Deschler handed the paper back to Meyer.
“That is a very convincing description of Herr Weide, don’t you think, Herr Färber?”
“Yes, it is. It is what I saw.”
“But you didn’t mention Herr Weide’s withered arm.”
“I didn’t notice it at the time. He was escaping through the door. It was all so fast.”
“Can I ask you, how did you know he was a Gypsy?”
Färber looked over at the jury and back to Deschler again.
“Well, I suppose I just guessed. He looked like a Gypsy.”
“Yes Herr Färber, your description is an excellent one of a Gypsy. Actually, a very typical description of a very typical Gypsy. How did you know he had a moustache and brown eyes?”
Färber looked puzzled.
“I am sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”
Deschler’s smile had entirely gone now.
“How did you know what Herr Weide’s facial features were when you were not even certain if he had seen you? Herr Weide would have to be facing you for you to have seen the colour of his eyes.”
“Perhaps he did see me, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He was hurrying to get out of the house,” replied Färber.
“Oh yes, Herr Färber. It does matter. In fact, this whole case rests not on whether you saw someone running from your house, but whether they saw you. For you to be able to determine the colour of someone’s eyes, or the type of eyebrows, or the length of nose, then that person needs to be facing you, with their eyes open. You said that you were ‘unsure’ if he had seen you, but to be able to give such a detailed description you must have been staring into each other’s faces. Would you not agree, Herr Färber?”
Färber began to stumble over his words as he said that he did not know.
“In fact, Herr Färber, I suggest to you that you did not see Herr Weide in your parents' home. I suggest that there was no breakin on that day. I suggest, Herr Färber, that in fact it was you that required the money from your parents to cover gambling debts. The very same gambling debts which had only recently meant the loss of your home and, subsequently the loss of your wife. You chose a Gypsy to blame this crime on, but unfortunately for you, the police found a man fitting your schoolboy description of one; Herr Weide, thereby requiring a trial and full investigation...”
Fuhrmann the prosecutor jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “Your Honour, Herr Färber is not on trial, he is as much a victim as his poor departed parents.”
Deschler continued to talk through the interruption, his voice rising above both Furhmann’s and the judge’s.
“It would have been much better that this go as an unsolved crime, especially at this time of uncertainty while the police have much more on their plates with communists and fascists fighting in the streets!”
Finally, Judge Koehler’s voice rose above the melee.
“Herr Deschler! You will desist! Herr Färber is not on trial; this is conjecture on your part!”
Deschler apologised and sat down, while Judge Koehler indicated to the jury that they should ignore the last few statements from Deschler and asked the stenographer to strike them from the record. But the damage was done. Meyer was in awe of Deschler’s ability to manipulate the witness and the jury, twisting the story to fit his needs. He had given the jury everything that he had told Meyer they required, even an alternative suspect.
Once everything had calmed down again in the courtroom, Judge Koehler asked Deschler if he had any more questions. Deschler pushed himself back up on his stick.
“No more questions, your Honour, and no more witnesses. The defence rests.”
Fuhrmann did not follow with any questions. Meyer looked over at the prosecution bench to see Fuhrmann sitting back in his chair, flicking through the contents of a cardboard folder. Meyer was sure that Deschler had won the case and had expected to see the prosecutor furious, especially with that final ambush at the very end of the trial, but he seemed serene, possibly even resigned to the loss of the case.
Meyer sat back in his chair as if winded by a blow to the stomach. He turned his head to see Deschler’s reaction and was surprised to see calm placidity across his face. Meyer could not understand how Deschler was able to accept the verdict.
The jury had been out for two hours before returning with a majority verdict which found Prala Weide guilty of the murder of Herr and Frau Färber but not guilty of theft. The judge read out the verdict of the jury and then dismissed the court to be reconvened in four weeks’ time, at which point he would give sentence.
Prala Weide’s face had not changed when the verdict was read out. It was as if he was not in the least surprised to be found guilty. Even with Herr Deschler’s defence, which Meyer had thought was masterful, even though Herr Deschler had shown that there was no real evidence against him and had provided the jury with a possible alternative suspect, he did not seem surprised.
“I don’t understand,” said Meyer, quietly, as the court rose and Judge Koehler left the courtroom.
“What don’t you understand?” It was Deschler. Meyer had not realised that he had spoken out loud.
“I thought we were certain of winning,” he replied.
Deschler’s normally stern look softened. He had noted Meyer’s use of the word ‘we’ when talking about the loss of the case. Not ‘you’ but ‘we’.
“Help me pack up and carry these papers back to the office,” said Deschler. “You say you don’t understand the verdict? It is quite simple. We didn’t have much of a chance of winning this case, right from the beginning.”
Meyer started collecting the piles of papers and returning them to their cardboard boxes.
“What do you mean, Herr Deschler? How is it possible that we didn’t have a chance from the very beginning?”
“It is very simple, Herr Meyer. Our client is a Gypsy. The victims were from an old Berlin family as, of course, is their son. Our jury is made up of middle class Berliners. Who should they find guilty? Even if they suspect that Dieter Färber may actually have killed his parents, they would never find him guilty if the alternative is a Gypsy. Unfortunately for Prala Weide, he is a ready-made suspect, a ready-made scapegoat.”
