A Murder in Auschwitz (6 page)

“This is my hut. Where you sleep and where you will probably die. I will outlive all of you. But, I will try to keep those who help me and, how can I put this, ‘work with me’, alive as long as possible.”

He dropped his arms and looked at the men before him.

“You get up at four am. You go outside no matter the weather and line up. This is for my roll call. Once I have a list of all those present I check the hut for those not there. I mark the sick and the dead.

“You stay standing in line until the SS do their roll call. They have the dead and the sick removed from the hut. We don’t see them again. Ever.

“You then get water to drink and are split into working parties by me. You go and do your work and return at a time determined by the guards. You go to the mess hut. Eat, drink. Come back to the hut and sleep.

“Then the same the next day. And the next day. There is no day off. There is no Sabbath.”

Langer looked from one face to another. This was a little speech that he liked giving. There was something powerful in telling men that they would live in misery and that this is where they would die. It was the most power he had ever enjoyed.

“You go now to the mess hut and pick up a bowl and a cup. Wait in the queue with these. No cup, no water. No bowl, no food.”

One of the other men spoke up.

“Which of these are our bunks?”

Langer’s brow deepened and his eyes darkened.

“You call me ‘sir’ when you speak to me.”

The man who had spoken stepped forward, and for a moment Meyer thought that he was going to challenge Langer’s authority. But instead he apologised for his disrespect and asked his question once more, this time adding ‘sir’ to the end of the sentence. This placated the Kapo and he laughed as he answered.

“Where are your bunks?” repeated Langer, and pointed around him, laughing.

“You can sleep where you want but you might need to do a bit of negotiation with the man who feels that you are sleeping in his bunk.”

Still laughing, he walked out of the hut in to the relatively cool air outside. “Come with me,” he commanded, “I will take you to the mess hut.”

His band of new inmates followed him.

“The first of the work parties will be back now. Let them eat first. Then you get your cups, bowls and meal. If I see any of you jumping the queue...” and Langer drew his finger across his throat.

“That is the latrines,” said Langer, as they passed a brick building from the days when this had been a Polish barracks. “Working there is a punishment. Being in this camp is a death sentence, but the only thing that will kill you faster than working in the latrines is an SS bullet.”

Langer took them across the dusty compound to the location of the mess hut. A line of grey-striped men stood waiting for their food. There was an eagerness behind the sunken eyes and dirty faces as they all stared at the queue in front of them as it slowly moved forward. Those at the front scurried off like rats to corners of the yard to eat their only meal of the day.

The new men were ignored with only a cursory glance as they were led to the back of the queue by Langer, who then walked off to the brick buildings near the entrance gate.

None of the men talked. There was no chatting. No jokes. No laughing. Only the occasional cough or sneeze broke the silence of the men. And forward they slowly but surely moved, one eager step after another as they got one place closer to the front of the queue and food.

Meyer moved forward one step, sometimes two or three steps at a time, until he reached the table with the piles of tin bowls and cups. Each man picked up one each and resumed their slow march to their edible reward for a hard day’s work.

Slowly, they shuffled forward and the dust from the camp settled on Meyer’s prison uniform. With every speck of grey he lost some colour. He could see it happening before his eyes. He wondered how long before he looked like the rest of the prisoners.

Meyer finally made it to the front of the queue and held out his tin bowl. The prisoner behind the counter poured a ladle full of thin soup into it, and a piece of black bread was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the bowl, splashing some of the soup onto Mayer’s wrist. He then copied the man in front and filled his cup from the top of an open water barrel.

Meyer then found a corner to sit in before quenching his thirst with the cool water. He then devoured the thin soup and black bread. It was insubstantial, but he hadn’t eaten for so long that to Meyer it tasted like food at the best restaurant in Berlin. It did not take long before it was finished. He looked into his empty bowl and ran his finger around the edge to pick up any of the watery soup which had stuck to the metal. He sucked his finger, enjoying the faint taste of salt and perhaps chicken. He surprised himself, feeling his heart fill with joy as he spotted a reasonable size crumb of black bread which had stuck to the underside of the lip of his bowl.

Once he was certain that every single morsel of food had been consumed, he then made his way to the back of the mess hut and dropped his empty plate and cup into a pile of dirty crockery as he had seen the other prisoners do and started to make his way back to the only place he could imagine going in this hot dismal place, hut seventy-two.

Berlin, 18th November 1929

KURT Deschler took his time before asking Dieter Färber his first question. “Herr Färber, it must have been a terrible shock finding your parents in their home in that manner.”

Färber agreed that it had been terrible, and that it was something which would stay with him for the rest of his life. Deschler declared his deepest sympathy for him and continued with his questions.

“You lived with your parents, Herr Färber?”

“Yes.”

Deschler frowned and pointed to one of Meyer’s piles of papers, which Meyer diligently handed to Deschler.

“But I have it here,” said Deschler, pointing to the top paper, “that you were married two and a half years ago. Is this not the case?”

Färber looked confused and, in an embarrassed voice, admitted that he was married but that his wife had left him.

“What is your profession, Herr Färber?”

“I work in the meat factory, bringing in the carcasses from the wagons.”

Deschler nodded.

“That would explain your powerful frame, Herr Färber.”

“You need to be strong to carry in that meat.”

“Your father was also of a strong build, was he not? Being in the same trade,” asked Deschler.

“That is correct,” replied Färber. “Even though he was twenty years my senior, he was a very fit and strong man.”

