A Murder in Auschwitz

by J. C. Stephenson

  Alfred Kaufmann was called to the stand. A white-haired man with stooped shoulders and a thin face took his seat in the witness box. He wore an old-fashioned collarless cream shirt and dark suit.

  “Thank you for agreeing to be a witness at such short notice, Herr Kaufmann. Can you tell the court your profession, please?”

  “Yes, of course. I am a master upholsterer,” replied the old man.

  Weber handed Meyer a long metal tool with a star-shaped blade.

  “Can you tell me what this tool is called?” Meyer asked.

  “Yes, it’s a star tack hammer,” replied Kaufmann.

  “Is this purely an upholstery tool?” asked Meyer.

  “Yes. There is something similar that carpenters use, which is much larger. But that hammer is an upholstery tool.”

  “Is this the only upholstery tool which would have a star-shaped blade such as this?”

  “Absolutely. You wouldn’t need that shape of blade for anything other than preparing star tacks.”

  Meyer held up the tool. “This is your star tack hammer, Herr Kaufmann isn’t it? You kindly lent it to me for the purposes of the demonstration today. How many of these do you own?”

  “Only one,” came the reply.

  “Only one? Why is that?”

  “It is a tool which has only one purpose. It is relatively expensive and rarely used. No-one would have more than one.”

  “Thank you, Herr Kaufmann. No more questions.”

  “Herr Weiss, thank you for returning to the stand. You are, of course the chief investigator in this case,” said Meyer. Deschler had chosen not to ask any questions of the upholsterer. What could he ask? After all, Meyer had kept it simple and he was sure that Deschler knew where this was heading.

  “Yes, that is correct,” replied Weiss.

  Kriminalkommissar Weiss had been Deschler’s main witness. It was Weiss’ testimony which Deschler had used to tell his story. Meyer had already asked Weiss a series of questions during his last appearance on the stand. This time, he would only need to ask him three.

  “Did you manage to determine the murder weapon in this case?” asked Meyer.

  “It was a sharp implement. It was difficult to determine as there were so many nearby which were covered in the victim’s blood.”

  “Can you describe the shape of the wound?”

  “Yes, it was very deep. And it looked like a thick, star-shaped implement may have been used.”

  “But nothing that shape was found in the workshop?”

  “No. We searched everywhere and came to the conclusion that it had been a pair of scissors which had been used three times in the same wound. It was the only explanation.”

  “The only explanation, because if there was no star-shaped weapon at the scene of the crime, then Wolfgang Kolb would have to have hidden that weapon.”

  “That is correct. We didn’t find anything that shape. We turned the place upside down looking for it.”

  Weber handed Meyer a watermelon which he had been keeping hidden behind the desk. Meyer took the star tack hammer and hit the melon with it. He turned the fruit so that the Kriminalkommissar could see the shape it had made.

  “Would you say that this is the same shape as the wound that killed Josef Pfeiffer?”

  Weiss took his time before answering. “Yes, that is the shape that we found.”

  “And would you agree that you didn’t find an implement similar to the one I am holding in my hand?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And, Kriminalkommissar Weiss, would you agree that since a star tack hammer was not found at the scene despite your officers' thorough search, is it not likely that someone other than Wolfgang Kolb may have killed Josef Pfeiffer and left the scene of the crime with that murder weapon?”

  Weiss thought for a moment before answering.

  “Herr Kriminalkommissar?” prompted Meyer.

  Weiss sighed and then licked his lips. “Yes, Herr Meyer. To me, that would seem likely.”

  Auschwitz, 3rd February 1944

  UNTERSTURMFUHRER Dietrich Ritter opened the stove in his office with a cloth, carefully making sure he did not burn his hands on the handle. The heat hit him and he basked in its warmth before carefully placing two fresh logs on the glowing wood inside. He closed the metal door, turned the handle and using the same cloth, opened the top of the coffee pot sitting on the top of the stove, then peered inside.

