The End of Law

by Therese Down

  The bishop had little doubt that what was described in this letter was at least based on truth, although he had not heard of T4. He certainly could not afford to answer this letter. And he could not see this Karl Muller, in case he was walking into a trap. Furthermore, von Preysing needed to warn Cardinal Orsenigo, the papal nuncio seated in Berlin, that he had received this letter, lest the possible entrapment extended to the nuncio himself and was designed to oust a papal representative from Berlin. Then, God help them! In truth, von Preysing was very worried about the frequency with which Orsenigo dined with high-ranking Reich officials and how he was most reluctant to discuss with his bishops details of these meetings. Nonetheless, von Preysing was aware that a less “sympathetic” nuncio might well alienate church from state once and for all.

  Without delay, Cardinal von Preysing had a copy made of the letter and had it delivered to Cardinal Orsenigo with a note warning him to be on his guard. If the letter proved to be genuine, then the church was obliged to take action of some sort. Then he prayed for wisdom and guidance from God on what he should do next, while making up his mind immediately to forward a copy of the letter to his good friend and trusted confidant, Cardinal von Galen, Bishop of Munster. Von Galen was well connected, born of a long line of Prussian aristocrats and was a personal friend of the pope, having worked with him when Pius was Nuncio Eugenio Pacilli in Berlin in the early thirties. Von Galen would know how to ascertain the truth of these claims and this T4 information. He was powerful and outspoken, with a direct line to the hearts of countless Catholics throughout Munster. Even Hitler would think twice about upsetting so fearless and influential a prelate.

  Two days after his encounter with Albert Goering, Karl was sitting in his office on Voss Strasse completing paperwork when Walter Gunther knocked on the door and walked in. Karl was startled by this unexpected visit from so senior an officer, and Gunther in particular; he wondered if he were aware of Karl’s meeting with his wife the previous week. His heart lurched at the possibility of treachery by von Preysing or someone in von Preysing’s offices. He quickly collected himself, however, and stood up, returning the “Heil Hitler” greeting.

  “Please, as you were, Obersturmführer Muller.” Walter smiled briefly, gestured to Karl to sit down. “I have business with Dr Brandt and thought I would drop in on you to thank you personally for your most efficient repair of the furnace at Sachsenhausen.”

  “Most gracious, Oberführer Gunther. I trust all is now working to order?”

  “Oh, yes. Fine,” replied Walter, simultaneously looking around the room, noting the untidiness of the desk. Then he added, “I understand from one of the guards that there was some… unpleasantness when you arrived on the night you diagnosed the problem?”

  Karl was immediately wary; assumed as confident a tone as he could muster. “Yes – it seems the men had decided to find some… unorthodox ways of amusing themselves while they waited. It was not behaviour respectful of their stations… their uniforms.”

  Walter sighed exaggeratedly, looked at the ceiling, eventually looked at Karl, and replied, “So why did you not report this incident?”

  “Well, I dealt with it. The fault was diagnosed. I considered the whole thing insufficiently serious for a formal complaint.”

  Walter contemplated Karl, nodded slowly. “I see. In future, Obersturmführer Muller, I would be grateful if you would bring directly to me any discoveries you make of insubordination or… unfitting behaviour among my staff. As a T4 administrative director, I advise the commandant of Sachsenhausen. You were sent there by me; you should have reported everything to me when you relayed the cause of the crematorium malfunction.” Walter smiled suddenly, a wintry smile that did not thaw his eyes. His tone lightened. “I hear you were… unwell at the scene?”

  Karl reddened. “It was the stench. It stank down there. What can I say?”

  Walter laughed briefly. “You get used to it. You get used to a lot in this job, wouldn’t you agree?” Walter reached into a jacket pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Do you smoke?” Karl shook his head. Walter lit a cigarette, drew on it and raised his head so as not to lose sight of Karl through the smoke he exhaled. Karl pushed an ashtray to the edge of the desk and Walter leaned forward, took it, then, drawing a chair towards Karl’s desk, sat down and crossed his legs, holding the ashtray in the palm of his left hand. “And I heard another rumour involving you, Officer Muller,” he began once more. “Your life is becoming quite eventful, I think.” Again, Walter smiled coldly.

