For years he endured cruelty, inhumane living conditions and starvation rations. While witnessing the heinous and often fatal treatment of his fellow prisoners, he fared marginally better due to his organizational talents. The concentration camps were profit centers for the SS overlords, providing slave labor to local industries in return for financial compensation. The SS had initially put the career criminals in charge of barracks operations, but they proved so inept and corrupt it impacted those profits. The wardens ultimately singled out competent political prisoners to handle that task. Karl was one of the lucky few. In this role he was able to identify political convicts and place them in less dangerous work details and barracks where the resisting dissidents held greater sway. Dangerous felons who had previously collaborated in the mistreatment of inmates received the most abhorrent of work assignments, and some perished at the hands of the men they had earlier mistreated. Slowly but surely, he’d helped foster a subtle but effective resistance movement, aiding the survival of some and encouraging sabotage and disruption in the factories and quarries where the prisoners were forced to toil and die.
For no discernable reason, he was then abruptly transferred to the Sachsenhausen camp northeast of Berlin. He returned to cruel work details and brutal roll calls favoring group punishment for individual infractions, but overall he was harassed less frequently. This change left him baffled. Was some guardian angel suddenly handing down orders from above? And one day seemingly no different from all the rest, the guards had come for him. Laying on shackles, they yanked a cloth bag over his head and cinched it at the throat. He was certain that tight cord signaled a noose in his future. They hustled him into a waiting prison van where the guard answered his muffled questions with a sharp “Maul halten!” and a rap on the shins. He shut up. For nearly an hour they lumbered down uneven roads and onto smooth urban streets, and he felt death drawing nearer with every kilometer. But much to his amazement, no scaffolding or guillotine awaited him. Instead he’d been released into this print shop and a new routine, the familiar odors of ink and solvent and press machinery so welcome after a long separation.
The others were free to venture out into the city to join family or friends, but Karl hadn’t seen direct sunlight in many months. He did eventually learn the location of the facility. A deliveryman called Heini had left an address label on a packing crate: Delbrückstrasse 6a. Karl recognized the name of a pleasant residential street in the upscale Charlottenburg district. He could picture the neighborhood grid, though the knowledge did him no good. Nevertheless, it was nice to know precisely where he was, to know he was now imprisoned closer to his Berlin home.
And then this morning his life of terror and tedium took a sudden and heartening turn. The same delivery man who had revealed the shop’s address handed him paper samples along with two whispered words: “Be patient.” Midway through the stack he found a duplicate of his most treasured possession, that snapshot of Isabel, only now in a print large enough to reveal detail under his magnification lens. Karl slid the find into the pocket of his smock and waited out the day in heady anticipation. Once Ehrlich had put away the engravings for safe-keeping and the guards locked up for the night, he dared examine his gift in detail. Tears came as he made out the blurred features of his beloved wife. Overcome with emotion, he barely slept, fearing the foreman might discover his secret.
Isabel lived, and somehow she had tracked him down! If she could deliver a treasure like this into his hands, more good news was sure to follow. He would be patient. After all, what choice did he have?
❖
Gusen Concentration Camp
Mauthausen Complex
Ostmark, Greater Germany
December 1941
Johann Hallinger tapped his foot incessantly, anxious to move things along. His flight out of Linz couldn’t come soon enough, though first he had to officially welcome Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm Dettmüller, an old SS colleague replacing him as commandant at Gusen. It was Hallinger’s duty to make Dettmüller comfortable in his new domain, but the outgoing deputy commander was quietly fuming over his transfer back to Berlin. Hallinger had created the most efficient concentration camp in the SS system, yet Reichsführer-SS Himmler was pulling him out to oversee some misbegotten counterfeiting scheme. Hallinger’s decade-long upward path to success in the Party now appeared to be heading on a downward trajectory.
During tomorrow’s formal change-of-command ceremony the entire prison population would gather on the Appellplatz to witness his humiliating departure. This morning however had been all business, introducing Dettmüller to the facilities and quarries. And now, as the group of gray-uniformed officers approached, Hallinger prepared to play the convivial party host. The officers already held flutes of fine French champagne. The demonstration about to commence, offered as pure entertainment, called for appropriate refreshment.
