A Murder in Auschwitz (21 page)

“Whatever you say, beautiful wife,” replied Meyer. He kissed Anna and Greta, pulled on his jacket, and put his arms around Klara. “Wish me luck,” he said.

“Not that you need luck,” she replied. “But good luck anyway.”

He kissed her one more time and headed down the stairs into the street, where the newspaper-seller was declaring that morning’s news.

“Good morning, Paul. More good news I see,” he said picking up a newspaper and dropping a few coins into the paper-seller’s hand.

“Yes, Herr Meyer, there are calls for the dissolution of the Reichstag and there are food riots in Berlin. The country has no money, no food, and soon, no government.” replied the paper-seller.

“Yes, Paul, where will it all end, eh?” replied Meyer. “Where will it all end?”

Meyer took his seat within the courtroom, with Weber sitting next to him. They were early and made use of the relatively relaxed atmosphere of the courtroom to organise their papers and discuss a few final points. Courtrooms held a particular serenity in the time before a trial began. If possible, Meyer always tried to get there early and enjoy the silence and calmness as he waited for the theatre which was a courtroom in session to begin.

Some members of the public had arrived and were chatting in hushed voices while court staff came and went, preparing the room for the day’s proceedings. Weber was passing Meyer a note, which was to be pinned to the biography page for Wolfgang Kolb, when he happened to glance towards the door at the rear of the court.

“Manfred,” he said attempting to get Meyer’s attention. When there was no response, he tried a little louder.

“What is it, Otto? Look, we need to bring this out in the first day...” Meyer’s voice trailed off, and he looked up from the papers at Weber. He could see by the look on Weber’s face that something was wrong. “Otto, what is the matter?”

Weber replied in a subdued voice. “The prosecutor is here.”

Meyer followed Weber’s gaze to the rear of the courtroom. The prosecutor had arrived with his assistants and was making his way slowly down the aisle between the chairs. Meyer’s stomach turned over. It was Deschler.

Meyer nodded to him as he limped past the defence’s desk to sit at the prosecutor's table on the other side of the courtroom. Deschler took his seat and hung his stick from the table, before returning Meyer’s silent greeting. If he had been surprised to see Meyer, he had certainly not given it away.

Meyer heard Weber sigh. Meyer placed his hand on Weber’s shoulder and smiled. “Otto, we must not allow the fact that Herr Deschler is the prosecutor to force us to deviate from our plan. We have a good case; the prosecution have a lot of circumstantial evidence but nothing concrete. All we need to do is find a crack and open it wide enough for the jury to see our point of view and not the prosecution’s.”

Weber nodded and smiled in return, but it was forced, and his fear of Deschler as the prosecutor was evident in his eyes.

Once the preliminaries had been concluded, Wolfgang Kolb was brought into the court. He was a handsome young man, with his shock of blonde hair and his piercing blue eyes, one of which was partially closed from a black eye which he had received in prison.

Meyer did not like him very much. There was an arrogance and brutishness about him which Meyer feared may prejudice the jury against him. However, Kolb was obviously intelligent and had spoken at great length to Meyer and Bauer about the case during their trips to Spandau. Meyer had also taken him books which he requested and, since Kolb had no immediate family, chocolate and cigarettes, which Kolb was always extremely grateful for, his arrogance dropping as he thanked Meyer.

Once Kolb had taken his seat, Meyer and Weber watched as Deschler initiated the prosecution’s case against him. As was usual practice, Deschler made a brief opening statement to the jury before calling his first witness.

It was a consummate lesson in perfection. From his questioning of his witnesses, Deschler took the jury through how the prosecution saw events having unfolded on that evening. Deschler painted a picture of how Wolfgang Kolb and Josef Pfeiffer had been working late in the upholstery workshop. As it was a Saturday evening, they had left the workshop for an hour and a half to visit a local beer hall, where they had been seen arguing. On their return to the workshop, the argument had continued between the two men due to Wolfgang Kolb’s jealousy over Josef Pfeiffer’s position within the company, as the only son. During this argument, Kolb had got hold of a sharp tool and stabbed Pfeiffer in the heart, killing him instantly.

Kolb had been found by Josef Pfeiffer’s own father over the body of his son, stained in blood. No-one else was on the premises, and no-one had seen anyone else arrive at any point during that night.

Deschler pushed home the point of the argument in the beer hall, explaining how it would have got out of control once they had returned to the workshop, and, with Wolfgang Kolb’s well-known short fuse, in an unfortunate fit of temper he had picked up the closest weapon to hand and brought Josef Pfeiffer’s life to an untimely end. Most tragically of all, his own father had found the victim.

Meyer struggled to find pertinent questions with which to disprove or throw Deschler’s arguments off-track, and he chose not to question Josef Pfeiffer senior at all.

All of Deschler’s witnesses were either police or family members, giving credence to the prosecution’s case. Meyer sat in dismay, as he could see the jury follow the story that Deschler wove, bringing them to the position which Deschler called the ‘fork in the road’. It was as far as a good prosecution could take a jury; pointing down the correct road. Once the prosecution left them there, the defence had to turn them around and point them down the other path. This was a defence lawyer's most difficult task.

It was human nature to believe the first version of a story that was heard. This was the prosecutions greatest weapon; if the prosecutor could tell an impressive story which appeared to be airtight, then the defence rarely managed to convince a jury otherwise. And this was what Deschler had just done.

Once the prosecution had rested, the court adjourned for the day and Meyer and Weber retired to Bauer & Bauer’s offices.

“Herr Deschler has certainly taken his new role as a prosecutor in his stride,” said Weber, attempting to break the silence.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything different,” sighed Meyer. “So we now have a jury convinced of Wolfgang Kolb’s guilt. To be honest with you, I am almost convinced of Wolfgang Kolb’s guilt.

“In spite of all the witness statements and questions today, as I see it, Herr Deschler laid out a very simple case.

“Kolb and Pfeiffer argue. Kolb loses his temper and stabs Pfeiffer. He has no time to escape or hide the body since Josef Pfeiffer Senior arrives to check on their work. Pfeiffer Senior finds Kolb over his son’s body, covered in blood. Kolb makes a run for it and is picked up later by the police. Simple.”

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.