  Karl concentrated on keeping his facial expression as natural as he could in response to the statement Gunther had just made, but his heart was thudding against his ribs and he fought increasing light-headedness. “Oh? What rumour can that be?”

  “Oh, come, my dear Muller. I am referring to your encounter with the extraordinary Albert Goering. Berlin is buzzing with it.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah? That is all? The fellow is outrageous! Himmler is furious. If he could have, I believe he would have had him shot. What the hell did he think he was doing?” Walter was animated, his voice raised inversely with the depths of his outrage and incredulity.

  “It is not for me to… comment. I…”

  Walter guffawed. “Then you are on your own, Muller! The man is an ‘enemy of the Reich’ – classified. If he were anyone else, he would have been executed months ago. Problem is, Reichsmarschall Goering keeps getting him off the hook; insists he is ‘not right in the head’. This time, he even sent a car for him and Goering junior left Gestapo headquarters laughing and inviting them to kiss his ass!” Walter watched Karl’s face closely for his reactions. “Did you know, Muller, that Goering has got his brother a job?”

  Karl shook his head, assuming an interested expression. “No, I didn’t know that. What job?”

  “He’s put him in the Skoda munitions factory in Pilsen, Czechoslovakia. He’s only made him Export Director! What do you think of that?”

  “I think…” began Karl, who really hadn’t had time to think anything of this information, but who was very uncomfortable and felt increasingly unwell. “I think it’s odd?”

  “Odd? I’ll say it’s bloody odd, Muller! Why would anyone make a lunatic the export director of a German munitions factory? How can you excuse openly treacherous behaviour like Albert Goering’s on grounds he is ‘not right in the head’, then give him an executive position in a factory making weapons for the Reich? You tell me that.” Walter’s eyes were alight with outraged incredulity. He stared at Karl intently, leaned forward and waited for his reaction.

  Karl merely shook his head in theatrical disbelief; made a face as if he agreed the whole situation was crazy. What he wanted to say but did not dare was, “Why the hell are you here, telling me all this?”

  Walter drew hard on his cigarette, narrowed his eyes and exhaled extravagantly as he stubbed it, leaned forward and replaced the ashtray, then sat back in his chair. “By all accounts, Muller, you handled the situation impeccably the other day.” Karl inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. There was a marked silence, during which Walter never took his eyes from Karl’s face. “Shame the Jews got the day off, though, eh?” Karl looked quizzical, then remembered how the street-cleaning detail had been dismissed by Albert Goering, and half smiled, nodded. “Still –” Walter crossed his legs, folded his hands on his upper thigh – “I hope they enjoyed it. The Gestapo had them all shot first thing next morning.” He watched Karl’s face, caught the brief startle as his eyes widened in shock. “That upset you, Muller?”

  Karl shrugged, looked at his desk, then directly at Gunther. “Why should it? I expected nothing less. It is what happens.”

  Walter stared at Karl, smiled again briefly. “You know, you are interesting to me, Obersturmführer Muller.” Karl raised an eyebrow once more, looked askance at his superior officer. “You are an enigma, I think.”

  “With respect, Oberführer Gunther, sir, I am very ordinary.
I am just doing my job.”

  Walter stood up, turning his cap by its rim using both hands before placing it on his head. He made a “Hmph” sound, accompanied by a jerk of his shoulders, the combined effect implying his lack of concordance with Karl’s claim to ordinariness. “Talking of your job,” Walter added just before he reached the doorway of the office, “we have plans for a new gas chamber in an Austrian camp. It will be operational by the end of this year. It will be key for phase two. You will hear details soon enough, because you are to design it and its crematorium.”

  “I see.” Karl thought it wise to show an interest. “And where will it be, precisely?”