Hallinger muttered under his breath to his adjutant, Reinhold Steuer: “Let’s make this damned thing happen.”
“At your orders, Herr Obersturmbannführer.” The exiting commandant’s foul mood was not lost on his aide, who regretted having openly expressed his personal delight at returning to the heart of the Reich. Steuer left the stand to pass along instructions to the chief SS guard as Hallinger turned to greet his colleagues.
Gusen—the camp, not the lovely nearby town—prided itself on deriving maximum productivity from the adjoining granite quarries. The facility was subordinate to the main complex centered on a hilltop in nearby Mauthausen. Both occupied the lush green countryside of what had been called Upper Austria prior to the 1938 Anschluss. Hitler had then declared the region of his birthplace the “Upper Danube,” and the former imperial power Austria was subsumed within the Greater German Reich and designated the Ostmark.
Before Gusen’s recent construction the prisoner workforce had come over from the main camp to work the demanding stone pits in thirteen-hour shifts. Now those slaves who remained standing by the end of each grueling day marched to and from their barracks on foot. Both the main complex and Gusen sub-camp were Grade III facilities designed to handle the “incorrigible” enemies of the Reich. They specialized in the subjugation and extermination of more educated prisoners, the social elite gathered from the farthest reaches of the empire.
Thanks to Hallinger’s brilliance, the year-old compound at Gusen already outshone Mauthausen proper in both mortality rate—equated with deriving maximum value from every expendable worker—and in resulting financial gains for the SS. With such proven successes to his credit, Hallinger had been floored to learn that he was not to assume full control of the Mauthausen camp network. Colonel Franz Ziereis appeared to be firmly ensconced as commandant of the entire complex and was going nowhere. Hallinger guessed the reason why. Ziereis must have been tipped off to his personal ambitions by someone in Berlin—likely Heydrich himself—and arranged to rid himself of his strongest competitor.
So now Hallinger would return home to manage a failing counterfeiting operation which had proved frustrating for the Reichsführer-SS. He had already created a magnificent and successful money mill in Gusen. Physically fit workers were brought to their knees in the granite quarries until every last breath had been worked or beaten out of them, generating enormous profits for the SS. Other capable workers could be farmed out to local industrial concerns like nearby munitions plants to further fill the Schutzstaffel’s coffers. What enjoyment could he possibly find harassing a dozen criminal forgers into greater productivity after exploiting an unlimited workforce that lived and died at his whim?
Even more impressive, those physically or mentally unsuited to the rigors of the stone works or other enterprises were a burden on society and of no economic value to the Reich, and Hallinger had won praise for inventing innovative methods for their quick extermination. By mid-summer an Erholungslager was up and running in nearby Hartheim Castle. This officially-designated “convalescent camp” accepted only those selected by the main camp’s medical commission for
“mercy killing.” Code-named Aktion 14f13, the Zyklon-B gas process had proved a grand success, sure to be duplicated elsewhere and adding another feather to Hallinger’s cap. For that action alone he deserved the top leadership position at Mauthausen, and everyone knew it as well. Including Franz Ziereis. Hallinger’s “promotion” back to Berlin was clear retribution for aiming too high too fast.
His second bold idea had won praise not only for its expediency but also for its entertainment value. Resident SS officers and non-coms, prison functionaries, and visiting guests from Berlin all found it a splendid diversion. For this reason, and despite his bitterness at the transfer, Hallinger had chosen to make his newest brainchild the highlight of the afternoon. But now, with mere hours to go before he surrendered his leadership and all hope of a further ascent in the SS camp system, he was having difficulty stifling his anger at Ziereis, Heydrich and Himmler. He wanted the whole charade over with, and quickly.
Dettmüller and the staff officers had gathered around him on a platform overlooking the broad concrete basin. Steuer handed his boss a champagne glass. Guards and functionaries holding bludgeons and whips took up positions encircling the basin. Hallinger lifted his glass with a toast to his friend: “To your success!” They touched flutes and he crushed his spent cigarette beneath his boot. “I’m most confident you will enjoy the spectacle, Willy. We’ve had it up and running for a couple of months and it’s already proving its worth.”
