Meyer rubbed his forehead and as soon as he had done so, realised it was exactly what Herr Deschler did when he was thinking. He wondered what other characteristics he had picked up from Deschler. As far as the case was concerned, he was at a disadvantage; since he had assisted Deschler, he now ran his own defence in the same manner, and Deschler would read him like a book. Once Meyer had finished questioning a witness, Deschler would swoop in and destroy any progress he made.
It was Deschler’s simple story that was causing Meyer problems. There was nothing to get a hold of. Nothing to twist around and use to his own advantage. Deschler’s defences were never simple, they were complex and pulled in witness statements, police reports and testimony which he could use to build his case. Before either the prosecution or the jury knew it, everyone was making their way down the correct fork in the road. But Meyer knew Deschler’s case today had been too simple. And then it struck him.
Meyer looked up at Weber. “It was too simple.”
Weber looked blankly at him. “What was too simple?”
“Herr Deschler’s prosecution case. His story. His tale. It was too simple. Herr Deschler’s style is to take every element, no matter how little, how insignificant, and use it when required. Truth, to Herr Deschler, is only the truth when all of the elements come together, when the strings of a case play together in harmony. This makes Herr Deschler’s cases complex, not impossible to follow and you need to be led along the correct path, but they are complex.”
Weber still did not understand.
“His case today was too simple. Kolb and Pfeifer argue. Kolb kills Pfeiffer. Kolb found covered in blood, standing over the body. Kolb runs away. End of story. It is too simple for Herr Deschler. Too simple,” explained Meyer.
“So what does that mean then?” asked Weber.
“It means that Deschler has spotted something. Something that doesn’t make sense. Something that would blow his case out of the water. So he has ignored this 'something' and made the case simple. Nothing for me to get my hands on. Simple and easy for the jury to understand and convict on but nothing for the defence to dispute. What is there to dispute? Everything he has said is true. Only the continuation of the argument in the workshop is conjecture.”
“So what is it that Herr Deschler knows that we don’t?” mused Weber.
“What indeed?” replied Meyer.
Auschwitz, 13th December 1943
THE stench of the latrine block was overwhelming. Meyer attempted the impossible task of breathing without smelling, but no matter what he did the stench invaded his nose and mouth so that it almost lay as a layer on his tongue. Normally, Meyer attempted not to use the latrines. He would urinate while in the forest with the work party. He would also defecate there on the rare occasion that that was required; his body seemed to be using every bit of sustenance from the thin gruel they received each day, leaving nothing as waste.
The previous evening and all through that day, Meyer had suffered from stomach cramps. Anton Geller had helped him while out with the work party, picking the wood from the clearing floor next to him, a task which they were still required to carry out in between cutting down trees, and doing what he could so that the guards did not notice Meyer’s pain.
“You do not want to take a trip to the infirmary, my friend,” warned Geller. “You would not be making a return journey.”
Luckily, Meyer felt better being doubled over, picking up the wood, and the pain eased as the day progressed. By the time they were marching back, the pains had abated, but when they arrived back in the camp and he had eaten the thin soup, Meyer felt the pains return.
The latrines were holes in the floor of the building. The excrement filled large buckets, which were then emptied by hand by prisoners on punishment detail. It was a dirty, disgusting job, which often left them physically ill and unable to continue which led them to be taken on the one way journey to the ‘infirmary’.
Meyer felt as though the soup had passed straight through him. He cleaned himself as best he could and headed for the door, desperate for the cold, clean air outside, where he found Geller waiting for him.
“Are you alright?” Geller asked.
“Yes, but my soup has gone straight down the latrine.” Meyer held his stomach with his hand, the slight pressure easing his discomfort.
“Come on, we need to head back to the hut,” said Geller. As they began the walk back to Hut 72, they were met by several SS guards coming the other way.
“Out of the way!” one of them shouted, and pushed Meyer to the ground. Geller squeezed himself against the wall of one of the buildings as the men, followed by five prisoners who in turn were being pushed along by a further two guards with their rifles pointed at their backs, hustled past. Behind them, two SS officers casually followed, hands behind their backs chatting to one another.
Geller took Meyer by the arm and helped him to his feet as the two officers passed by. One of them suddenly stopped and turned.
“Wait!” came the command.
Meyer felt his heart stop. He did everything possible to keep a low profile from the kapos and the guards. He had seen men being shot for reasons as simple as soiling themselves when they were ill, or simply getting in the way of the guards while they were walking. Geller and Meyer stood still.
“Turn around,” came a further command.
Meyer and Geller turned to face the two officers. They were immaculately dressed in field grey uniforms with polished black jack boots. The silver death's-head badge on their peaked caps sparkled in the winter sun, as did their tunic buttons, which matched the silver threaded SS version of the Third Reich eagle worn on their upper arms.
Neither of the officers spoke, but one of them began to slowly walk back towards them, his eyes boring into Meyer’s. When he was a metre away, he opened his mouth to speak but was immediately interrupted by rifle shots behind him. Beyond the officers, the five prisoners had been lined up against a wall and executed. Smoke and dust and cordite filled the air, obscuring the fallen bodies. The officer looked annoyed at the interruption, and then stepped even closer to Meyer.
