Nuremberg

by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  “ That just isn’t so,” Sebastian whispered to Harry, removing his headphones. “It’s even worse than that with some defendants — with one, anyway. Amadeus didn’t even give a thought to the notion that what he did was criminal.”

  The next judge rose to address the implications of Count One, conspiring to wage aggressive war . Everyone listened intently, but Judge Birkett’s reasoning, eagerly anticipated by several lawyers who knew him and his work, did not prove to be anything anxious legal minds hoped for: a creative formulation that would persuasively distinguish what the Third Reich had criminally done from evolutionarily defensible uses of war-making. Birkett simply stressed the evidence (abundant) that the Nazis had prepared themselves to wage their wars and that the wars’ designs were indisputably aggressive.

  Suddenly it was over, except for disparate findings directed at individual defendants, due the next day.

  *

  That night at the Grand Hotel a young Jewish photojournalist whose father had been a croupier in Hamburg was spiritedly giving odds and taking bets. Five-to-one for conviction were the default odds, reduced for Rudolf Hess to three-to-one, and for the banker Schacht to two-to-one. Staff, journalists, visitors, and prosecutors discreetly placed bets. “What are you giving on Amadeus?” Harry asked the oddsmaker inquisitively.

  “Default. Five-to-one.” By betting one mark that Amadeus would be found not guilty, Harry would wan five marks. If found guilty, lose one mark. “Not worth the gamble,” he said to Sebastian. They stayed a while, observing the bettors, and remarking their sense of the odds on individual defendants.

  Even Harry Albright had difficulty sleeping soundly on Monday night.

  *

  Lord Lawrence began promptly at 0930. The press had received a bulletin explaining that individual sentences would be read out by individual judges. The schedule gave the judges’ names and the defendants they would address. Lawrence, the chief judge, would read the finding on Hermann Goering; de facto, the chief defendant.

  To that finding, Judge Lawrence devoted only fifteen hundred words. He began by ruling that the Luftwaffe, of which Goering was in command, was exonerated in the matter of the bombings of Warsaw, Rotterdam, and Coventry, exonerated of the charge that these bombings were, by the definition of the tribunal, “war crimes.”

  Lawrence pronounced Goering himself guilty on all four counts. “By the decree of 31 July 1941, he directed Himmler and Heydrich to ‘bring about a complete solution of the Jewish question in the German sphere of influence in Europe.’ There is nothing to be said in mitigation. For Goering was often, indeed almost always, the moving force, second only to his leader. On some specific cases there may be a conflict of testimony, but, in terms of the broad outline, his own admissions are more than sufficiently wide to breed conclusions of his guilt. His guilt is unique in its enormity. The record discloses no excuses for this man.”

  *

  Successive judges, in national sequence, and then in rotation, went down the list.

  Judge Biddle read out the exoneration of Hjalmar Schacht as not directly involved in the war crimes that were central to the prosecution. His immediate release was ordered. Sebastian waited anxiously for #17.

  The U.K.’s Norman Birkett read out the finding.

  “The defendant Amadeus presided over the entire lifetime of the vicious Camp Joni, where by the evidence and his own admission, one-quarter million lives were taken in pursuit of the Third Reich’s total war and its genocidal obsession. That Kurt Amadeus was following orders merely reiterates a defense repeatedly rejected by this tribunal as irrelevant and debasing.”

  The findings were completed before the lunch break.

  *

  The sentences were read out immediately after the afternoon session began.

  For Fritzsche and von Papen — like Schacht — acquittal. For Funk, Hess, and Raeder, life in prison. For Speer and von Schirach, twenty years. For von Neurath, fifteen years. For Doenitz, ten years.

  For the rest, hanging.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  October 11 , 1946

  Chief Landers was on the telephone. “Amadeus wants to see you. If you want to see him, say yes. I don’t see why we can’t go with the usual arrangements.”

  “Chief, do you have any idea when the executions will be?”

