Berlin, 18th November 1929
KLARA Meyer kissed the back of her husband’s neck as he slept. It was Monday, and today was Manfred’s first day at his new job. She was so happy, a lovely new apartment, a new start for Manfred, and, best of all, two new babies.
She turned over and checked in the cot next to the bed. Both Anna and Greta were fast asleep, tucked up in a soft lamb’s wool blanket with little crochet hats and gloves on to protect them from the cold.
Klara looked over at the fire where she could see the glowing coals from the night before still keeping the worst of the chill from the room. It was pitch black outside but Klara kept a nightlight so she could look after and feed the babies. She checked the clock; it was 5.15am. Another fifteen minutes before the babies would need to be fed again. She looked forward to feeding them so much that she had to stop herself waking them early.
She felt Manfred stir behind her.
“Good morning, darling,” he whispered.
She smiled at him and stroked his face. She wished that he could spend more time with her and the twins, but if things went well at Bauer & Bauer for Manfred, it would give the family a fantastic start.
Her husband had been very considerate since the births on Thursday afternoon. She had hardly had to move as he fussed around her, making sure she had plenty to eat and drink or checking to see if she was comfortable. The previous night, he had even made sure that Klara had bread and cheese and an apple sitting ready for her breakfast on the table, covered with a cloth. The time that the four of them had spent together over the past few days had been very special.
He stayed in bed until the twins needed feeding again and then got up and added some kindling and more coal to the fire to warm the room for Klara and the girls. Then he washed, dressed, and had some bread, cheese, and coffee for breakfast. He kissed his wife and babies and, after protracted wishes of good luck, left the apartment for the journey to his new position, as an assistant lawyer in the office of a criminal law firm.
Manfred Meyer’s journey to Bauer & Bauer took almost exactly an hour, leaving him thirty minutes early. It was a cold, dry morning, and the darkness was being chased away by the emerging sun, making Berlin look like a watercolour. Meyer attempted to assuage his nervousness by watching people pass by on the busy street.
At 8:15 exactly, the great Black Forest oak double doors that guarded the entrance to Bauer & Bauer were unlocked from the inside by an unseen hand, and one of the doors opened to allow entrance to employees. Within a few moments, men in expensive suits began to disappear into the building.
Meyer waited until 8:20, took a deep breath, and headed in after them, up the marble steps and through the internal glass doors. His hands slid easily over the bannister of the grand staircase as he climbed to the top floor, where the walnut hall and Muller’s office was situated.
He expected to have to sit and wait for Muller to arrive as he hadn’t seen him pass through the door in front of him. However, the secretary's office door was already open, and he was sitting behind his desk.
Meyer knocked on the door frame and bid him good morning. Muller checked his pocket watch and peered over his glasses at him before smiling.
“Good morning, Herr Meyer. Herr Bauer informs me that you will be working with Herr Deschler as his assistant. I am to take you to his office this morning. If you give me a moment to collect the mail which is to be posted, I will take you down to the first floor.”
Muller collected several envelopes from his desk, checking each one in turn, and then instructed Meyer to follow him. As they walked briskly along the walnut hall, Muller gave Meyer a quick history of Deschler’s time at the company.
“Herr Deschler started with us in 1920. He had been a practising lawyer for two years before volunteering for the front. He earned an Iron Cross before being badly wounded in the Somme, and then a British shell took his leg at Arras, after which he spent a year in hospital.”
Muller stopped at an open office door and took some envelopes from a wire tray before continuing with Deschler’s history.
“It took him another two years before Herr Bauer senior brought him into the firm.
“Herr Deschler is an excellent lawyer. He started, as all of our court lawyers do, with a relatively simple defence case, which he won. And then proved himself again and again. You will learn a lot from Herr Deschler. Only Herr Bauer has a successful defence record more impressive than Herr Deschler.”
They had stopped outside an office door, and Muller gave a quick two knocks before entering. Inside was an ante-room, slightly smaller than, and not as ornate as Muller’s. A young woman sat, working at a typewriter. She looked up and greeted Muller without missing a key. Muller nodded to her and proceeded to knock on what Meyer assumed was Deschler’s office door.
A simple “Enter,” came from inside.
