaps it was fear that kept him facing straight ahead.
He did not know where he was, but he had caught a glimpse of an old railway sign from the tiny crack in the cattle truck door that he had been forced up against for most of his long journey. It had read Oświęcim. This must be Poland.
Where were his wife and daughters? Meyer’s stomach ached at the thought of them.
His eyes searched the area. Meyer turned his head slowly and tried to see behind him, but all that he could see was a mirror if what lay ahead of him; a never-ending line of men. And soldiers.
There had been brandished guns, shouted commands and pushing and pulling when they had first arrived. This had been some kind of selection process; old from young, men from women.
And then a quick march to this point. The soldiers were quiet now apart from the occasional shared joke, waiting for something.
Now Manfred Meyer waited too. With all the other men, some young, some middle-aged, some much older than Meyer. But no-one very old and no children.
Where were his children? Were they standing in a line like he was? They would still be with his wife - hopefully. At least they would be together so they wouldn’t be too frightened. His stomach turned over again at the thought of them being afraid.
It was hot. And this place stank. It was a smell he had never experienced before. It had penetrated the train even before it had stopped. The stench had overpowered the dreadful smell of sweat and urine and defecation which had filled his carriage. It was much worse.
It was a mixture of all the unpleasant, unclean, unwanted smells in the world. It was a thick loathsome odour. It sat on your tongue and forced you to taste the pollution. And there was something else. Something sweet. Meyer couldn’t put his finger on what it was but it repelled him.
Meyer’s thirst taunted him. He watched a bead of sweat slowly trickle from the hairline of the man in front. It caught on a black hair on the back of the man’s neck and hung there like dew on a blade of clean, cold grass.
Then there was a shout. Orders being conveyed from one soldier to another from the front of the line. In spite of the shouts, the line of men did not move. He tried to see what was happening but it was out of sight. He stole a glance at the two SS guards nearby.
Summer clung to the battle helmets and jackboots they wore. They carried their rifles in their hands, not slung over their shoulders, and stood in their dusty field grey uniforms with full webbing as if waiting on an attack from a crack Red Army brigade. For a moment Meyer wondered if they were perhaps afraid of the huge number of men they had in the line. If everyone charged the guards they could easily overpower them.
He tried to look down the line again but his attention was taken by the drop of sweat on the back of the man in front’s neck. It still sat on the hair. It vibrated from the heartbeat of its owner as gravity attempted to drag it to its inevitable end. Meyer watched it bulge into a teardrop and then back again to its rounded shape and although it moved infinitesimally closer to the end of the hair, it still clung on for dear life.
There was further shouting and then someone up ahead was pulled from the queue. In spite of the distance, Meyer could make out that he was wearing very smart clothes, a grey suit and a flash of a white collar. The man was gesticulating at a guard and an officer. Meyer strained to hear what was being said, but the man’s voice was carried away on a sudden breeze. Dust was blown around them all and a speck got into Meyer’s eye. Instinctively, he turned away from the direction of the wind and through his watery vision saw that his SS guards had been caught unaware by this sudden flurry of granular dirt. Together, both guards and prisoners suffered from this irritation.
Once Meyer had rubbed the dirt from his eyes he once again caught sight of the smartly-dressed man, now on his knees and holding his hands together, pleading for something. But Meyer still couldn’t hear.
The officer put his hand on the guard’s shoulder and said something that was taken away on the wind, then walked around to behind the smartly dressed man and took out his pistol. The guard moved away, pointing his machine gun at the man.
The smartly-dressed man stopped talking and his arms dropped to his side. His head bowed forward and he sat back on his legs. He looked like his life had left him already.
Meyer closed his gritty eyes and waited for the noise. He could hear the dust-filled breeze pass over his ears and he could hear the voices of soldiers talking. And then he heard the crack of the gunshot.
Meyer opened his eyes and saw that the officer had already holstered his pistol and was walking away. The smartly-dressed man lay face down in the dirt. A dark pool surrounded his head. Thank God his wife and children had not had to witness this.
Maybe family units would be re-united once they had been processed. He had heard the use of this word several times since arriving. There would be a processing of prisoners, or that there was a processing procedure.
Meyer’s attention
was once again taken by the back of the man’s neck. The drop of sweat had gone.