  “I don’t. If I did I wouldn’t tell you. If I did tell you, I’d take a blood oath that I didn’t tell you.”

  “That means you don’t know?”

  “All I can tell you, Lieutenant, is that the talk is they’re not going to delay it for very long.”

  Harry was able to do better than that, with his routine eavesdropping. “I can’t give you a date, Sebby. But I can tell you that the hangman has been notified. They used him over at Landsberg. That’s where the Fuehrer was locked up, 1923 — the year I was born! Dachau, around the corner from Landsberg, was used for some pretty savage work during the war, and they tried and strung them up at Landsberg a few weeks after the war ended. Our boy should have plenty of practice.”

  “Harry, Amadeus has put in to see me, and the chief said go ahead, usual arrangements.”

  Albright whistled. “Your man slipped through the bureaucracy there. Even family visits have been prohibited. Everybody’s on edge. Wonder what he wants to talk to you about? Changing his plea, ha-ha?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  *

  It was exactly as before, the first guard preceding Sebastian into the cell; the second guard, as ever, peering through the eye aperture in the cell door.

  Amadeus rose and, as customary, did not extend his hand.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Sebastian by instinct almost found himself saying that he was very sorry about Amadeus’s bad news, but caught himself in time with relief. He said only, “Well, it seems to be the end of the line.”

  At least in German “end of the line” was not a pun.

  Amadeus nodded. “Yes, and I suppose that this will be our last meeting. The time to tell you my story is, therefore, not something I can put off.”

  “You mean, a story beyond what the interrogation — and our conversations — have given us?”

  “Yes, Herr Lieutenant.” Amadeus leaned back in his chair and, for an instant, closed his eyes.

  He spoke in a near monotone. “When I gave orders to burn the records of Joni, I did not order the blueprints of the camp, which reposed elsewhere, destroyed. They were stored in the engineer’s office, and as they had nothing whatever to do with the identities of the people who were killed, they were not records of the kind Herr Himmler wanted gone.”

  “I understand.”

  “The blueprints and construction papers had nothing to do with people who were eliminated, but a great deal to do with how to go about eliminating them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The blueprints include specifications and operating instructions for the crematorium at Joni. It was designed, and the building of it supervised, by Captain Axel Reinhard.”

  Sebastian turned pale. He grabbed the end of the desk that separated them and lowered his head to bring back the blood. The guard spoke up in English, “Anything you need, sir?”

  Sebastian shook his head and looked up at Amadeus. “I last saw my father when I was thirteen. I tell you flatly he could not have participated in your war crime.”

  “I will tell you the story. An adjutant of Governor Frank became a friend of your father. He was an older man who had served as a librarian at the University of Cracow. His name was Plekhov. In 1942 he became a member of the larger staff of the Nazi governor, whom I knew very well. Governor Frank.”

  “Why was my father in Poland?”

  “The firm of Heidl & Sons was retained in 1941 to construct a conventional prisoner of war camp southwest of Lodz. The firm dispatched your father to supervise its construction. He had very nearly completed the work when Captain Plekhov went to him — I had the story from him in some detail —
and told your father that he was to travel to Auschwitz to familiarize himself with the crematorium there in order to build one into our Camp Joni — Himmler had decreed that it would become not a POW camp but a concentration camp.”

  Sebastian stared at him, the lips of his mouth parting.

  “Evidently your father simply refused. Plekhov was under very considerable pressure from Governor Frank, to whom Herr Himmler had given urgent instructions. So he told your father that he could accept the commission, in which case he would be given military orders to proceed to Auschwitz to copy the death house plans. Or he could decline the commission, refuse, as a civilian, to carry out the order. In which case he would be tried for ‘treasonable obstruction’ to the national war effort, tried under Article 208, and hanged.

  “I do not know what you would have done under such circumstances, Herr Lieutenant.”

  “My father joined the SS?”