Muller led Meyer into the office. Kurt Deschler had a glass of water in his right hand and a cigarette in the other. He had been standing, looking out of his window when the two men had entered his room. Meyer spotted a glass bottle, obviously medical in style, on his desk next to a jug of water. A walking stick was leaning against the desk not too far from the reach of the man. Deschler downed his glass of water and then, with a single limp towards his desk, opened a drawer and dropped the bottle out of sight without looking at it.
“Herr Deschler, this is Herr Meyer.”
“Ah yes. My new assistant,” said Deschler rather dryly as he held out his hand. Meyer stepped forward and shook it.
Deschler was around forty years old and slightly taller than Meyer’s one metre seventy. He had a full head of hair which had obviously been jet black when he was younger but now had silver streaks running through it, especially at the temples. He sported a similar style of moustache to Muller's which contained a considerably higher proportion of grey than his head. Glasses sat on a thin nose, behind which an old scar ran over his left eye.
“Please sit down, Herr Meyer.” The tone of Deschler’s voice barely changed. Muller had already left the office as Meyer sat in a chair at the side of the room.
Deschler took a long drag on his cigarette and then put it out in a crystal ashtray on his desk, carefully folding over the end of the butt to ensure that the glowing tobacco embers were extinguished. The sunlight, now streaming in through the window, caught the long, slow plume of thin smoke that he blew across the room.
“So, Herr Meyer, have you assisted in a court of law before?” The question sounded more like a challenge.
“Yes Herr Deschler, I was an intern for...” but he was not allowed to finish.
“Good. You will know what to expect then,” came the interruption, as Deschler reached for his stick, took his coat off the stand and hung it over his arm. “We are in court this morning at eleven am precisely, court number three. The final day of my defence of a Gypsy in a murder trial. I am sure you have read all about it in the papers?”
Meyer had indeed been reading about this case.
“Yes, Herr Deschler. This is the trial of Prala Weide, the suspect in the murder of an elderly couple for the sake of a few Reichsmarks.”
“That is correct, Herr Meyer. And do you think he is guilty?” asked Deschler, as he pointed at two briefcases which he obviously meant Meyer to carry.
“I am not sure, Herr Deschler, but I would think that from what I have read, his innocence will be difficult to prove,” replied Meyer, as he picked up the cases and began to follow Deschler out of the room. He immediately realised the naivety of his answer when Deschler came to a sudden halt and turned to him.
“The first two lessons you need to learn, Herr Meyer, are these; first of all, unless they wish you to view them otherwise, which is very uncommon, your client is always innocent in your eyes. As you are my assistant, he is also your client. Secondly, and more importantly, you do not need to prove a man’s innocence, only his lack of guilt.”
Meyer noti
ced that Deschler’s eye, which carried the scar, was twitching. He wondered if this was a nervous twitch brought on by the final day of a trial, or caused by anger over Meyer’s schoolboy response.
“Today, I have to secure the doubt about Herr Weide’s guilt which I have been attempting to place in the minds of the jurors over the past week,” continued Deschler.
“I have to make sure that the doubt I have sewn is enough to overcome human nature’s requirement to find a reason for something happening. Each of the jurors we face today wants a guilty man to be provided to them to revenge the murders of that couple. As defence lawyers, this is the most difficult thing we have to overcome; not just to prove the lack of guilt of our client but to not then hand over a further suspect for them to inflict judgement upon. The perfect way to ‘prove a man’s innocence’ is to provide a guilty man in his place.”
Deschler turned, and, leaning heavily on his stick, led Meyer out of the office.
Meyer sat beside Deschler in the courtroom. Dark oak panels covered the room like a great wooden jacket, insulating it both from the cold and the sounds of the outside world. The room smelled of polish and reeked of institution and formality. Meyer loved courtrooms. They gave him the same feeling of warmth and contentment afforded by stepping in to a library.
The jury had not yet been led in and Deschler was looking through his notes in silence, formulating the arguments and points which he would be attempting to convince the jury with, as well as the final questions which he would be putting to the witnesses.
A door opened at the side of the courtroom and the jury were led in from an ante-room by a clerk, to take their positions. Deschler lifted his head momentarily from his papers and watched the men arrive and take their seats. His eyes then shifted to Meyer.
“All I require from you today is to pass me any of my papers if I require them. If I need a drink of water, you will pour me one and pass me the glass. Your job today is to make it possible for me to concentrate on this case without my thoughts being interrupted unnecessarily.”