  “Mauthausen,” responded Walter tersely, turning to look directly at Karl. “It is in Mauthausen. Top secret, Muller, obviously. Heil Hitler!” And he left, closing the door behind him. Karl waited a full five minutes before he allowed himself to breathe easy. Then he put his face in his hands and quietly wept.

  Karl increasingly had the impression that it was only a matter of time before his disguise was realized, and his life would have been futile indeed if by that time he had succeeded only in contributing to the insanity of Hitler’s Reich. He had received no reply from von Preysing. Very well then, he would seek a face-to-face meeting with the papal nuncio Orsenigo himself. He had listened attentively to Ribbentrop’s disparaging comments about the pope. Surely the pope’s own nuncio shared his pontiff’s sentiments? The nature and extent of the treachery otherwise was unthinkable, and as a Catholic, however lapsed, Karl could not admit its possibility. He remembered also Himmler’s and Goebbels’ mocking gibes that Orsenigo was more sympathetic to National Socialism than he ought to be, but Karl understood only too well the necessity for counterfeit diplomacy when working for and against the Reich simultaneously.

  In the same determined mood, Karl arranged for a car to take him on an official visit to Brandenburg hospital. He needed to inspect the delivery arrangements for the new drug consignments to the Gorden ward and to speak with the T4 staff there about discretion and procedures. But what he needed to do most of all was see Agnette Gunther and, if possible, her mother, to ensure they were all right.

  The paediatric ward at Brandenburg-Gorden hospital was a special wing that none but authorized personnel could enter. In this respect, it was immediately different from the children’s ward of the main hospital. No one visited the children receiving “specialized care” on Gorden. Karl presented his T4 IV Office ID at the door, and a guard punched a code into a panel on one of the double doors and allowed him to enter.

  It was quiet. The main corridor to the ward was short and flanked on each side by a staff office to the left and a locked storeroom to the right. Karl introduced himself to the nursing staff – a matron and two young nurses – and said he would be needing a tour of the ward, access to the storeroom and to speak to the staff about procedures and security. The matron nodded without smiling and indicated that they should proceed at once to the ward where, she said, the children were mainly sleeping at present.

  It was late March. Timid spring light was doing its best to cheer up a glowering sky, and largely failing. The only two windows that were not covered by blinds were high, and admitted just enough light through narrrow panes to allow nurses to check on their charges and administer drug doses to each child. Further than this, the light collided with more gloom and was lost.

  Karl stood at the opening of the ward and waited for his eyes to adjust. Stretching away from him on both sides in ordered rows was a number of cots. Large canvas cradles on metal legs. Karl and the silent matron walked up to the first cot and looked in. A child of about three years old lay flat on its back covered in a light blanket. It was impossible to tell the sex of the child. The infant’s eyes were half open and rolled upwards so that the whites showed, and the mouth was open. The eyes flickered, so it was evident the child was alive, but it was skeletal, hardly making an impression beneath the blanket, and its skull looked like that of a fledgling, covered only in a little downy hair.

  “What is this child’s name?” asked Karl quietly, without looking at the matron. He was aware she went to the foot of the cot and read the notes.

  “Eugenie,” she said.

  “She is so thin.” The matron said nothing. When he tore his eyes from the child and looked at her, she regarded him sternly and not, Karl thought, without a degree of contempt. It was his job to understand that this child was being starved to death. If Eugenie were not dead of starvation by Wednesday – three days’ time – then she would be disposed of by a single overdose of Luminal barbiturate. It wouldn’t take much to sabotage the respiratory system of this little girl.

  Karl straightened up and put his hands behind his back, assumed a less scrutable expression, and moved to the next cot. It contained a baby of no more than eighteen months old. A tiny thing, so light and small he could have scooped it up and held it in one hand. The child opened her eyes and beheld Karl. The baby could make no sound, but Karl started as if the child had screamed. She was too dehydrated to cry, but her tiny face crumpled into a pout and her dry lips parted in a silent wail of incomprehension and misery. The matron, prompted by the SS officer’s reaction to the child, bent over the cot and touched the baby’s face gently. The child turned her head to look at the nurse, her agony plaintive in tearless eyes.

