A Murder in Auschwitz (24 page)

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 the 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.”

“And the name Cerberus? I know that he is the multi-headed hound who guards the gates to Hades,” asked Meyer.

“Ah, is it the name of the bar, or perhaps Cerberus is supposedly on guard to protect it? If it is the later, then that would make this Hell,” smiled Deschler. “No, Cerberus was the name of the ship where all of this wonderful wood panelling came from. The Cerberus was a vessel used for polar exploration. A strange and fascinating story, but one for another day.” He lifted his glass of whisky. “Prost.”

Meyer lifted his in response and replied in turn, then took a sip of the yellow liquid.

“The whisky you are drinking was distilling in view of the Imperial Navy scuttling itself in nineteen-nineteen,” said Deschler. Meyer took another sip. “I think it is important to see the whole picture, whether it is experiencing a glass of whisky, or defending a client.

“This is my favourite whisky; I can taste honey and sea salt when I let it sit on my tongue. It is an aside that it was present when the ships went down. Is it important? To me it is. That this whisky was only a hundred metres or so away from the brave actions of our sailors, the very last actions of the Great War. It gives me a connection to that event.

“After what happened in court today, I think you can appreciate what I am talking about.”

Meyer took another sip of whisky. “You mean the murder weapon? It woke me in the middle of last night. But you had already spotted it. Already seen that the very implement which caused that wound was missing, and if it was missing then someone removed it, and who would do that? Kolb didn’t. Why would he kill someone, leave with the murder weapon to remove it from the scene of the crime, and then return to be caught? Unlikely in the extreme. But, Herr Deschler, it was luck that it came to my mind.”

“Nonsense. It is your experience and intelligence which led you to the same conclusion as myself. And it was your abilities as a defence lawyer which allowed you to outmanoeuvre the prosecution. Also, Manfred, if I may call you that, in private, please call me Kurt.”

Meyer and Deschler sat in silence for a short while, enjoying the warmness of the room and the whisky. Deschler stretched out his wooden leg, the pain from which showed itself on his face momentarily, then lit a cigarette using a book of matches on the table, which Meyer noted were from a different establishment.

“My father was in the war,” Meyer found himself saying. “My father and my brother. I lost them both. I was too young to go.”

Deschler took a deep drag from his cigarette and emptied the last of the whisky into his mouth. He motioned to the barman that another two drinks were required, then replied in a low voice. “War is a terrible thing, Manfred. Do not be ashamed that you were too young to be involved in that bloodbath. It destroyed so many lives, not just the ones who were killed but those who made it home again. Many will carry the wounds of war secretly. Here,” he said, pointing to his head and then resting his hand on his leg.

“If we can have a generation who don’t have to fight in a war, then the world will change for the better. We should never forget those who gave so much, but we should always look forward.

“It is one of the reasons I joined the National Socialists. A strong army will keep the wolves away from Germany so we can have a peaceful existence and our children can grow up safe.”

The barman brought over two more glasses of whisky and slid them onto the table.

“How are your wife and your two girls?” asked Deschler.

“Very well, thank you, Kurt,” replied Meyer. It felt strange calling him by his first name.

Deschler took another drink from the whisky glass. “I was married too, you know Manfred. To a beautiful girl from just outside Berlin. I met her before the war and it was love at first sight. She had the most delightful golden hair. It shone, even when there was no sun.

“When the war began I signed up as soon as I could. I went from a life of law school and love to one of mud and blood and horror. I missed her. I wrote to her every opportunity that I had. And she wrote back. She couldn’t wait for me to return to see her. In the short time I had with her when I was on leave she told me how much she loved me and how much she hated the war for taking me away from her.

“And then I was wounded. I lost my leg and I spent over a year in hospital. She visited me when she could, brought me books and fruit. She told me it didn’t matter about the leg. She loved me and it didn’t matter.

“So we got married. I had my wooden leg by then. I walked down the aisle with her holding on to my arm, helping me so I didn’t have to use my stick. She really didn’t care about the leg and she really did love me. But the shell which took my leg took something else as well.

“I had always wanted children. I had always imagined us with a huge brood of children. In particular, I always wanted a son. But it was not to be. She said it didn’t matter. But it did. I gave her everything she could possibly want except children.

“Then, one day, I came home from Bauer & Bauer early. It was to surprise her, to take her out for the afternoon to the zoo. She loved the zoo. But she wasn’t alone.