Deschler looked back at the jury and studied each face in turn before continuing.
“I will brief you on the papers I will need and what you should be doing while I am either questioning or presenting evidence.”
He then started to move the papers around and place them into different piles. Once he was happy with how they were arranged he took off his spectacles and rubbed the scarred eye with a handkerchief. Then he placed a hand flat down on one of the piles of papers.
“You haven’t spoken since we arrived. That is a good start,” said Deschler. “These papers are notes that I have made which I will occasionally refer to. If I need them I will point to them and you will hand them to me.”
Deschler moved his hand and placed it on another set of papers. Meyer noticed that the tip of Deschler’s little finger was missing.
“These I may not need; however, they contain the names of all the witnesses as well as the individuals in this case. As I am cross-examining the defendant or making my statements to the court, you will constantly check the list and find the person I am discussing. If I need more information on them I will take this list from you and you will indicate on the page where that person’s name and details are.”
He now moved his hand to a third pile.
“These are questions I will be asking throughout today. I may ask additional questions. I may ask different questions. But these are the core for today. You will follow these and as they are asked you will indicate on the paper that they have been asked. If I need them I will point to them. You do not need to do anything more and I am sure you have assisted in this manner before.”
Meyer was about to reply to Deschler when there was an announcement from the Clerk of the Court that Judge Koehler was entering. Everyone stood until the judge was seated.
Very soon after that, Deschler’s client, Prala Weide, was brought into the courtroom by an officer and was taken to the dock, where he was seated. Meyer was familiar with this process, having witnessed it many times as a law student and as an intern, but this was the first time he had been part of the actual performance.
After some shuffling of papers and discussions with the Clerk of the Court and the stenographer, who showed the judge part of the transcript, the Clerk of the Court called for silence and the judge called the court to order.
Deschler pushed himself from his seat and made a short statement to the court regarding the case so far, how he had shown that the accused was innocent and could not have committed the crime, and that he would provide irrefutable proof to that effect. He then sat down again and waited for Prala Weide to be called to the witness box.
Prala Weide looked like a Gypsy. His long nose and swarthy skin was complemented by his greying black shiny hair and drooping moustache. His dark, almost black, eyes were sunk below thick, bushy eyebrows. His clothes were also dark, and slightly grubby in appearance. Although small in stature and with a withered left arm, he was obviously a strong, fit man.
After a few minutes, Prala Weide was called to the witness box, where he was seated and reminded of the fact that he was still sworn in. Deschler pushed himself up on his stick, which he then hung on the table. Meyer set the papers with the questions to one side, picked up the papers with the list of names on them, and waited for Deschler to speak.
“Your Honour, officials of the court, members of the jury, today I will finish my cross-examination of my client and be able to show that not only was he not able to have committed this crime, not only was he not present at the time of the crime, but that only one other person could, would, and did commit these terrible murders at the Färber family home.”
Meyer swallowed hard. He felt nervous and excited. Bauer had known what he was doing, having him start his new job on the last day of a murder trial. And with such an orator as Deschler to provide his first real lesson in the dark art of criminal law.
Deschler continued with his opening statement of the day.
“Dieter Färber, the Färbers' youngest son and the only one still living at the same address, returned home to find his father and mother murdered in their living room. The room was in disarray, with ornaments scattered and broken on the floor, including a jar, which normally sat on the mantelpiece and contained a hundred or so Reichsmarks.
“In his state of shock and grief, Dieter Färber quickly checked the rest of the home, which had also been ransacked. On his return to the living room, Herr Färber saw a male Gypsy attempting to leave through the front door. Herr Färber then saw the Gypsy make off in a westerly direction towards the church.
“According to Herr Färber’s report to the police, this Gypsy had dark features, wore dark clothing, may have had an earring, and wore a kerchief on his head. A description of a Gypsy which could have been taken from any story book.
“We have already discovered that although Herr Weide was in the area of Herr and Frau Färber’s home at the time of the murders, Herr Weide was with another member of the Gypsy community. We have also discovered that Herr Weide was in possession of a large sum of money, from the sale of a horse.”
Deschler then paused and pointed to the papers containing the notes he had made from the trial. Meyer quickly picked them up and handed them to Deschler, who then took a few moments to study them before turning to his client.
“Herr Weide, can you remind us of your movements on the day you were arrested?”