“So it would have taken a particularly strong man to have been able to...” Deschler made a show of searching for the correct words. “Disable him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Perhaps not someone with a withered arm?”

“We have already heard from you about that dreadful moment in your parents' house, and I do not wish for you to have to relive it, but can you explain to me when you saw the defendant?”

Färber looked up to the vaulted ceiling and closed his eyes in thought.

“It was as I was about to leave the house. He was at the front door, opening it to escape. I tried to shout but I am ashamed to say that nothing came out.”

“Did the defendant see you?”

“I don’t think so, but he left very quickly.”

Deschler pointed to one of Meyer’s piles of papers. Meyer handed it over. Deschler picked one paper out and handed the rest back to Meyer.

“I have here the description of the defendant that you gave the police. Let me read this to you. ‘A Gypsy with black hair, pulled back into a ponytail. A black moustache, bushy eyebrows above brown eyes, a long nose, pierced ears and swarthy skin. He wore a black leather waistcoat, a patterned kerchief around his neck, a red shirt and black trousers’.”

Deschler handed the paper back to Meyer.

“That is a very convincing description of Herr Weide, don’t you think, Herr Färber?”

“Yes, it is. It is what I saw.”

“But you didn’t mention Herr Weide’s withered arm.”

“I didn’t notice it at the time. He was escaping through the door. It was all so fast.”

“Can I ask you, how did you know he was a Gypsy?”

Färber looked over at the jury and back to Deschler again.

“Well, I suppose I just guessed. He looked like a Gypsy.”

“Yes Herr Färber, your description is an excellent one of a Gypsy. Actually, a very typical description of a very typical Gypsy. How did you know he had a moustache and brown eyes?”

Färber looked puzzled.

“I am sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”

Deschler’s smile had entirely gone now.

“How did you know what Herr Weide’s facial features were when you were not even certain if he had seen you? Herr Weide would have to be facing you for you to have seen the colour of his eyes.”

“Perhaps he did see me, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He was hurrying to get out of the house,” replied Färber.

“Oh yes, Herr Färber. It does matter. In fact, this whole case rests not on whether you saw someone running from your house, but whether they saw you. For you to be able to determine the colour of someone’s eyes, or the type of eyebrows, or the length of nose, then that person needs to be facing you, with their eyes open. You said that you were ‘unsure’ if he had seen you, but to be able to give such a detailed description you must have been staring into each other’s faces. Would you not agree, Herr Färber?”

Färber began to stumble over his words as he said that he did not know.

“In fact, Herr Färber, I suggest to you that you did not see Herr Weide in your parents' home. I suggest that there was no breakin on that day. I suggest, Herr Färber, that in fact it was you that required the money from your parents to cover gambling debts. The very same gambling debts which had only recently meant the loss of your home and, subsequently the loss of your wife. You chose a Gypsy to blame this crime on, but unfortunately for you, the police found a man fitting your schoolboy description of one; Herr Weide, thereby requiring a trial and full investigation...”

Fuhrmann the prosecutor jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “Your Honour, Herr Färber is not on trial, he is as much a victim as his poor departed parents.”

Deschler continued to talk through the interruption, his voice rising above both Furhmann’s and the judge’s.

“It would have been much better that this go as an unsolved crime, especially at this time of uncertainty while the police have much more on their plates with communists and fascists fighting in the streets!”

Finally, Judge Koehler’s voice rose above the melee.

“Herr Deschler! You will desist! Herr Färber is not on trial; this is conjecture on your part!”

Deschler apologised and sat down, while Judge Koehler indicated to the jury that they should ignore the last few statements from Deschler and asked the stenographer to strike them from the record. But the damage was done. Meyer was in awe of Deschler’s ability to manipulate the witness and the jury, twisting the story to fit his needs. He had given the jury everything that he had told Meyer they required, even an alternative suspect.

Once everything had calmed down again in the courtroom, Judge Koehler asked Deschler if he had any more questions. Deschler pushed himself back up on his stick.

“No more questions, your Honour, and no more witnesses. The defence rests.”

Fuhrmann did not follow with any questions. Meyer looked over at the prosecution bench to see Fuhrmann sitting back in his chair, flicking through the contents of a cardboard folder. Meyer was sure that Deschler had won the case and had expected to see the prosecutor furious, especially with that final ambush at the very end of the trial, but he seemed serene, possibly even resigned to the loss of the case.

Meyer sat back in his chair as if winded by a blow to the stomach. He turned his head to see Deschler’s reaction and was surprised to see calm placidity across his face. Meyer could not understand how Deschler was able to accept the verdict.

The jury had been out for two hours before returning with a majority verdict which found Prala Weide guilty of the murder of Herr and Frau Färber but not guilty of theft. The judge read out the verdict of the jury and then dismissed the court to be reconvened in four weeks’ time, at which point he would give sentence.

Prala Weide’s face had not changed when the verdict was read out. It was as if he was not in the least surprised to be found guilty. Even with Herr Deschler’s defence, which Meyer had thought was masterful, even though Herr Deschler had shown that there was no real evidence against him and had provided the jury with a possible alternative suspect, he did not seem surprised.

“I don’t understand,” said Meyer, quietly, as the court rose and Judge Koehler left the courtroom.

“What don’t you understand?” It was Deschler. Meyer had not realised that he had spoken out loud.

“I thought we were certain of winning,” he replied.