“I know you,” he said, very quietly. The officer’s breath left his mouth like smoke.
Meyer was astonished. He knew him? He searched his memory for any SS officers he had met in the past few years, but he was certain he had never known this one.
“Before the war. I was your client.”
Meyer searched his memory. Before the war. Before the war? And then it struck him. “Kolb? Wolfgang Kolb?” he whispered.
The SS officer’s eyes gave nothing away. “I am Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb, Manfred Meyer.”
Berlin, 16th June 1931
IT was a restless night. Meyer was too hot and kicked the sheets from his legs in an attempt to cool down in the lazy draught from the open window.
He opened his eyes and watched Klara’s beautiful sleeping face in the pale moonlight. She was so peaceful it made him melt. Her breathing was slow and deep, and he felt himself matching it. His eyes closed, and he was aware that he was drifting off to sleep again. His thoughts turned to memories, turned to dreams.
It was their wedding day. They had had their celebration, a Jewish wedding for Klara’s mother. It was time to leave the guests behind and Klara’s brother Karl was giving them something. The box. It was a traditional peasant gift. An empty wooden box to put their memories in. It had an outsize keyhole, triangular in shape. A triangular hole with another inverted triangular metal pin inside. Karl handed them the key. A special key for their memories he said. It was the only one which would fit. The only one. The only key which would fit that hole.
Meyer sat up in bed. It was the murder weapon. It did not fit.
Weber stood at his door, rubbing his eyes and holding on to his blue and white striped pyjama bottoms, which were far too big for him.
“Manfred? What time is it?” he yawned.
Meyer pushed past him into Weber’s apartment. “It’s five-thirty. Let me
get some coffee on for you.”
“Has Klara finally had enough? Has she thrown you out?” asked Weber, as he shuffled after Meyer. Meyer ignored him and stoked up his stove.
“I know what Deschler knows,” he said. “It came to me in the middle of the night.”
Weber slumped down in his old leather chair. The springs had broken and the webbing had fallen out of the bottom, but he had continued to fill the sinking seat with various cushions. The morning sun danced in shafts of light to the music of the curtains moving in the breeze from his open window.
“What is wrong with your stove?” asked Meyer, holding his hand against it to check the heat.
Weber pointed at a lever underneath the firebox. “Push that down. It lets in more air.”
Meyer pushed down the lever and the fire burst into life.
“You need to get dressed. We have some errands to run this morning before court,” said Meyer.
Weber looked pained. He pushed himself out of the comfortable chair and shuffled through to his bedroom.
By the time he returned, the coffee pot was hot and Meyer was pouring the black liquid into two mismatched cups. Weber threw himself back into his chair and gratefully took the steaming cup from Meyer.
“You know, I didn’t drink coffee before I started at Bauer & Bauer,” remarked Meyer, with a smile.
Weber took a sip from the hot cup. “So, Manfred, now that you have dragged me out of bed at some ungodly hour, forced me to get dressed with my eyes half closed and made me drink last night’s coffee heated up again, can I ask why?”
Meyer rolled his eyes upwards. “I told you that already. When I arrived.”
“You did?” Weber looked confused.
“I know what Deschler is doing. I know why he has kept the prosecution so simple. I know what it is that he is trying to hide. I know what Deschler knows.”
Weber sat up straight in his chair. “Why didn’t you say this when you arrived?”
“I did,” replied Meyer.
“So, is this a secret to be kept from me too?” continued Weber, making Meyer laugh out loud.
“I’m sorry, Otto. It came to me in the middle of the night. Deschler simply brushed over it. I can’t believe we didn’t see the significance of it right from the start. The murder weapon, Otto.”
Weber raised his eyebrows. “The weapon itself wasn’t determined, but in an upholstery workshop there is a multitude of possible weapons. There was a whole row of scissors hanging up right next to Pfeiffer's body.”
“You are right, Otto, in an upholsterers there are plenty of sharp implements which could be used as a weapon. But only one which could make a wound that shape. Come on, finish your coffee. There is an upholstery company just round the corner from here, where the upholsterer has his apartment above the workshop. Let’s get him out of bed.”
The courtroom was silent as Wolfgang Kolb took the witness stand. Deschler had warned Meyer that it was always a risk having your client take the stand. Legally, the prosecution could not call the defendant. Only the defence could do that. However, once the defendant was on the stand and the defence had concluded their cross-examination, then the prosecution could have a field day. On the other hand, it allowed the defendant to tell their story and the jury to hear the voice of the man that they may be sending to prison, or perhaps even to his death.
As Kolb took the oath, Meyer glanced over at Deschler. He was impossible to read. It was one of the things that made him such an extraordinary lawyer. Meyer took to his feet with the list of events which Deschler had made so simple to follow.
“Herr Kolb, can you tell me why you were working late on a Saturday evening?” Meyer asked.
It had been Deschler’s practice to start with simple, unnecessary questions for his own client. It gave them a chance to get used to speaking in the courtroom, ‘to find their legal voice’, as he put it. Meyer followed the same strategy.