Prala Weide cleared his throat and, with a deep voice and thick Romany accent, replied, “In the morning, after leaving the family, I took a cart horse to sell to a family camping in the north of Berlin at Mauerpark. We had agreed to meet at the flour mill in Ritterstrasse. I walked with the horse, not riding, and took him to the flour mill and waited.”
“And you were on your own on this journey?” asked Deschler, which Weide confirmed. “Where are you and your family camped, Herr Weide?” he asked.
“Som
merbad Kreuzberg. It is a small, wooded area, but very quiet. And the police leave us alone there as long as we don’t stay for too long.”
Deschler ran his fingers across his moustache before asking the next question.
“What time did you leave your caravan, Herr Weide?”
“It was four thirty in the afternoon. I am certain of this as I wanted to leave plenty of time to reach the mill, and I also spoke with my wife about my time of return.”
“And what time did you meet at the flour mill?”
“We were to meet at five o’clock at the mill. I was there ten minutes early.”
“So it took you twenty minutes to walk with a horse about a kilometre? That is a reasonably slow pace.”
“I had plenty of time; there was no need to rush the horse. I wanted him to look his best and strongest so I could get the best price.”
“Which route did you take Herr Weide? Did you pass Mariannenstrasse?”
Prala Weide shook his head.
“It is nearby but in the wrong direction. It would have added another, maybe, ten minutes to my journey.”
“So you took the most direct route to your meeting?”
“Of course. Why would I take a longer one?”
Deschler smiled.
“Why indeed, Herr Weide? The prosecution has already tried to establish that you were in the general area. The fact that you were within ten minutes of Mariannenstrasse means that you were in the locality. Could you be mistaken? Could you have passed Mariannenstrasse?”
Prala Weide shook his head once more.
“No. I am not mistaken. I was not near Mariannenstrasse. There was no reason for me to be there.”
Deschler nodded and took the piece of paper he was holding, turned it over and placed it on the table before picking up another from his pile.
“Herr Weide, what was the name of the man you were meeting?” he asked.
“Josef Jauner,” replied Weide.
“Were you meeting him alone?”
“Yes.”
“And did he buy your horse?”
“Yes. For seven hundred and forty-eight Reichsmarks.”
“That is a very precise number.”
For the first time Meyer saw Weide smile.
“It was how the negotiations progressed,” he replied, with a shrug.
Deschler stroked his moustache before continuing.
“Were you happy with that price, Herr Weide?”
“It was a reasonable price for the horse, yes.”
“Remember you are not on trial for illegal horse trading Herr Weide, please be frank with the court about the price you were paid and the quality of the animal.”
The smile had left Weide’s face now and his deep Romany voice was much quieter as he gave his answer.
“I was very happy with the price. The horse was worth it mind you, but yes, I was very happy with the price.”
“Josef Jauner paid you in full? And in cash? No promissory note?”
Weide looked aghast.
“In full. In cash. Nobody Romany does business on a promise!”
Deschler made a mark with a pencil on the paper he was holding before continuing with the questions.
“How long did these negotiations over the price for the horse take?”
“I couldn’t be entirely certain but around twenty minutes, including the usual pleasantries.”
“Pleasantries?” asked Deschler.
“You know, asking about family health and so on. Passing on stories and news from the road.”
Deschler nodded.
“And after Herr Jauner had paid you and bid you farewell, did you go directly home?”
It was Weide’s turn to stroke his moustache.
“No, I didn’t go home directly. There are a few bars on the route and I thought that I would quench my thirst with a beer or two.”
“How many bars did you frequent on your journey home?”
“One.”
“Only one, Herr Weide?”
“Yes. Only one.”
“And why only one, Herr Weide?”
“I was arrested coming out of the bar next to the mill.”
Deschler turned over his paper and placed it face down on the desk.
“Thank you, Herr Weide. No further questions.”
Deschler sat down and Judge Koehler asked Fuhrmann, the prosecutor, if he had any further questions.
Fuhrmann stood and ran his fingers through his white hair, while reading notes through spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose. Without looking up from the paper he held, he asked, “Where is this Josef Jauner?”
Weide looked over at Deschler and then back to Fuhrmann.
“I don’t know.”
Fuhrmann blinked and finally peered over his glasses at Weide.
“The police also do not know where he is. Or where this,” Fuhrmann cleared his throat, “horse is.”