Now there was more shouting. Meyer hoped it wasn’t going to be another execution. He looked desperately up the line of men, but instead of a victim being pulled from the queue, the guards were gesturing to everyone to start moving forward.
Meyer’s two SS guards walked slowly closer to the line, keeping a watch along the queue, waiting for the forward movement of the prisoners to snake backwards to their position. Both of these men were young, no more than twenty-two years old and although they were both clean-shaven, the dirt and grime of the heat stuck to their faces like a beard.
Meyer watched with them, waiting for the man in front to step forward. He wanted to make sure that he was moving as soon as possible, not giving the guards any reason to single him out.
Then, to Meyer’s horror, the sweaty man in front collapsed. He fell straight down as if his legs had disappeared completely, until he was sitting in the dirt. Then he toppled over sideways.
Meyer stopped breathing. The line of men in front had started to walk away. He didn’t know if he should step over the collapsed man, or bend down and help him or stay where he was until the guards removed him.
Meyer looked to the two SS guards for guidance.
“MOVE!” screamed the closest guard. A tiny particle of spittle left his lips and landed on Meyer’s face. His comrade joined in the command before Meyer had had a chance to step over the collapsed man.
“MOVE!” came the command again, and the guard’s hand shot out to grab hold of Meyer’s arm.
He felt himself being pulled forward over the sweaty man’s body. He stumbled, and for a second he thought he was going to join the other man face down in the dirt, but he managed to keep his feet and, with the guard now shouting at the men behind him, Meyer walked quickly to catch up with the rest of the queue.
He snatched a look back and saw that the line of men was being forced to walk over the collapsed man’s body. It wouldn’t be long before he died, if he wasn’t dead already.
Meyer considered that in the past few minutes two men had lost their lives. He hoped that this wouldn’t be a pattern for the rest of his time here, before he was processed.
Berlin, 14th November 1929
MANFRED Meyer sat on a green leather bench in the cool, walnut-panelled hallway of the Bauer & Bauer Criminal Lawyers office on Potsdamer Platz. A trickle of sweat ran down his back in spite of the temperature.
He wore his whitest shirt with a dark tie, his good suit and shoes, and, after much deliberation, had his coat folded over his arm.
Meyer couldn’t get comfortable. He crossed his legs and sat back. Then uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He stood up. Walked down the hall a short distance and examined one of the portraits hanging there.
It was of an elderly gentleman in a black suit with snow-white hair and a kind face with a ruddy complexion. He was seated in an office which was wood-panelled, not unlike the hallway where Meyer now stood. The oil paint had stained over the years, and Meyer felt the urge to run a wet finger over the painting to bring up the original colours.
“Herr Meyer?”
The voice startled Meyer from his examination of the picture. He turned and saw a tall, middle-aged man half hidden by the doorway next to the bench he had been sitting on.
“Yes. Yes, I am Herr Meyer,” he replied and started to make his way towards the man.
The man stood to one side and indicated with his arm that Meyer should enter the room.
“Please come in, Herr Meyer, and take a seat. Herr Bauer will see you forthwith.”
Meyer followed the man’s instructions and entered a windowless, high-ceilinged room with a large door on the back wall and another, slightly smaller, door behind a beautifully carved desk. He looked around but could not see a chair.
The man followed Meyer in and shut the door behind him.
“I am Herr Muller, Herr Bauer’s secretary,” he said as he took his seat behind the ornate desk. Muller then noticed that Meyer was still standing.
“Please, Herr Meyer, sit. Herr Bauer will be with you soon,” and indicated with his hand a small wooden chair which Meyer had not noticed as it had been behind the open door.
“Thank you,” replied Meyer, and sat down.
Meyer decided that he should not go through the dance he performed on the bench outside and chose to sit with his legs together and his coat folded over his arms, resting on his knees.
Meyer surveyed the room while Muller occupied himself with writing at the desk and occasionally stamping and moving paper from one pile to another. There were more portraits on the cream walls as well as a mahogany clock and two different sized metal filing cabinets in one corner.
Occasionally, Muller would look up from his writing desk at Meyer, stroke his moustache and then continue with his work.
After a few minutes the large door on the back wall opened and an amiable looking gentleman filled the doorframe.