Meyer piled two boxes on top of one another. “Then what is the point, Herr Deschler? If we can’t make a difference to the outcome of a case because of the inherent prejudice of a jury, then why do we even try?”
Deschler placed another box on top of the two that Meyer was already holding. “Because, Herr Meyer, without all of this,” he said, gesturing at the courtroom around him. “There would only be the mob. The mob dragging the first person to be accused to the nearest lamp-post and hanging them there, without any recourse, any investigation, or any attempt at justice. In Germany, we don’t hang people from lamp posts, we don’t arrest and send people to prison without first having evidence and a trial. When that happens in any civilised society, then that society has become corrupt.
“So, Herr Meyer, even with the prejudices of a German jury to contend with, we are in a much fairer society than most. And we do win. This was always going to be a difficult case, but do not lose heart, I have won such cases before and Prala Weide will be able to appeal. He may be going to prison today, but at least he will not be losing his life.”
Meyer nodded, but he felt that he had so many questions to ask Deschler, so much to learn about this career that he had chosen. He had not expected to be on the losing side that day, and he was surprised by Deschler’s attitude to the loss. For a man whose temper was never far from the surface, Deschler had been incredibly calm at the result.
Meyer followed Deschler out of the courtroom, being careful not to drop or spill the contents of his boxes.
Auschwitz, 24th July 1943
MEYER made his way back to Hut 72 with the others in the evening sunshine. Langer was nowhere to be seen.
As they walked, Meyer tried to take in more of his surroundings. Behind them was the ‘Arbeit Macht
Frei’ gate and the buildings used for the processing of the new prisoners, where only a few hours ago he had given up the last of his personal possessions for his striped uniform. Beyond were trees and blue sky.
Across the compound, to the east, Meyer could see the tops of large brick chimneys from some industrial complex which looked to be based within the camp. White smoke bellowed from them, blowing north, creating new clouds in the blue sky. Perhaps this was one of the places where the working parties were sent to each day.
Around him were a mix of wooden huts and brick barracks. The huts wore faded paint like the faded jackets of the inmates, and rustred numbers identified each building. The long brick buildings had slate roofs, and small windows peppered the walls. Some were attached by adjoining walls, restricting his view and creating courtyards and dead ends. Both types of buildings were drab and gloom-laden, even in the sunshine.
There were very few SS guards to be seen. Most of them were at the processing centre or patrolling the giant perimeter fence, although Meyer saw a group of four entering one of the brick buildings adjacent to Hut 72.
He pulled open the wooden door to his new home and felt the smothering heat of the day and the stench of human life crammed into such a space overwhelm him. Meyer pushed through the heat and stepped back into the hut, walking down to the far end, followed by the rest of the group, who took seats on the empty bunks of the still empty hut.
He turned and surveyed the interior of the building once again. If he was going to be here for any length of time he wanted to pick a spot which would be as safe and as comfortable as possible. If he was still here in the cold of the Polish winter then he needed to stay away from the walls and not be directly under a window. At the same time, the idea of being in the centre of the hut, especially if it was to become, and stay, as crowded as Langer had suggested, made him feel slightly claustrophobic and even more trapped than he already felt. The black mould on the ceiling was emanating from the easterly corner, and the two patches of white where the salts from the wood had been deposited gave Meyer a map of accumulated and sudden water leaks. He checked the bunks under these stains. They looked slightly darker than the rest of the beds. Meyer found a bunk which got light from the window but would not get a direct draught, relatively far away from the darker-coloured bunks and not at the end of the row, and sat down on it.
It wasn’t long before the door opened again and thin, weary men began to pour into the hut. There was very little talking from them as they passed up the rows of bunks to their regular resting places. The new inmates stood to one side as these colourless men passed by them without even a glance. Meyer kept his seat.
One of the first men through the door made his way towards Meyer, sat down two bunks away, removed one of his clogs, which Meyer noticed had a cloth sock inserted into it, and rubbed his toes.
As the hum of voices began to build, the man turned to Meyer and said, “You can’t sleep in that bunk. The man who sleeps there is a friend of Kapo Langer. Langer will have you killed if you start any trouble with his friends.” He then pointed to a dark-coloured broken bunk not too far away.
“That one is empty and probably the only empty bed today. The man who slept in that bunk last night did not wake up this morning.”
The hut was now rapidly filling with men. With the exception of Meyer, the new inmates were now all standing against the wall. He wondered how long it would be before they realised that there were not enough beds to go around. Meyer nodded to the man, who was still rubbing his toes and thanked him for the advice before moving down a few spaces to the broken bunk.
The wood on the bed was soft but dry, although a large crack ran the length of the bunk. This would do for the time being; at least he knew he had somewhere to sleep tonight and he could always see if there was a better bed over the next few days.
A few moments later, a man sat down on the bunk next to Meyer. As all the beds were connected together, Meyer felt his arrival as his bed dropped to one side, opening the split down the middle slightly.