“The man she was with was a baker from the corner of our street. I don’t know how long she had been...I mean, it wasn’t the first time. I didn’t know what to do so I went to see Friedrich Bauer. He let me stay in a spare room at his house. He and his wife had never managed to have children either so they understood my pain. I went back after a week and she had gone. I never saw her again. I moved out of the apartment to the other side of the city and had my things sent on.

“Friedrich Bauer really looked after me then. He made sure my rent was paid even though I was rarely at work. He eventually talked me round and I started my life again without her.

“But what I missed, what I really missed was what had never been; a son.”

Meyer took a large drink of his whisky. Deschler had suddenly, after such a long time, shown him his vulnerable side, and it had taken a courtroom defeat to do so. Perhaps this was the beginning of a friendship that could only exist while they were professional adversaries.

Deschler drained his glass and set it down on the table, taking a few notes from his wallet and placing them under his glass. Meyer realised that it was time to go and finished off his glass of whisky.

“I was proud of you today, Manfred,” Deschler suddenly said. “I have watched you grow as a lawyer and today I was proud of you.”

Klara and Meyer held hands as they walked back along Zehlendorf Strasse to their apartment and Meyer whistled one of the tunes they had danced to. The evening sun cast long, golden shadows along the pavement. They could hear the newspaper-seller before they could see him.

“Do you think he shouts like that at home?” giggled Klara.

“Yes, I know for a fact that he does but luckily his wife is deaf so she doesn’t notice,” joked Meyer, making Klara laugh out loud.

As they got closer, they could see that the newspaper front pages of the evening editions carried large pictures of Hindenburg and Adolf Hitler. It was customary for Meyer to question the newspaper-seller each morning and evening when he saw him.

“What ails the world this evening, Paul?” asked Meyer.

The newspaper-seller tipped his hat to Klara as he answered. “Hindenburg has resigned. Hitler is now the leader of Germany.”

Auschwitz, 4th February 1944

THE freezing mist had persisted throughout the night and still hung in the early morning air, chilling anyone coming on duty. The senior adjutant officer, Hauptsturmfuhrer Josef Kramer, sat in the anteroom outside the Camp Commandant Obersturmbannfuhrer Arthur Liebehenschel’s office.

Kramer had been summoned to see Liebehenschel that morning. He knew what the subject matter would be; the murder which had taken place the night before. He had written a preliminary report for the Camp Commandant and had one of his men wake Liebehenschel’s secretary and give it to him to pass on. Kramer was not the sort of man who would wake the Camp Commandant himself. That was a job for someone else.

Liebehenschel’s office door was open, and Kramer could see the Commandant on the telephone at his desk. After a short while, Liebehenschel hung up the telephone and spoke to someone who was standing out of Kramer's sight. It was Liebehenschel’s secretary, and he immediately came to the door and asked Kramer to go straight in. Kramer entered the modest office and saluted. Liebehenschel returned the salute and indicated to Kramer to sit down.

“Josef, I got your report from last night,” said Liebehenschel, opening the card folder and re-reading the single page inside. Once he had scanned over it one more time, he looked up at Kramer.

“So, one of my senior officers is found dead in his office with a junior officer holding a smoking pistol in his hand. Why has this...” and Liebehenschel checked the report again. “Why has this Kolb not been shot?”

Kramer had known that this question would be asked this morning. The camps had their own internal affairs and security. This allowed discipline and policing of the staff employed there to be dealt with within the camp quickly and efficiently. In the winter, when the snow was at its worst, Auschwitz could be effectively cut off, so it was imperative that the SS and Gestapo policed their own. And this included punishment.

Lesser crimes were dealt with by demotion of rank, reduction in pay, or time within the camp stockade. More serious crimes, such as corruption, would be dealt with locally to ascertain probable guilt and sometimes be processed further by a military court in Germany. Murder, on the other hand, would definitely be dealt with quickly and within the camp’s own infrastructure.

Kramer had had Kolb arrested and placed in the stockade while he took advice from the Camp Commandant. Initially, he had presumed that since Kolb had been found with the gun that killed Straus in his hand, there would be an instant confession and therefore a quick execution by firing squad.

However, for there to be a quick resolution, there had to be a confession, and no matter what pressure was brought to bear on Kolb, he insisted that he was innocent. Even when Kramer had employed some of the techniques he used against the Jewish prisoners, Kolb had not changed his story.