Dettmüller sipped from his glass and looked toward the doors where the condemned would soon appear. “How many are processed at a go?”
“Tops out at three hundred.” Hallinger glanced at his watch. “But I would recommend somewhat fewer at a time to make house-cleaning afterwards easier.” Hallinger caught his aide’s eye and nodded. Raising a Hitler salute, Steuer dropped his right arm abruptly, miming the descent of a guillotine blade. “And we’re off and running, gentlemen,” Hallinger declared.
The doors swung open and a parade of naked men filed in. The ailing prisoners came slowly at first, then faster and stumbling as they balked at the sight before them. The guards herded the captives forward with shouts and curses until two hundred malnourished and trembling men crowded beneath multiple ranks of overhead plumbing. A few shouted out in protest in some Slavic language. The majority suffered silently, all hope and energies exhausted by rigors already endured. Those who had fallen to their knees in the surge were helped to their feet by compatriots to escape the thrashing whips of the guards. Once the basin was full, Hallinger’s aide turned back to his commander to await the next order.
“What sort do you have for us today?” Dettmüller squinted, trying to discern the racial makeup of the crowd but falling short. Disease, infirmity and mistreatment had rendered all but a few haggard specimens indistinguishable in the huddled mass. “All Jews?”
“Mostly Soviet POWs. A few Poles and Republican Spaniards for good measure. The first transports from the south of France are just now arriving, so you’ll see plenty of French Jews soon enough.”
“Excellent.” Dettmüller arched his brows. “But am I missing something? I see no women!” He looked to his officers for confirmation. “That sight might enliven the proceedings a bit, right?” The underlings laughed and nodded in agreement.
“My apologies, Willy. Time was short or I would have trucked some younger ones down from Ravensbrück. I was intending to set up an incentive brothel here, anyway. Nonetheless, I think you’ll enjoy the spectacle, so let’s get things rolling.” Hallinger nodded to Steuer and the aide relayed the order. Four SS men at gate valves spun the large iron wheels in unison and an infernal hissing rattled the maze of plumbing. Air gave way to the rush of ice-cold water and across the basin high-powered jets blasted the naked men amid a howl of pain and protest. Brutal cold rained down from the overhead shower heads, forcing the weakest to their knees under the relentless drenching. The strongest struggled to escape the downpour but were beaten back by the guards. Truncheons and whips tore into flesh and stained the water gathering in the basin. The backs of those directly beneath the powerful blasts ran red under the piercing onslaught while many of the weaker men were trampled underfoot. If they tried to rise above the water’s surface laughing guards trod on their necks until their struggles ceased.
Dettmüller took another sip of champagne. “Most entertaining, indeed—you’ve choreographed a true ‘Dance of the Dead,’ Johann.” And how long does the show last?”
“At most thirty minutes. The majority suffer circulatory collapse well before then.” He pointed to the center of the group as ever more fell to the floor, their bodies covering those already drowned. “Look over there—it’s working like a charm!” Despite his foul mood, the sight couldn’t help but lift his spirits a bit. Hallinger offered Dettmüller one of his cigarettes. “Extremely efficient, and cleanup so much easier than with pesticide gas.”
Dettmüller accepted a light off Hallinger’s match. “Have you named this innovation of yours?”
“Indeed I have.” The cries had given way to a communal moan. Sunken ribcages shook violently and stick-like limbs quivered as on one great dying beast. Hallinger smiled at his own cleverness. “I call it ‘The Death Bath Protocol.’”
Dettmüller smiled. “Splendid. Perhaps we’ll soon be offering such baths throughout the camp system.”
“My friend, I regret I shall miss out on your first trial with females.” Hallinger emptied his glass. “Always more satisfying to watch women bathe, nicht wahr?”
CHAPTER Fifteen
Berlin, Germany
December 1941
“What’s up with Herbert tonight?” The SS driver clearly knew his regular guards on the Sachsenhausen-Tempelhof route. He seemed surprised to encounter an unknown face at the airport field entrance. The blue-on-black Mercedes 260D idled at the gate, exhaust trembling in the frigid air.