  He poured out what little coffee was left into his white and blue enamelled tin cup. A spot dripped from the lip of the coffee pot and splashed on Ritter’s shining black boots. He tutted in agitation, then knelt down and rubbed the spot from them with the cloth he still held in his hand.

  It was a bitterly cold evening outside, and he was not looking forward to the walk from his and Sturmbannfuhrer Straus' office to the barracks. Ritter had been assigned to Sturmbannfuhrer Straus when Ritter arrived in the summer of the previous year. Straus’ previous attendant had transferred to the Waffen SS, and from what Ritter had seen in a recent communication he had transcribed for the Sturmbannfuhrer, he was currently in Italy, fighting the British.

  Before arriving at Auschwitz, Ritter had served at both Dachau and Ravensbruck as an attendant to various officers. He prided himself in his ability to provide both clerical and military assistance to those whom he assisted. In return, his loyalty to the officers in question had been rewarded by promotions and citations.

  Ritter was a stickler for rules and regulations. His uniform was immaculate and he did everything he possibly could to keep Sturmbannfuhrer Straus’ appearance as perfect as his own, organising the cleaning of his uniform and the polishing of his boots.

  Ritter looked after the mundane daily tasks for Straus so that the Sturmbannfuhrer could use his time more productively, dealing with the Jews, gypsies, and other subhumans which were processed here. It was a worthwhile vocation, the cleansing of Europe of the detritus of humanity, the evil of the Jews and their international control of the banks. Ritter still could not understand how the Americans and the British could not see the clawing Jewish menace in spite of the evidence. The Soviets did. As much as he despised the communists and the Slavs, at least they saw the truth when it came to the Zionists.

  But nevertheless, Ritter hated Auschwitz. It was in the middle of nowhere. Even on his leave days, it took too long to get to a town or city to make it worth his while. And the cold. It was unbearable. The winter was miserable, bleak and freezing. The summer was hot and fly-ridden. He hated Poland. He hated the Poles. He hated the Jews and he hated Auschwitz. And he hated Straus.

  Ritter had put in to Straus for a transfer. He had hoped he would be able to be transferred to the west. Italy or France would be perfect. It would be likely that he would be part of the administration staff; after all, that was where his strengths lay and it was why he had been promoted over the years.

  But Sturmbannfuhrer Straus had refused the transfer. Ritter had been told that there was no more important war work than that which was being carried out in the camp at Auschwitz. He had also told Ritter that he could not imagine any state of affairs in which a transfer from Auschwitz would be accepted. Ritter was also told, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to reapply for a transfer under any circumstances.

  After this frank discussion, Straus had told Ritter to get an early night that night. To go and put his feet up and have some schnapps with the others in front of the stove in the barracks. Ritter had stayed a bit longer than he expected to, partly due to his reticence to go out into the freezing night but partly to lick his wounds after the disappointment of not only having had his transfer turned down but being told that effectively, as long as Straus was stationed in Auschwitz, he would be too.

  He sat his cup on the window-sill and put on his greatcoat, pulling up his collar and fishing around in the pockets for his leather gloves. Finally, he pulled on his cap, using his reflection in the window to make sure it was exactly straight. He switched off his desk lamp a
nd pulled the heavy Bakelite switch to turn off the single electric bulb which hung from the centre of the room. As he opened the door to the night outside, he hoped that there would be enough residual heat from the stove that he would not have to sit in his coat for the first hour of tomorrow morning.

  Fog filled the camp with a biting cold which penetrated to the very core of anyone unfortunate enough not to be inside. The lights of the camp were swallowed up in the mist which swirled around the guard towers and barbed wire, and Ritter could only just see the grey shapes of the perimeter guards as they made their rounds.

  Wolfgang Kolb stood at the door of the barracks and pulled his collar up against the freezing mist which surrounded him. He could see the outline of one of the guard towers and just make out the movement of the two guards inside.

  He started out across the courtyard that separated the various different SS barracks. Beyond these were the offices which held the administrative and Gestapo staff for the camp, and behind that were the military headquarters of the Waffen SS of that sector.

