Once again, Mahler hesitated before giving the order to his men to return to the truck. Meyer pulled Greta down from the rear of the vehicle and handed her back her bag.
“Are we going home, Papa?” she asked.
“Yes Greta, quickly, back up the stairs and back to bed. We will unpack tomorrow,” replied Meyer, as he patted Anna and Klara on their backs, spurring them into turning round and following Greta back into the apartment building.
Meyer stole a look at Deschler, knowing that he could not thank him, and was happy to see a faint smile on his lips and an almost imperceptible nod. As the door of the building closed behind him, Meyer turned and saw Deschler limp back to the open car door and climb inside.
The car waited until the truck had been gone for over ten minutes before driving off into the night.
Auschwitz, 7th February 1944
FOOD was a popular subject amongst the prisoners. A type of self-torture which they happily inflicted on themselves. Feasts were planned; rare and exotic fruits and meats shared tables with sausages and stews from grandmothers and aunts. Many swore that after these discussions they could taste the food.
Anton Geller was talking to Saul Rosenmann about a particularly delicious soup which his wife had once made. “It was thick, Saul, with onions and beetroot and garlic. And floating on the top was a boiled egg, one in each of our plates. My boy Franz loved it, we both kept the egg until last, eating the soup around it and then cutting into the egg with our spoons, the yolk still soft in the very centre, I don’t know how she did it.”
Suddenly, a freezing blast shot through the hut, making everyone turn and look to the door. It was Meyer being brought back in by Fuchs. Fuchs took a second to gaze around the cramped conditions, before disappearing back into the night, leaving Meyer standing at the closed door.
Rosenmann looked at Geller. “Something is wrong, Anton. He is just standing there.”
Geller dropped down from his bunk and pushed his way through the legs which overhung the end of the bunks, eventually reaching Meyer. The dirt from the day’s work in the forest had been washed away the tears on his cheeks, showing the tanned, windblown skin that he had developed from the outside work. The rims of his eyes were red, colour against the grey of the rest of his face.
“Manfred,” said Geller, gently but there was no response. “Come on. Come with me.” Geller took Meyer by the hand and led him back to his bunk, where he was met by Rosenmann.
“Manfred,” said Rosenmann. “What is wrong? What have they done?” But Meyer just stared blankly ahead.
“Help me get him into bed,” said Geller to Rosenmann, and the two men took Meyer by the arms and lifted him onto Geller’s bunk first, as it was the easiest to access, then over onto Meyer’s.
Then the trance which held Meyer broke, and he turned his head to look at Geller, his eyes filling with tears once more.
“What is it, Manfred?” asked Geller.
“My girls,” said Meyer, his face darkening and screwing up, revealing blood covered gums as the tears overwhelmed him. Geller pulled Meyer towards him and cradled his head in his arms.
Kolb and Fuchs sat facing Meyer in the cell. In front of Meyer was a plate of soup and some black bread, but they remained untouched.
“The Commandant gave you his word last night?” prompted Kolb, suddenly fearful that Meyer may have said or done something to make Liebehenschel change his mind.
Meyer stared blankly at the wall behind the two officers. “They murdered my children,” he whispered. Then his eyes focused on Kolb’s face. It was the same look that Kramer had given Kolb when he had beaten him in the cell; a look of hate.
Kolb had not expected this. He did not really know why it had not occurred to him that the family which Meyer so craved to see might not have survived the camp as long as he had.
“And your wife?” asked Kolb, in trepidation. He was certain that without the incentive of seeing his wife again Meyer would refuse to continue to provide help.
Meyer continued to stare at Kolb. He and Fuchs were part of the death machine that was Auschwitz. They wore the uniform of the guilty, the uniform that was decorated with the insignia of the criminal, and it did not matter to Meyer what role they played in the camp, what cog they were in the machine, the swastika-wearers were responsible. Whether they held the guns to the heads of the Sonderkommando or they dropped the Zyklon-B pellets into the gas chamber, they were guilty. Whether they typed the letters to Berlin for the administrators or ordered the disinfectant to clean the striped uniforms of the damned, they were guilty. Part of the murdering alliance marked by a twisted cross.