  “Yes. And I met with him, of course, when I arrived as Kommandant, shortly before the death house was completed. Your father kept his distance, approaching me only when my intervention was necessary to his work as Chief of Camp Construction. But he was always in close touch with Captain Plekhov, who even kept sleeping quarters in the same building where your father had his office. That became a dangerous liaison — ”

  Sebastian would not ask him to proceed, but his face expressed awe and impatience.

  “ — because Captain Plekhov endeavored to subvert a direct instruction from Governor Frank. The Gestapo set out to arrest him. Your father learned about it and endeavored to contrive Plekhov’s escape. He commandeered a truck and tried to hide Plekhov in the back, under a tarpaulin. The truck was blocked at the exit by a train delivering supplies. Captain Reinhard got out to give orders to the train engineer to move the train out of the way. The Gestapo at the gate saw through the ruse and told the guard to summon me. Your father returned to the truck and was ready to drive away with Plekhov when I accosted him.”

  Sebastian had never before done this, but now-he told the guard that he intended to fill the glass above the sink with water. He did not bother to ask Amadeus for permission to use his glass — plastic, shatterproof to guard against fragmentation and the construction of a suicide weapon.

  He drank a few ounces and wiped the sweat on his face with his sleeve. He returned to his seat.

  “While your father was in the guardhouse, the Gestapo, of course, checked on his background. Berlin combed through the records, which were shown to me. They revealed that Captain Reinhard had married a Jew.”

  “My mother.”

  “Yes, your mother.”

  “I knew that. Though not until a few months ago. I did not know it back when you told me in October that I looked part Jewish.”

  Amadeus’s smile was astringent. “We war criminals enjoy our little ironies...His marriage to your mother was not directly relevant to what then happened, but it certainly had a bearing on the three-man Gestapo court that tried him and sentenced him to hang for the offense of trying to help an enemy of the state to escape. He very much did not wish to go to the gallows, so early in the morning of his scheduled execution I had him shot, as though I had not accurately read the fine print decreeing hanging.

  “I am asking you, Herr Lieutenant, to return the favor by contriving to pass me some poison.”

  Sebastian stood up. He stared at Amadeus, still seated. And walked over to the cell door and waited for the officer of the watch, standing by, to unlock the door and let him leave.

  Book Five

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  October 12, 1946

  Albright was finding it hard that night to get Sebastian’s attention. He proposed going to the movie being shown in the rec hall of the Palace. “It’s Notorious . Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman and Alfred Hitchcock, which means it must be exciting and incredible. What do you say, Sebby?”

  Sebastian said he, too, had college application forms to fill out. “Maybe a movie tomorrow.”

  “Where are you applying?”

  “I’m thinking of law school eventually, so maybe Berkeley undergrad. I can probably start in as a sophomore. I think they’d give me a year’s credit for all this stuff I’ve been doing. So three years’ undergraduate work, then three years in law school. Then I can come back to Nuremberg and help hang whoever they have left over.” Harry didn’t pursue that line.

  “You’ve been edgy ever since your spell with Amadeus this afternoon. Anything I should know about?”

  Sebastian turned to him, face flushed. He stopped then said, “Something you shouldn’t know about. Harry,” he turned deadly serious, “I really need you.”

  *

  They set out together the next night, Friday, after work — Sebastian had been translating yet more documents, these relating to subordinate prisoners whose trials were coming up in November. They walked from the Palace to their apartment and changed clothes.

  All traces of military habit were gone. Sebastian had on jeans and the same checkered red woolen jacket he had used when hiking in the mountains of Arizona. Harry had on the jumpsuit worn by crew members who might need to bail out of unlucky bombing runs over enemy territory. The Air Force insignia had been carefully removed.

  “You got cash?” Harry asked.

  “Plenty. I have over 200 simoleons.”

  “U.S.?”

  “Yes. In twenties.”

  “Pm thinking maybe we should start right out offering him the whole 200.”

  “Your call, Harry.”

  “Your money, Sebastian.”

