The cold of the winter night penetrated Meyer’s body and joined with the ice left there by the silence, as he was marched towards the gate of the camp. His mind raced. Why had they taken him out of the hut? At first he thought that he would be taken outside and shot, but then he realised that they had asked for him by name. They must know something about him. Had they found the hoard of resin he had been collecting? Would they kill him for that? He tried to keep such a low profile, follow the rules and keep his head down; there was nothing that he had done, no-one he had offended, no crime he had committed which they would want him for. So, if there was nothing that he had done wrong, then they must want something from him.
Meyer was marched through the gates and towards the Gestapo buildings. His fear grew. This was where they took prisoners who were to be questioned about something. This was where they were tortured and, by accounts from the prisoners who had to clean up the blood and mess in the torture rooms, kept in cells which had standing room only.
Why would they torture him? What did he know? Nothing of importance, surely. Meyer slowed his pace but was pushed forward by the soldiers. He was right; it was the stockade, the torture rooms. Meyer was forced in through the doors. An SS officer stood in the corridor, holding a cell door open, effectively closing off the rest of the corridor behind him.
“In here,” were the only words from the officer, and Meyer was pushed into the cell.
Inside, the cell had whitewashed brick walls and a grey concrete floor which held the ghosts of blood stains from past interrogations. It was entirely bare, except for a metal table and two chairs. Behind the desk sat a figure in SS uniform, his face cut and swollen.
“Hello, Meyer. I need your help.” It was Kolb.
Meyer stared at him. His conditioning in the camp stopped Meyer's natural propensity to ask questions. He wanted to know why he was there, what had happened to Kolb, and what it was he could help him with. But he just stared.
“Sit down, Meyer,” said Kolb, and waited for Meyer to take a seat. When he had, he continued. “I need your help. I need your lawyer skills again.”
Meyer sat in front of Kolb. He looked different from when he had known him ten years previously. It was not just age which had changed him, or the damage to his face; it was the uniform. It was the SS runes on his collar. It was the eagle and swastika on his arm. He emanated menace. He was the archetypal SS officer, blonde and blue-eyed, tall and arrogant. And yet, here he was, sitting in a cell in the stockade, bruises on his swollen face, blood stains on his field grey uniform. Was Kolb a prisoner?
“I have been accused of murder. The murder of a fellow officer, and as you can see,” said Kolb, indicating his face, “I have been interrogated already on this matter.”
Meyer pushed his tongue against his sensitive teeth, tasting something new. Iron. Meyer wondered if it was his gums bleeding, or if he could taste the blood from the air. He looked down at Kolb’s hands, which were clasped together on the table. His hands should have been immaculate. An SS officer’s hands were always kept beautifully clean. Meyer had wondered if it was because of the amount of blood that they were metaphorically covered in that they were kept so clean. But Kolb’s knuckles were scraped, and dried blood smeared the back of both hands, his fingers dirty from the floor, ending in broken and filthy nails.
“I didn’t confess, so there will now be a court martial. I will be represented by an officer from my barracks, but he is only an officer. Unfortunately, I am not blessed with a former lawyer as a fellow officer; he went straight into the SS when he left school. But I am fortunate enough that the man who saved me from prison is himself a prisoner here and can perhaps save me from the firing squad now.”
Meyer finally found his voice. It was difficult to start talking to someone in uniform, to ask them questions. This was something which would normally be met with violence. Indeed, Meyer wondered how he could possibly be part of a court martial. He could not imagine how a room full of SS uniforms would accept the word of a faded-striped prisoner.
“Herr Kolb, I am not sure that a Jew would be welcome in your court martial,” said Meyer.
Kolb noticed that Meyer’s voice was hoarse and scratchy. Meyer had aged well, thought Kolb, but the stresses of prison camp life were taking their toll. He was thin and his hair was entirely grey, as was his skin. And his gums on one side of his mouth were black.