  Time and again in the loneliness of his apartment, Karl would be brought to his knees, sobbing, at the burden he carried from that ward; at his betrayal of that child and of all the children in hundreds of wards throughout Germany in which helpless children starved and thirsted to death. He thought himself incapable of hating anyone with greater passion than he hated the matron as she touched the baby’s cheek.

  “I have seen enough.”

  “But Officer Muller, don’t you want to see the supply room or speak to the nurses?” she had said quietly as he walked away.

  “I have remembered I am late for something. I shall brief you in writing regarding protocol,” Karl had responded without turning around. Just as waking brought no relief from his nightmares, the light and comparative airiness of the main corridor outside the darkened Gorden Wing paediatric unit afforded no relief to Karl from its horror.

  The children’s ward at Brandenburg-Gorden was for boys and girls from infancy to twelve years old. It appeared to be a normal ward, but of course it was not entirely; it was also a filter for admission of children to the euthanasia programme, particularly those whose parents were “difficult”, or reluctant to hand over their children to “special care” units that would not admit visitors. Older children and teenagers were admitted to adult wards, and from there to Brandenburg on Havel to be gassed, then cremated.

  Little by little, “assigned” children at Brandenburg-Gorden “took a turn for the worse”, aided expertly by increasing doses of barbiturate with their regular medication. As they became too ill to be nursed on the regular ward, they were transferred to the Gorden Wing for “expert and specialized care”, usually at night, when their parents were not around to object or insist on accompanying them.

  When they were dead, parents were informed and often sent photographs of the body. There was a standard letter that was issued to parents in all such cases. It condoled politely, detailed a cause of death, and explained cremations without parental consent on grounds that there was a war; new regulations for the control of infectious diseases dictated that staff had no choice but to comply with orders from the Reich to cremate all dead without delay.

  An urn containing the son’s or daughter’s ashes could be provided at the parents’ request, and any complaints should be directed to the Reich Committee, Berlin. “Heil Hitler” was the standard subscription to such letters.

  In contrast with the Gorden Wing, where the children had no energy to make much noise of any kind, the children on the main ward included many who were recovering from a range of non-fatal ailments and conditions. Several were sitting up in bed chatting, or walking around in their dressing
gowns, visiting other children’s beds or playing with toys. There were several visitors, some laughter and generally an air of bustle and energy. There was no sign of Agnette, however.

  Karl reasoned that a child in a near catatonic state would hardly be among these noisy, recovering children, so when a nurse asked if she could help him, he explained who he was and that he had come to inspect the ward in light of new childcare protocols. He needed to see all facilities for children’s care, including any side rooms. She nodded curtly, asked him to follow her. No doubt she had been told that not all children were to be cared for routinely. No doubt she was aware that the medication she was asked to administer to several children in her charge was highly unlikely to assist their healing. It was likely she dreaded being assigned to shift work on Gorden paediatric wing and faced with the inescapable evidence that her worst fears were facts. No doubt she had been warned that if she wanted to keep her job – or even her life – she would do as she was told without question and keep her mouth shut.

  The displeasure evident in her eyes and curt gestures as the nurse led him away from the main ward to the side rooms was gratifying at least, thought Karl. He often wondered what long-term psychological damage was being done to people who worked daily for the Third Reich against their conscience; who dreaded sleep and the garish terror of their nightmares.

  Karl entered each side room in turn. A child connected to a drip slept soundly in one, her rosy face and plump arms testament to her predominant health. In another room, anxious parents attended the cotside of a small child. They both looked around quickly when he walked in, desperation evident in their expressions. They looked away when he wasn’t the doctor they were expecting. Their child was grizzling and restless. Karl excused himself and closed the door quietly.