  *

  There were buses running now, in October 1946, fanning the old city. Harry flagged the Gilderstrasse bus. It had been repainted and reupholstered. The driver drove it skillfully with his one arm.

  “We’ll have a good hike to get to the Kaiserburg area. I haven’t been back. Didn’t want to stare at the remains of what I did when my plane let the bombs go.”

  He paused as the bus went bumpily on. “Sebby, I’m just assuming the old man we’re going to see is the same man who came up with the stuff for my Papa. Wolfgang Froude looked after everything we needed after Mama died. Papa never went to the doctor, not ever, just to Herr Froude.”

  They alighted from the bus and Harry pointed the way.

  There were streetlights now, though not on every block. Harry carried a flashlight and looked up at the street signs, some of them showing evidence of restoration designed to illuminate the original lettering. Himmelstrasse was back to Kaiserstrasse.

  “I’m beginning to get my bearings. Down there a few blocks on the left was my school. In the opposite direction, four blocks down, my father’s atelier. Our apartment, if any of it exists, was behind it.”

  “And Froude?”

  “Just three blocks up.”

  *

  The little two-story building Harry looked for was still there, its roof recently patched. The sign in front was neatly drawn, yellow lettering over a dark blue background. It bore the sign, W. FROUDE, APOTHEKE. GEGRUENDET 1901.

  A small light shone from inside.

  “Let’s just look at it a bit.”

  They walked by the pharmacy casually. Harry slowed up by the window. He whispered to Sebastian. “ That’s him . But there’s a woman there also. Maybe his wife. I don’t actually remember his wife.”

  “Well, Froude is old, isn’t he?”

  “It was...1935 when I last saw him. That was only eleven years ago. He was too old to fight in the first war. He’s maybe sixty, seventy.”

  “Let’s walk by again, find out if any customers are dropping by. See if you can make out the pharmacy’s closing hour on the door, it’s pretty dark.”

  “I’ll try. But if I remember, the old man kept the pharmacy open late.”

  “It’s 2100. We can keep an eye on him and knock on his door just as he closes down.”

  “Yep...It’s getting cold.”

  “I’ll stand watch. You go back to the coffeehouse we passed a block
up,” Sebastian said, “and wait there.”

  “That’s no good. It’s me who has to make the opening. You go. I’ll go get you at the coffeehouse when he closes up.”

  After establishing that the closing hour was 2200, they settled for walking together around the block to keep warm. Harry was glad to spot the light turned on upstairs, Froude’s wife no longer in view in the pharmacy.

  They waited, this time just out of view of the entrance, for the light to turn off.

  At exactly 2155 it did so. “You wait here.”

  Harry knocked on the door.

  It opened a few; inches, latched by a chain.

  “We are closed,” the elderly man said.

  “Herr Froude. It is Heinrich Alkunstler.”

  Silence.

  “You were my Papa’s good friend.”

  The door opened wide. “Der Junger Alkunstler! You are all grown up! It’s cold, come in. I would not believe I would ever see you again! You’ll have some tea? Upstairs? Your Papa liked to have tea with me.”

  “No, thank you, Herr Froude. Because I am on duty tonight, you see. I am on the midnight train to Berlin. I have been discharged from the American army, and I have work on the railroad, translating in English.”

  “So Berlin is your headquarters?”

  “Yes, Herr Froude.” He entered the pharmacy and exchanged a warm handshake.

  “Come and tell me all about where you have been. I know your father — your poor father — sent you to America — ”

  “Herr Froude, I’ll visit with you another day. But right now I need special, emergency help from you. I have...a lady in Berlin. Next time I visit I will bring a picture. Her mother is dying a terrible death from cancer and implores relief. But the doctor will not give it to her.”

  “What kind of relief?”

  “I promised her I’d ask for the same pill you gave to my father.” He took the risk. “He wrote to me in America that he had got it from you, and would take it before ever consenting to go on one of the death trains.”