“Obviously, you wouldn’t be able to be part of the court martial proceedings, but you can advise Scharfuhrer Fuchs on my case. I haven’t forgotten your ability to take a case apart piece by piece, then put it all back together again in an order that gives you a divine insight into its happenings.”
Meyer sat for a moment. “Why?”
Kolb looked surprised. “Why what?” he asked.
“Why would I?” said Meyer. It was what Kolb had feared.
“Don’t forget who you are talking to, Meyer. I may be under arrest, but I am still an officer of the SS and you are still a Jew!”
“Herr Kolb, I need you to understand something. I have been here for...” Meyer found himself laughing. “I don’t know how long I have been here for, it seems like a lifetime. But I have seen enough death at the hands of the SS, know enough about the gas chambers which deal out death on an industrial scale, to know that my life here is limited. I won’t leave here alive and I have already suffered pain and indignity. There is nothing you can threaten me with to make me do your bidding.”
Kolb felt his fury build. Who was this Jew to question him? This miserable, filthy prisoner. Did he not fear death? Did he not fear the pain that Kolb could have inflicted on him? How dare he resist when Kolb needed him, when Kolb’s own life depended on his skills. Kolb thought hard; what could he threaten Meyer with which would make him do what he told him.
Then, as if he had read Kolb’s mind, Meyer said, “The problem with being in your position for so long is that you only see the world from one point of view. When you wear that uniform all you do is threaten and bully and murder. You forget that most of the world does not work in that manner. Most of the people in the world have exchanges. Exchanges of ideas. Exchanges of currency. Exchanges of gifts. Exchanges of produce. You don’t have to threaten me to have my assistance. Give me something.”
Kolb stared at Meyer. Then felt himself smile. The Jew still had the skills he had demonstrated so many years ago. Meyer could take a position and, before you knew it, you were seeing the same scene from a different point of view. “What do you want, Meyer?”
Meyer ran his hand over his face. He suddenly felt very tired. He had been in the forest all day; the work party had not got back to the camp until late and there had been very little soup left and hardly any bread.
Meyer thought about what he could ask Kolb for; food for himself and the rest of the hut, maybe something that he could use as currency in the camp, cigarettes maybe, a day off for his work party. But actually, there was only one thing that he wanted. However, he did not know if Kolb had the authority for what he would ask for. “I want to see my wife and children.”
Kolb looked at him, blankly. He had thought Meyer would ask for something tangible, something he could eat or swap in the camp with the rest of the prisoners. That would have been easy to organise. But to see his wife and children was another matter. “That can’t be done. Choose something else.”
Meyer shook his head. “There is nothing else. It’s you that needs me. I don’t need you.”
“You be careful, Meyer. Don’t forget who I am. I can have your life snuffed out, and the lives of your wife and children. How about that? Help me or I will have your family killed,” snarled Kolb, his face flushing red.
Meyer had hoped that this threat would not occur to Kolb, but he managed to remain calm. “You aren’t listening.”
“I think it is you who isn’t listening, Meyer,” said Kolb, his voice rising as his temper flared. “I will have your children and your wife killed. Do you understand?”
Meyer nodde
d. He was gambling with his family’s life, and it was the greatest bluff he had ever perpetrated. Greater than any in any court case he had ever been part of. “Of course I understand, but as I have already told you, we are already under a death sentence. Threatening my life or the lives of my family means nothing. We are all going to be killed anyway. You might as well threaten to starve us and overwork us. It is already happening, how is it a threat?”
Kolb was silent. He stared at Meyer. His temper had abated, and now he searched for something he could tempt Meyer with. Kolb did not think that Meyer would give up on his request to see his family, and as difficult as it would be, he would need to try to convince Kramer to let him see Liebehenschel again and then convince Liebehenschel that, as a reward, Meyer should get to see his wife and children. But until that happened, he needed a hook. Something that would get Meyer working for him, a promise, an incentive, something which would pique his interest, his intelligence, grab him by his natural inquisitiveness. And then it came to him.