“It was to finish off a big job. We had completed work on the two sofas, four armchairs, and twenty-four dining chairs from a town house on Nollendorfplatz. We just had the final sofa to finish and we would be done. Herr Pfeiffer wanted Josef and myself to have the job completed by the end of Saturday so it could be delivered back on Monday morning,” came Kolb’s confident reply. Meyer had warned him to be careful of his tone. He should be confident in his answers to show that he was truthful but also humble so that he did not appear cocky and unlikeable. He hoped that Kolb would remember this.
“You had been working all day on this sofa?” he asked.
“After finishing off the last of the dining chairs, yes.”
“At what point did you decide to go to the beer hall?”
“I am not sure. It was just after Herr Pfeiffer had gone home, probably around six o’clock. Josef suggested that once we had finished the piping around the arms, we should take a well-earned break and go to the beer hall across the street.”
“How long did that take you, before you went to the beer hall?”
“Around an hour. As soon as we had finished, we headed straight across. We didn’t even put on our jackets.”
Meyer checked the small list of events which Deschler had so eloquently laid in front of the jury. Next was the argument in the beer hall. He would need to be careful with his questions on this point. He wanted Kolb to give a reasonable account of the argument; not blow out of proportion but not dismiss it entirely either. He wanted the jury to see it as a simple argument which any two men could have.
“Can you tell me how many beers you and Josef Pfeiffer had in your time in the beer hall?” he asked.
“Yes, we had two each.”
“Herr Kolb, there are witnesses in the beer hall who have stated that an argument broke out between yourself and Herr Pfeiffer. Can you explain the subject of that argument?”
“Yes, there was an argument,” confirmed Kolb. “I regret it still. It was about Kristin, Josef’s sister.”
“Can you explain what this argument entailed?”
Kolb nodded. “It came out of the blue. Everything was okay. We had been working all day together and, after all, we were good friends. We had finished our first beer and the waitress had brought the second one when Josef started talking about Kristin. He knew I liked her and I had asked him before if I could perhaps take her out. He had said no before, but I thought I would ask him again. It was then that he became angry. Not too much at first but then his anger grew, and by the time we had finished our second beer he was shouting.
“We had planned to have three but I didn’t want the argument to continue, so I got up and left. He followed behind me, over the road to the workshop. It is only a few minutes' walk, but when we got there he had calmed down. He still wasn’t happy that I had asked him again when he had said no before, but he did say that he respected the fact that I had asked his permission first.
“We continued working on the sofa. It just had a few hand stitches to be done and it would have been finished. I realised that we had left the beer hall without paying, so I volunteered to go back and settle the bill. The stitching was something that only one of us could do in any case, so I left Josef and returned to the beer cellar.”
“Can you estimate how long it took to leave the workshop, travel to the beer hall, pay your outstanding bar bill, and return to the workshop?” asked Meyer.
Kolb took a few moments as he thought about the question. “At the most, I would guess at fifteen minutes.”
“And can you tell me what you found when you returned to the workshop?”
“Yes, of course,” said Kolb. He then paused for a short while. Meyer saw his arrogant front melt away as he recalled the scene which had met him on his return. “It was terrible. Josef was lying in a pool of blood. The door had been left open and I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“If you don’t mind, Herr Kolb, could you describe in as much detail as possible what you saw when you returned to the workshop?”
Kolb swallowed hard.
“The sofa had been finished. It was the first thing that I noticed. The stitches were in place and we would have been able to close up the workshop and go home.
“But beyond the sofa leaning against a bag of horse hair, was Josef. His face was pure white and blood covered his whole chest. I had never seen a dead body before, but I could see immediately that he was gone. He was my friend, and I ran over to him. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to pick him up, hold him, as if that would have made any difference to...how he was. As if life would have flowed back into him.” Kolb paused again.
“Can you remember what happened next?” prompted Meyer.
“The next thing I knew was Herr Pfeiffer, shouting. He must have come back to check on us. He was screaming at me to get away from his son. I was so upset, I didn’t know what to do, so I ran.”
“And you were picked up by the police not long after?” asked Meyer.
“Yes, that is right. I had Josef’s blood all over me. It wasn’t long before a policeman stopped me and arrested me.”
“Thank you, Herr Kolb. No more questions.” Meyer had taken a leaf out of Deschler’s book. He had kept it simple, as simple as Deschler had. It was the same simple turn of events. It was the same simple story. But told from Kolb’s point of view. There was nothing for Deschler to use, nothing for him to twist. It was perfect. And he had what Deschler would describe as his 'ace' still to play.
Deschler had asked a few questions of Kolb. A prosecutor would be failing in his duty if he did not cross-examine the defendant. He had tried to trip him up. Asked the same question several different ways in an attempt to get different answers. But to Kolb’s credit, his story never changed, no matter what slant Deschler put on it.
Meyer called his next witness. It was the upholsterer local to Weber’s apartment. Deschler objected to the late witness, but Meyer argued that due to information which had only just been made available to him, an expert witness was required.
A Murder in Auschwitz Page 16