  Kolb stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets in a desperate attempt to keep them warm. It was even too cold to smoke. Kolb was certain that he would be risking frostbite of the fingers if he smoked a cigarette in the freezing fog.

  His breath billowed around his head as he walked, momentarily warming his face, then leaving it to feel the full vigour of the February night. He passed two of the guards on duty, fully-dressed against the temperature, with only their eyes visible through their woollen balaclava helmets pulled up under their metal ones and over their noses.

  They saluted as Kolb passed, and he returned the gesture without breaking step. He continued past the last barrack building and started towards the administrative offices, which sat as solid grey blocks in the evening mist. Winter thunder sounded overhead, heralding more snow that night.

  He was halfway there when he saw the yellow light from an office door opening and then being closed again. It looked like it was in the area of Straus’ office, and he hoped he was not going to miss him. Straus would be expecting him, and he thought that he might make an attempt to avoid him for another day. Kolb was not going to allow that to happen. He quickened his step. Soon he was outside the office of Sturmbannfuhrer Straus.

  Kolb checked around him to make sure that no-one was there to witness his visit to Straus’ office. He very much hoped that it had not been Straus that he had seen leaving the office block. Once he was certain that there were no onlookers, he placed his hand on the door handle and was delighted to find that it turned. Kolb pushed open the door, allowing light and warmth to escape into the night.

  Berlin, 2nd August 1934

  MEYER and Klara walked hand in hand in the park, while Anna and Greta ran across the grass, laughing and chasing each other. Klara giggled as the girls nearly tripped them as they ran in front.

  “What a beautiful day,” she said, as she watched Greta tag Anna and then run in the opposite direction. “They will certainly sleep tonight after all that exercise.”

  “Did you manage to organise with Frau Fischer for this afternoon?” asked Meyer.

  “Yes, Manfred. She will be over at four o’clock to look after the children.”

  Meyer had organised a night out at a tea dance with Klara. The music would be of a classical nature, not the jazz that they so enjoyed, but it would remind them of when they used to go to the tea dances in Leipzig. They had not been out dancing for some time. Finding dancehalls that hosted jazz bands was becoming more and more difficult as the Nazis increasingly made it more and more problematic for jazz musicians to perform.

  It did not matter too much to Meyer or Klara, although they enjoyed dancing to jazz, it was the dancing itself rather than the music which was important. Klara had joked that they could dance to birdsong.

  “Manfred, I was thinking. The girls are four now and will be starting kindergarten soon. I would like to go back to chemistry, perhaps start with a part-time job in a small pharmacy,” she said. She knew that Meyer was not the sort of man who laid down the law or would try to stop her intellectual or career development. But she found herself mentioning it in a way in which he could, if he wanted, say, ‘No darling, stay with the children, you are their mother and you should be at home looking after them’. It was what a Jewish mother would do. It was what her own mother did.

  Meyer’s eyes smiled as he leaned over and kissed her. He ran his fingers through her shining dark hair and felt the softness of her lips on his.

  “I think that is a wonderful idea, Klara,” he said. Meyer knew his wife was highly intelligent. She had sailed through her chemistry and pharmaceutical exams. Mathematics, which was like a foreign language to Meyer and made his heart sink when he was confronted by anything mathematical, was as clear to Klara as a crystal glass on a bright and sunny day. This was something she teased him about. How could he be so methodical in his legal cases, seeing patterns and analysing sequences of events, and yet be unable to outwit the simplest of equations? It astonished her in the same way it astonished Meyer that she found all of this so easy.

  Since having the children, Klara had kept up with the latest advances in the chemical world, devouring papers from chemists and pharmacists, scientific books from the library, and any news article with even the slightest scientific thread.

  Yes, thought Meyer, this would give Klara back her science, give her mind the freedom it needed to expand and discover and learn.