“She is in the women’s camp. I will see her on the day of your court martial. If you are found not guilty, that is,” said Meyer.
Meyer had fallen asleep with Geller cradling his head the previous night. His usually dreamless sleep was haunted by images of Anna and Greta, of the last time he saw them, looking over their shoulders at him as they were led away with their mother, the word ‘Papa’ silent on their lips. He dreamed of snow and cold and frost and thunder. And woke as the phantom thunder crashed in his mind.
His eyes had flicked open in the darkness of the hut, but he could not clear the dream from his vision. The first shot had not been heard because of thunder. He remembered now, Kolb had even mentioned it, the cold front from the east causing the fog and the heavy snow the next day. The heavy snow which Meyer had trudged through with Geller to the forest clearing. And the thunder heralding the snow. The thunder which had rumbled over the hut, causing the inmates to look towards the stained ceiling as if it was about to fall in, the thunder which hid the first gunshot. Kolb had been telling the truth.
Kolb was innocent. If he was going to make a reasonable defence of Kolb then it was important that Fuchs was aware of the fact. Meyer knew that Fuchs had his doubts; otherwise, why would he have asked him his opinion last night on the way to Liebehenschel’s office.
“I know why the first gunshot wasn’t heard,” said Meyer.
Both SS officers stared at Meyer in surprise, but it was Fuchs who asked the inevitable question. “Why?”
Meyer enjoyed the suspense. He enjoyed making them wait. Perhaps momentarily they would think that even though he had the answer, he would not tell them. Perhaps they would think, even just for a split second, that Meyer would give up his chance to see his wife just to let Kolb go to the firing post, even though he had the secret to the proof of Kolb's innocence. He enjoyed the silence that filled the cell. Then, when he thought that it had lasted long enough, he broke it.
“Thunder. The easterly cold front. It brought fog, snow, and thunder. I remember the thunder, although I couldn’t tell you at what time. It was after I had returned to the hut but before I had fallen asleep, so around seven o’clock would probably be about right.”
Kolb sucked in a deep breath. “That’s right, Meyer, I remember now. Just as I was about to cross the courtyard to Straus’ office, there was thunder. Why did I not think that it was important?”
Meyer thought that Fuchs looked visibly relieved. He now knew that Kolb was innocent, and any uncomfortable thoughts that Kolb could possibly have killed a fellow officer would be fading and quickly forgotten about. Although Meyer needed Fuchs to believe in Kolb’s innocence in relation to Straus’ death, he wanted Fuchs to be fully aware of the type of man Kolb was.
“Let’s go through the actions of everyone again that night,” said Meyer. “Ritter works late in spite of being told to go back to his barrack room early by Straus.” Meyer waited to see if there was any reaction from either Fuchs or Kolb over the lack of rank given to the names, but neither officer made any comment.
“Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb leaves his room to visit Straus to collect money which he is blackmailing from him due to Straus’ homosexuality.”
“Meyer, for God’s sake,” exclaimed Kolb, slumping forward in his chair. Fuchs turned and looked at Kolb.
“Is this true, Wolfgang?” asked Fuchs.
“Yes, yes,” replied Kolb. “It’s true, Heinrich. Straus had made advances to me and I took the opportunity to make a bit extra. It is wartime, Heinrich, and we are stuck in this God-forsaken camp. I am allowed to make a bit of extra cash on the side.”
Meyer decided to continue the analysis of the events. “So, Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb crosses the courtyard towards Straus’ office. It’s foggy and visibility is very poor. We know this to be fact up to this point. Scharfuhrer Fuchs, can you take this down please, this is how we are going to build our case.”
“Yes Herr Meyer,” said Fuchs, lifting a pencil and starting to write in his notepad. It was Kolb’s turn to look surprised at his fellow officer.