At first, Meyer thought that his neighbour was almost indistinguishable from any of the other inmates; he was thin and wore the striped colourless uniform, identical to everyone else's, except for the less faded ones of the newcomers. He was doing what almost every other man was doing, removing his clogs and rubbing his feet.
He turned and stared at Meyer, looking him up and down as he separated every toe and rubbed his fingers over them.
“It is a long walk back from the forest. An even longer walk in wooden clogs,” he explained.
Meyer smiled as he realised that his own feet were sitting uncomfortably in wooden clogs. He had an urge to remove his own clogs and rub his feet as well, but he thought that this would have looked ridiculous.
“What work do you do in the forest?” he asked instead.
There was a long pause while the man returned his feet to his clogs before he replied.
“At the moment, we are digging long drainage ditches. I don’t know what for, but some think it is for a factory they are going to build. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Meyer agreed that it didn’t matter by nodding. He wanted to start getting as much information about this place as he could, so he could try and find his family. The best way to do that was to make friends with an inmate who had been here for a while.
“Would it be a factory like the one whose chimneys I can see?” he asked, pointing roughly in the chimney's direction. The man’s face fell, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
“Has no one told you yet?” he asked, “I thought Kapo Langer would have told you all. He relishes spreading terror.”
Meyer had a feeling of foreboding. He shook his head and explained that nothing had been said to them except that they would be working every day and that life would be very hard.
The man held out his hand. “Anton Geller. I was a butcher in Salzburg.”
Meyer took the man’s hand, noticing the skin was like leather, and replied, “Manfred Meyer. Lawyer in Berlin.”
“You need to understand what kind of place this is, Herr Meyer,” started Geller.
Meyer interrupted him, “Please. Call me Manfred.”
Geller smiled, revealing missing teeth from one side of his mouth. As with most of the prisoners, in their dirty, unshaven, colourless guise, it was difficult to determine how old Anton Geller was, but he looked like he was in his late forties, perhaps even in his fifties. He took a deep breath before continuing.
“Okay, Manfred. I think first of all I should explain that the chimneys you see within the camp are not part of a factory, although, as a lawyer I am sure you could argue that they are part of a factory - a factory of death.”
Meyer’s brow furrowed. What did he mean by ‘a factory of death’? What was that place if not a work camp? Geller continued his explanation.
“They are the chimneys of crematoria.”
“Crematoria? But there are four of them!” exclaimed Meyer.
“Yes,” agreed Geller, “and they work every day.”
“Every day? But how is that possible?”
Geller stared at the floor of the hut.
“It is possible,” he whispered.
“What are they burning? Is it bodies from the Eastern Front?” asked Meyer.
“No. You were brought here by train?” Geller phrased it as a question, but he already knew the answer. Everyone arrived by train. Meyer nodded.
“And then they split you up, men from women, old from young.”
Again, Meyer nodded.
“They split me up from my wife and children,” he said.
Geller rubbed his face with his hands.
“Manfred, how old are your children?”
Meyer felt his skin go cold. What was Geller going to tell him? His stomach ached and he thought he was about to vomit back up the thin gruel from earlier.
“They are thirteen. Twin girls,” he replied.
Geller could see the fear in Meyer
’s eyes and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Were they well? I mean, were they fit? And your wife?”
Meyer felt a bead of cold sweat run down the length of his spine.
“Yes, all of them were very well. They are rarely ill. Anton, please tell me. What is this place?” he pleaded.
“Manfred,” replied Geller, pausing to prepare himself for telling Meyer the truth about where he was, what his fate and the fate of his family was. Meyer’s eyes pleaded Geller for an answer to his question.
“This is a death camp.”
Berlin, 24th December 1929
LAWYERS did not work Christmas Day or Boxing Day in Germany, and the office was open only until lunchtime on Christmas Eve.
Meyer looked forward to his time with his family over the next few days. He would be able to look after Anna and Greta while Klara made preparations for Christmas lunch. But tonight was what he was most looking forward to. For the first time since arriving in Berlin, Manfred and Klara Meyer were going dancing.
A thin layer of snow lay as a sheet across the city, and Meyer could not help himself from scraping some up and forming it into a snowball before realising that he had no-one to throw it at. The cold from the snowball was beginning to penetrate his leather gloves, so he tossed it carefully into a wastepaper bin several metres away, hearing silent applause as it successfully toppled over the edge of the bin to rest amongst the day's discarded items. A woman herding two young boys along the street towards him saw this small triumph and smiled at Meyer, knowingly. Meyer smiled back and wished her a merry Christmas.
Meyer had taken to using the tram each day to get home, but today he wanted to stop by Wertheim department store on Leipziger Platz. He would get the tram home from there.
Meyer could see the sign above the door of the famous store across the street. There were some women looking in the windows, which were full of expensive dresses, hats, and shoes, pointing at the clothes which they were admiring. However, the windows which housed the toys had small crowds of children pressing up against the glass, dreaming of owning the toy trains, wooden boats, and tin soldiers, or the immaculately decorated dolls' house, miniature pram, and rocking horse.
A Murder in Auschwitz Page 5