  Klara and Meyer sat down on the grass and watched as Anna and Greta ran towards them, with their arms outstretched like aeroplanes. Greta launched herself at her father, knocking him backwards, with Klara following Meyer as she was floored by Anna.

  “Who is the best daddy in the world?” laughed Klara.

  “Papa!” shouted both girls in unison.

  “And who is the best mummy in the world?” asked Meyer.

  “Mama!” they both shouted.

  The four of them then collapsed in laughing and giggling and tickling. Greta and Anna then managed to escape the grasps of their parents, wriggling free and taking off again across the grass.

  Meyer lay back on his arms, watching as the two children ran and chased and dodged each other. He looked over at Klara. Her eyes shone with life and laughter. He felt content. He felt happy. He looked forward to the weekend, when he could spend time with his family and go dancing with Klara, and he looked forward to his work, where he was respected and his reputation as a lawyer was building. The future looked bright and welcoming. Life was good and he felt that there was nothing that could possibly worry him at that moment, and it was all thanks to Friedrich Bauer and Kurt Deschler. Could he put his finger on the event when he felt that things had changed, when he felt that he had become a lawyer, that he was no longer an apprentice but an actual defence lawyer? It could only have been the Kolb case. At the end of the case, when Deschler had stayed in the courtroom, waiting to speak with him.

  Wolfgang Kolb had physically embraced Meyer at the end of the trial. He had shaken Weber and Meyer’s hands and thanked them over and over again. Meyer had found it quite touching.

  Kolb’s hard exterior had fallen as he thanked them. “I will never forget you, Manfred Meyer. Not for as long as I live. If there is ever anything I can do for you. Anything. I mean, if there is anything at all I can do for you or help you with, then all you need do is ask.”

  Meyer smiled at Kolb and shook his hand once last time. “Herr Kolb, enjoy your freedom and the very best of luck to you in the future.”

  Weber and Meyer started to clear up their papers and get ready to leave the courtroom when Meyer noticed that Deschler was still sitting at the prosecution table, looking over at him. For the first time, Meyer saw Deschler smile a genuine smile. Not one of the fake smiles which he used in the courtroom to lull witnesses into a false sense of security but a genuine, generous smile.

  He pushed himself up on his stick and, having collected together his papers, made his way over to th
e defence bench, where he hung his stick over his left arm and shook Weber and Meyer’s hands.

  “Congratulations, Herr Meyer,” he said.

  “Thank you Herr Deschler. I simply followed your instruction and methods, so I truly thank you,” replied Meyer.

  Deschler nodded and unhooked his stick from his arm. “Perhaps, Herr Meyer, you would be good enough to join me in a drink.”

  “Of course, Herr Deschler, it would be an honour,” replied Meyer who then turned to Weber. “Otto, thank you for your assistance and patience in this case. Would you mind...?” Meyer did not need to finish the sentence.

  “I will drop these files off back at the office. I will see you tomorrow, Manfred,” said Weber.

  Meyer thanked Weber and turned back to Deschler. “Lead the way, Herr Deschler.”

  Deschler took Meyer to a bar not far from the courtroom. It was located down an alley behind a bookshop which sat on the main street. There was a very small sign above the door which simply said ‘Cerberus’.

  Inside, the bar was entirely wood-panelled in a dark oak, coloured by years of smoke, both from tobacco and from the open coal fire which crackled at one end of the small room. Leather-bound books of history and law sat upon a shelf which ran the circuit of the room. There was only one tiny window, of smoked glass, which barely let in any light, so the walls sported old gas sconces that had been modernised to hold electric bulbs, which glowed with as little energy as the original gas.

  “Can I suggest a scotch whisky?” asked Deschler and then, without waiting for an answer, ordered two from a bottle labelled ‘Scapa’. Once the golden liquid had been poured, Deschler pointed to a free table.

  “This is a bar frequented by lawyers and academics from the university, hence the books,” explained Deschler, as they sat down facing each other. “It isn’t a secret place, but you never get anyone accidentally discovering it. I would say that everyone in here has been shown where to find it.”