“Straus is in his office, Ritter is in his office, and Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb is in the courtyard,” said Meyer, giving Fuchs time to make his notes. Meyer closed his eyes and tried to picture the series of events that night.
“Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb is halfway across the courtyard when there is a crack of thunder. Very soon afterwards, he sees a door open and close again through the fog,” said Meyer, then paused as he visualised the next occurrence.
“Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb makes it across the courtyard and opens Straus’ door. He doesn’t knock. Blackmailers don’t knock. He goes straight in. Inside, he sees Straus already dead in his chair. On the floor is Straus’ Luger. Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb picks up the gun, but the safety catch is not on and he accidentally discharges the weapon. This alerts the two perimeter guards, who find Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb with the gun in his hand and Straus dead in his chair.”
Fuchs continued to write in the notepad, occasionally looking up at Meyer and sometimes across at Kolb.
“We need to go back a few steps. When Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb hears the thunder, this is when the first shot is fired. It is purely coincidence that the shot is masked by the thunder, a stroke of luck for the killer,” continued Meyer.
“And who is the killer?” asked Kolb.
Meyer opened his eyes and smiled. “Ritter.”
“You then see the light from an office door opening, but because of the fog you can’t determine whose office. But you know it is in the vicinity of Straus’. In actual fact, this is Ritter leaving Straus’ office after having shot him.
“You then arrive at the office and go inside, where you see Straus’ body, smoke from the gun still in the air and a Luger on the floor. You pick up the gun but because the safety catch is off, accidentally pull the trigger.”
Fuchs continued scribbling his notes on the scene which Meyer was creating, while Kolb sat forward in his chair, allowing the events which Meyer had just described to sink in.
“In the short time we have before the court martial, we have to prove two things,” continued Meyer. “First of all, we need motive. Scharfuhrer Fuchs has already found a possible reason that Ritter would want to murder Straus, but it is not enough. A reasonable prosecutor could take that apart as flimsy conjecture. We need more. We need to show that Straus’ refusal to transfer Ritter was in some way the straw which broke the camel’s back. We need animosity between the two, and since it will be known that Herr Kolb was blackmailing Straus for being a homosexual, we should have some of that brought into the mix.”
“You aren’t going to tell them that I was extorting money from Straus, are you?” said Kolb, his voice full of surprise.
“I am only here in an advisory capacity,” replied Meyer. “Scharfuhrer Fuchs is the one who is leading this defence and it will be up to him. However, I heartily advise that he discloses this. We need to put all of our cards on the table so that we can show that we have nothing to hide. We can then use the fact that Straus was a homosexual, as proven to be fact rather than conjecture by the fact that he was paying you money to keep it secret, to add implication to Ritter’s motives for wanting Straus dead.”
Fuchs looked up from his note-taking. “This is something which I will be disclosing at the court martial.”
“Heinrich, I don’t know if it is entirely necessary,” said Kolb.
“I would not worry too much about it,” said Meyer. “I suspect that you will not be charged with the blackmail of a dead homosexual.”
“You should take Herr Meyer’s advice, Wolfgang. After all of the effort to have him advise us on your defence, it would seem foolhardy to ignore it,” said Fuchs. “What is the second thing we need to prove, Herr Meyer?”
“Secondly, if Straus’ pistol was discharged twice in his office, and there is one bullet in Straus, where is the other bullet? If we find that, we can prove two shots were fired and we have corroboration of Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb’s story.”
“That will be up to you, Heinrich,” said Kolb. “I can’t see Kramer allowing a murder suspect and a Jewish inmate to do a site visit to a crime scene.”
“Actually,” said Meyer, “I think that you could request to be taken to Straus’ office under guard to show your representative your movements inside the office, as they could have an impact on the outcome of the case.”
Fuchs agreed. “If we request that Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer was present while we made the site inspection, it may make it more acceptable.”
“But there is no way that he would allow Meyer to accompany us,” said Kolb.