“I have something that may interest you. About my original case,” said Kolb. “The court martial is on the tenth of this month, only five days away. Our first meeting with Scharfuhrer Fuchs is tomorrow. That only gives four days to prepare, four meetings. Tomorrow I will tell you something you don’t know about the Josef Pfeiffer case. The next three times we meet, you can ask me a single question about what I tell you. Then, at the end, if I am found not guilty, I will see what I can do about you seeing your wife and children.”
Meyer was intrigued. Something about the Pfeiffer case? Something he had missed. It was an incentive, but he was going to stick to his original request. “That does sound interesting,” Meyer admitted. “But I need more than the word of an SS officer imprisoned in his own cell. I need the Commandant to agree. I will take his word, not yours.”
Kolb felt his rage rising again. “Obersturmbannfuhrer Liebehenschel won’t give his word to a Jew. He wouldn’t lower himself to even speak to one, never mind make one of you a promise.”
Meyer shrugged. “It is up to you, Herr Kolb. As interesting as your proposition is, unless I see my children and my wife, then you will be joining me in a death sentence.”
Kolb knew that he had been outmanoeuvred by Meyer. He should not have expected anything less; after all, this was the man who would hopefully be able to save him from the firing squad. Meyer may only be a Jew, but he was a master craftsman when it came to negotiations.
“I would need to check with the Camp Commandant to see if that would be possible.”
Berlin, 3rd May 1939
KLARA laughed as Meyer spilled a spoonful of soup down his tie. “You would think that the mouth of someone who talks for a living would be so big that they couldn’t miss it with a spade, never mind a spoon.”
Anna and Greta joined in the laughter. “Oh dear, Papa, are you going to suck the soup off your tie?” joked Greta.
Meyer held his tie tight and scooped what he could back onto his spoon. “For goodness sake,” he laughed. “Who would have thought eating soup would be so difficult?”
This was Meyer’s favourite time of the day. It was when the four of them could sit safely in their home and chat about what the girls learned today in Mama’s school and what Meyer had been doing at work.
Bauer had insisted that Meyer stay employed with Bauer & Bauer, although, because of the racial laws, he had been forced to stop leading cases. Instead, he now supported Otto Weber. Not in court, as this would have constituted him practising as a lawyer, as did any research which required the visiting of prison facilities or police stations. However, he did provide invaluable research from the company library, and his unique insight into the progression of events in a case meant that he could give Weber and some of the other lawyers help he never could have when he too had been a lawyer.
Yet Meyer missed the courtroom. He missed the silence that preceded the start of the day’s proceedings. He missed the verbal jousting with the prosecution. And he missed Deschler.
It had been several months since Meyer had last seen him. Every now and then, Deschler would appear, unannounced, at the Bauer & Bauer offices and would always seek Meyer out first, before taking him up to sit in Friedrich Bauer’s office to chat and drink coffee.
Often, Meyer wished that a stenographer had been present to record the exchanges of three lawyers sparring and attempting to extract information from one another. These were always moments of pure joy.
Deschler still worked for the Reich Ministry of Justice, but he was always evasive when either Bauer or Meyer had tried to tie him down about what his role now was. Whatever it was required him to now carry a firearm, something Meyer had only noticed during his last visit, when Deschler had dropped his cigarette lighter. Meyer had bent down to retrieve it for him and spotted a shoulder holster hidden inside his jacket. Meyer had also noticed that a car waited for him outside the office, no matter how long he took.
Meyer took off his soup-stained tie and hung it over the back of his chair. He would give it a rinse after dinner.
“It’s not a tie you need, darling,” said Klara, “it’s a bib.” This caused further laughter from the girls and Klara.
“Goodness me, you are all easily amused,” joked Meyer, when there was a knock at the apartment door.