“Word is he’s down with the flu.” The substitute sentry grinned as he switched on his flashlight. “Likely taking the cure with a brandy bottle, if you ask me.” After giving the sedan a quick once-over he examined the sergeant’s identity card and noted the arrival on a register. “Name’s Heinz. I normally work over on the freight side.” He secured his pencil on the clipboard. "Who you here for?”
The driver eyed the gloom beyond the reach of his shielded headlamps. “Some lieutenant colonel in from Vienna.” His fingers drummed the steering wheel. “Say, can we hurry this along? My guy’s landing any minute, and I’m supposed to be out there saluting his majesty.”
The sentry glanced skyward. The airplane had yet to appear, but the rumble of heavy engines above the clouds announced an imminent landing. Ground lights blinked on abruptly to reveal the runway. “Paperwork looks good,” the guard returned the driver’s documents and stepped away from the window, “but I’d check out that right front if I were you. You’ve a gash on the sidewall and it’s sitting pretty low. Wouldn’t want to keep your special guest waiting while you change out a tire.”
The man slammed a palm against the wheel. “Scheisse! Who needs this crap?” He left the car idling and came around to squat beside the wheel in question. A quick look found nothing. “So where the hell’s the damage?” He looked up just as the guard’s flashlight descended his way.
“On your head, comrade.” The driver lay sprawled at the feet of Kessler’s man Heinz. Ryan appeared from beyond the gate to help drag the stunned chauffeur into the hut. Kessler’s other minion Gerhardt side-stepped them on his way out. Already dressed as an SS sergeant, he guided the Mercedes out to welcome Obersturmbannführer-SS Hallinger to Berlin Tempelhof.
The plane dropped below the cloud cover and touched down, wing lights bouncing as its wheels met the frozen ground. The Junkers-52 cut a wide turn across the field and rolled up alongside the waiting sedan. Two men appeared in the doorway and hurried down the steps, hats gripped tightly against the wash of the propellers. Gerhardt saluted smartly and opened doors for the colonel and his adjutant. A crew member he
lped stow their valises in the trunk. Gerhardt had barely turned the sedan when the plane rumbled off toward a distant hangar.
Heinz stood before the airfield gate, his left hand holding the flashlight at his side, his right held high to signal a halt. Ryan remained out of sight behind the guard shack. He released the safety on his pistol even though they expected no difficulties. Gerhardt came to a stop beneath the dull glow of the lamp post.
Hallinger aimed his frustration at the driver. “Whose asinine idea is this? Doesn’t that fool know who I am?”
“No worries, Herr Obersturmbannführer, it’s only a formality.” Gerhardt’s eyes met Hallinger’s in the rearview mirror. “Rumors of airport saboteurs, so everyone’s on high alert.”
Heinz rapped his flashlight on Hallinger’s window glass and demanded “Papiere, bitte.” The SS officer lowered the pane with his left while reaching for his papers, ready to tear into the guard once he proved his rank and authority. Frigid air rushed in followed by the muzzle of an automatic pistol, and the colonel lurched back in disbelief. The adjutant’s hand barely reached the flap of his holster before Heinz’s Walther spit twice, splattering gore on the far window. The aide pitched forward, his peaked cap falling to the floor as blood seeped from his temple. Gerhardt had already swiveled to train a second weapon on the colonel. Eyes uncomprehending and ears ringing, Hallinger slowly raised his hands.
Ryan rounded the sedan with a shout: “Inside, and quickly!” Kessler’s men confiscated Hallinger’s sidearm and hustled him into the hut. Ryan righted the fallen aide’s body. The head wound said it all. Wiping his bloodied hands on the dead man’s trousers, he was less than pleased to have a corpse to deal with.
He entered the shack. Against the wall lay the unconscious SS driver, hands and feet bound with thin cord. The “ailing” airport guard—the one called Herbert—lay tied and gagged beside him. Heinz had heavily doped both with a sedative. All of this was per plan, but not the gruesome mess in the sedan. “We’d agreed there’d be no bloodshed.”
Echoes of Silence Page 20