“You are right, Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb,” said Meyer. “However, you do not require my presence in the office. What you and Scharfuhrer Fuchs need to do is find the second bullet. You can show him where you stood, where you picked the gun up from and which direction it was pointing in when it went off. Hopefully, with a bit of searching, you should be able to locate the bullet hole. If Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer is present, he can corroborate the find.”
A smile began to form on Kolb’s face. This was why he had wanted Meyer. As long as they could find evidence of the second bullet then he was halfway to proving his innocence.
“I will make a request tonight to make the visit tomorrow,” said Fuchs. “Kramer will never agree to taking us this evening.”
“You are remembering that I only have tomorrow to have you and Meyer finalise my defence?” said Kolb.
“I have the witness statements from Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer’s office,” said Fuchs, pulling sheets from the blue card folder. “There is one from Ritter and a joint one from the two guards who arrested you. And there is one from Kramer but it is only a few lines and not worth much at all.”
Fuchs handed Meyer the statement from Ritter. It was a typewritten sheet on headed paper which bore the eagle and swastika. It was dated from the morning of the fourth of February; the day after Straus had died. Meyer read through the statement.
“There is not much here of note,” remarked Meyer, running his tongue along his gums and unconsciously touching his painful teeth. “He says that he was working later than Straus had told him to, left his office at almost exactly seven, and went straight to his barrack room.”
“The guards' statements are not much better,” said Fuchs, handing the piece of paper to Meyer. Meyer scanned down the page.
“They mention that they saluted Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb several minutes before they heard the shot from Straus’ office. Then they confirm that they found Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb with a pistol in his hand and Straus dead in his chair. And they say how he handed over both Straus’ pistol and his own when arrested. That is about it.”
Meyer put down the statement and looked at Kolb. He looked tired. He still had the same uniform on from when he had been arrested, but the blood stains had now darkened to match the bruises on his face. There were loose threads and frayed edges on the collar, epaulettes, and cuffs which he had not noticed before. The silver thread which made up the SS runes, rank insignia, and the SS version of the Third Reich eagle on his arm was faded and dull. Apart from the bruising, Kolb’s face was grey, and stubble peppered his chin.
The colour was leaving Kolb. He was becoming a faded man.
Berlin, 19th July 1943
DESCHLER replaced the handset of the telephone in its cradle and gazed out o
f his office window. He was on the third floor of the Reich Ministry of Justice building and he watched as clouds lazily floated past his window. Berlin was a picture drawn in charcoal, the only colour the vivid blood red of the numerous Nazi flags hanging from building facades.
He only had a few minutes before they came.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Scapa scotch whisky which only had two glasses worth of liquid in the bottom at the most. He had been saving this whisky for a special occasion, and he could not think of one more special than now. He reached back into the drawer and retrieved a crystal glass, which he blew into to ensure no dust remained, before pulling out the stopper from the bottle and pouring the honey-coloured spirit into the glass.
He lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled the bouquet, which was so familiar to him yet which he had not indulged in for a very long time. Memories flooded back as the aroma of the whisky summoned thoughts of places and people, events and occurrences. The first sip slid over his tongue; the salt and honey flavours filled his mouth with silken abandon, and he closed his eyes. He inhaled, pulling cool air over his palate and the fumes from the alcohol down into his lungs, then slowly exhaled, the heat of his breath re-ignited the flavours of the drink, making them burst around his gums and teeth and tongue.
Deschler lit a cigarette and placed it in the ashtray on his desk, then fished around in his jacket pocket for his bottle of painkillers. This was the worst pain he suffered from; the pain from his phantom leg. He could not rub it, or hold it, or attempt to soothe it in a hot bath. It lay somewhere in a field in France and yet it still sent him pain signals to his brain. The pain was the same as it had been almost thirty years ago when he woke up in the infirmary, screaming in agony, telling the nurses that it felt like his leg was on fire, that the bones were smashed.
A Murder in Auschwitz Page 26