“Herr Meyer,” his voiced boomed. “How very pleasant to meet you.”
Manfred Meyer stood up and walked over to shake the man’s hand.
“Friedrich Bauer,” he announced, and took Meyer’s hand in a great paw. “Please come in.”
Meyer followed Bauer into his office. It was opulent. Beautiful paintings hung on every wood-panelled wall, and the ceiling had deep, moulded cornices and an enormous rose, from which a chandelier hung, its electric lights sparkling in the crystals. In the centre of the room, an Indian carpet covered most of the dark floorboards on which sat a desk that was even larger and more ornate than Muller’s. So large in fact, that a telephone, various ornaments, piles of papers and books, a crystal water jug with glasses, an ashtray and an inkwell with pens which sat around the perimeter of the leather insert still left vast amounts of space available for work.
Bauer made his way around the desk to take his place on the leather wing chair and indicated to Meyer to take a seat opposite on one of the much smaller but just as beautiful guest chairs.
The large man held a handkerchief to his mouth, coughed, and cleared his throat.
“Damn cough,” he apologised. “Can’t seem to shift it. Now Herr Meyer,” he continued, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket. “I have heard some very good things about you.”
Meyer smiled. He had sat as carefully as he had done in Muller’s office; legs together, his coat folded over his arms and sitting on his knees. Meyer thought that this seemed the most respectful and attentive way to sit. Then he thought that he might be thinking too hard about his posture and not concentrating on the reason that he was in this office.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” asked Bauer.
Meyer took a deep breath. This was it; his only chance.
“Herr Bauer, first of all I would like to thank you greatly for allowing me this opportunity to see you and state my case for engaging in full employment with Bauer & Bauer. As I am sure you are aware, as you are in full possession of the facts of my visit to you today, let me please start by telling you about my personal position before moving on to my professional qualifications, experience, and requirements.”
Meyer noticed that Bauer’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly and that he sat slightly forward in the wing chair. He was surprised and interested. Meyer realised that he had hit the correct note.
“I live with my wife on Zehlendorf Strasse in an apartment overlooking the market. We have been married for a year and a month and she is expecting our first baby.
“We moved to Berlin from Leipzig ten days ago with the express intention of myself gaining employment in a criminal defence lawyer firm, Bauer & Bauer being my preferred option.
“I took my law exams at Leipzig University and have been an intern at Schubert’s Law Office for the past two years. I believe that Herr Schubert and yourself are well-acquainted. He has spoken very highly about Bauer & Bauer and encouraged me to seek employment with you.”
Baue
r gave a smile which showed nicotine stained teeth with a pipe hollow.
“Yes, Franz Schubert and I are very well-acquainted. We passed through law school together.” He then chuckled and leaned even further forward in his chair and whispered, “There was the possibility of neither of us graduating. A story I may tell you some other time.” He leaned back in his wing chair and felt around in his pocket. Bauer produced a pipe and waved it at Meyer. “Do carry on Herr Meyer. Don’t mind me if I smoke.”
“Yes, Herr Bauer. So I discussed this possibility with my wife and explained how I felt that Berlin would offer many more opportunities for a prospective criminal lawyer than Leipzig might.”
Meyer watched as Bauer continued to fish around in his pockets until a pouch of tobacco was found.
“And if Frau Meyer had not wished to move to Berlin? After all, she must have been heavily pregnant?” he asked, while now searching the table for something.
“Then I would have persuaded her, Herr Bauer,” replied Meyer.
He spotted what Bauer was looking for and leaned forward to pick up a brass pipe lighter and passed it to the large, grateful hand of the old man.
There was a twinkle in Bauer’s eyes.
“Persuade her? Do you think that would have been possible? Women, especially spouses, are so very difficult to persuade, don’t you think?”
“Herr Bauer, my wife is the most intelligent woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I would not attempt to convince her of anything unless I truly believed it to be the case.”
Bauer had tucked some tobacco into his pipe and was sucking the flame from his lighter into the bowl while puffing out smoke from the side of his mouth.
“And if Frau Meyer wanted a new pair of shoes, do you think you could persuade her otherwise?”
Meyer thought for a moment before replying.
“If my wife required a new pair of shoes, I would not wish to dissuade her from the purchase.”
The old man smiled but continued his questions.
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