Meyer and Klara looked at each other. They rarely had anyone visit them these days. Frau Fischer, who had known them for such a long time, refused to acknowledge their existence, which confused and upset the children. A knock at the door always caused them both a feeling of unease. Meyer got up from the table and answered the door.
Outside stood a man around Meyer’s age, with a tanned face and salty blonde hair.
“Hello, am I at the residence of Klara Steinmann?” he asked.
“Well, she is now Klara Meyer, but yes, Steinmann was her maiden name,” replied Meyer. “How can I help you?”
“Ah, yes. My apologies, I knew her brother, Karl Steinmann,” he said. “I was in Spain.”
Karl had left Germany to join the International Brigades at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. Klara had begged him not to go. She had been unable to understand how a war in Spain had anything to do with Germany; no matter how much Karl had tried to explain that this was a war worth fighting in, a war which could change the world, a fight between a militaristic fascist organisation and a peaceful socialist state. He had had to go. It was his duty.
Klara had reminded him how he had been when he had returned from the trenches of the Western Front. How he had not slept for over a year without waking up screaming from the nightmares. But Karl had said this was different. Things had changed. War was no longer about borders and land but about thoughts and minds.
In the end, there was nothing that Klara could say or do to change his mind, and Karl had left in the Autumn of 1937. Klara had received a few letters from him, from Madrid, from Barcelona, and from other places she had never heard of. He always said in them that she should not write back as he would never know where he was going to be and the postal service was intermittent to say the least. And then the letters had stopped.
The feeling of dread that Meyer had had before answering the door now turned into the unwelcome sensation of nausea.
“Who is it, Manfred?” came a shout from Klara.
Meyer stared at the visitor. “It’s someone who knew Karl,” he shouted back. Then he added, “In Spain.” Klara appeared at his shoulder.
“Klara Steinmann, sorry, Meyer?” asked the man. He wore a brown, ill-fitting suit and held a trilby hat in his hands.
“Yes,” she said, in what was no more than a whisper.
“My name is Herman Brandt. I knew your brother.”
Meyer put his arm around his wife. “You had better come in.”
Klara led Brandt into the livingroom, while Meyer returned to the kitchen to tell the girls that they had a visitor and that he and their mother needed some time together. They were to finish their soup then go and play in their bed
room. The girls nodded, understanding that something important was happening in the next room.
When Meyer returned to the living room, both Klara and Brandt were seated facing each other.
“Herr Brandt was telling me that he has just returned from Spain, Manfred. He just arrived back in Berlin yesterday,” said Klara.
“Can I offer you a coffee?” asked Meyer.
“No thank you, Herr Meyer. I won’t take up too much of your time,” replied Brandt.
Meyer sat next to Klara on their sofa and placed his hand on her knee. She held on to his arm and he could feel her lean against him.
Brandt played nervously with his hat. “As I said, I knew Kurt in Spain and I was there when he died. I’m sorry.”
Klara brought a hand up to her mouth. She had known in her heart of hearts when the letters had stopped that something had happened. She had hoped that Karl had perhaps been wounded, or taken prisoner, but when the letters never came again, slowly, she allowed herself to give up hope of seeing him again. But now, to be told definitively that he was gone for good, made the pain return.
“I was not sure if you knew,” said Brandt. “I knew he wrote to you. He spoke of you and your husband often. When he died, I didn’t know how to let you know. I supposed that you might have guessed when the letters stopped. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”
Klara took out a handkerchief and attempted to dry away the tears which stained her face. “Please, Herr Brandt. You are right; I had guessed that the worst had befallen my brother.”
Brandt sighed and stared into his empty hat. “I promised myself that I would come and see you on my return to Germany. Karl spoke of how you disapproved of his fighting in Spain, that you didn’t understand his reasons for being there. I wanted to come and tell you that although you may never agree with why he went, or what he was doing there, I wanted you to know that when he died, he laid down his life so that others may live.
A Murder in Auschwitz Page 21