He was then silent for a few moments before starting his next question.
“I suspect that Josef Jauner does not exist and the money which was found on your person was from several crimes, some of which may not yet have been reported! Is this not the case, Herr Weide?”
Weide looked slightly shaken, before replying that Jauner did exist and that he did sell him a horse.
“No more questions,” sneered Fuhrmann as he sat down.
Deschler immediately stood up and indicated that he wished to call his next witness, Dieter Färber, the victim’s son, before taking his seat again and turning to Meyer.
“Have you been following the questions?” asked Deschler in a low voice.
Meyer thought that he meant the questions written on the papers he had shown him at the beginning.
“Yes, Herr Deschler, and these have been marked as you requested.”
Deschler’s eyes narrowed.
“Herr Meyer, if you think I am going to pat you on the back for being able to tick off questions as they have been asked then perhaps you would be better off working in a kitchen.”
Meyer felt his face flush.
“Herr Deschler, my apologies. I have misunderstood you.”
Deschler rubbed the scar on his eye and Meyer could see a vein in his forehead pulse with his heartbeat.
“Herr Meyer, you may be here as my ‘assistant’ but I am sure I could have found a prettier assistant if I had requested one directly from Herr Bauer. I don’t need you to do these menial tasks such as ticking off lists of questions or pointing out addresses and names of witnesses. It is mildly helpful but not a requirement.”
Deschler’s voice lowered even further and Meyer strained to hear every word, although the meaning was clear.
“You are here to learn, Herr Meyer. To learn. Anyone can memorise the rules of law. Anyone can ask questions. You might even be able to ask the right questions. But working as a defence lawyer is not about what you ask. It is about how you ask it.”
Deschler took a deep breath and looked directly into Meyer’s eyes. He must have seen the disappointment that Meyer felt in himself. Deschler was right. It didn’t really matter if he managed to keep up with ticking off lists of names and attributed questions. That was a clerk’s job, and a stenographer was in the court making a full transcript of everything that was said. Meyer was a lawyer, and he should be learning the techniques, especially from a man such as Deschler.
Deschler’s voice softened.
“Ask some questions that you would expect the prosecution to ask but in a way which allows your client to give an answer you would like. I asked Herr Weide several times about his journey that day, finishing with asking him if he was mistaken. Of course he wasn’t mistaken and would never admit to being mistaken but this allows the jury to see you as pushing the point to its foremost conclusion. Juries expect lawyers to be confrontational, even with their own clients. You must not be seen to be giving your client an easy time in the witness box. In fact, if you can appear to be harde
r on your client than the prosecutor, the jury will accept the answers you have provided for them and may take the prosecutor’s apparently softer questions as an indication of innocence.”
Meyer nodded and managed a small smile. Of course, it seemed so obvious when Deschler pointed it out. It was all technique. Like Bauer being able to take Meyer’s train of thought down his own tracks to a dead end, Deschler was showing Meyer how questions were asked. It was as if he was being given the secrets to life itself.
“Did you notice anything about the papers I used during my questioning?” asked Deschler.
Meyer ran through the last few questions in his mind, like the re-running of a cinema film. What did Deschler do when asking the questions? Where were the papers? In his hand. In his left hand. He held them tight in his left hand and looked down at them occasionally. Then they were discarded. Face down. He turned them over at the end of a series of questions and placed them face down on the table.
“You discarded the pages face down on the table when you finished each area of questioning, Herr Deschler.”
Deschler leaned closer to Meyer, his eyes betraying a smile that did not sit on his lips.
“Turning over a page and placing it face down puts a full stop on a series of questions. The jury will naturally see that gesture as the end of something. It helps them to understand that you have made your point. That there is nothing else that could possibly be understood from any further questions on that particular subject,” explained Deschler in a whisper.
“Use this technique when you can. If you are lucky, and this is luck, the prosecutor may also unconsciously see this as an end to questioning and be unable to formulate any further questions of his own,” he continued.
“Unfortunately, in this case, Herr Fuhrmann does not allow such things to trouble him.”
The clerk of the court brought Dieter Färber to the witness box and reminded him that he was still under oath.
Deschler stood and smiled at Dieter Färber. This time his eyes showed no smile. The smile that sat on Deschler’s face was a lie.
A Murder in Auschwitz (Sampler) Page 5