A Murder in Auschwitz (Sampler)

by JC Stephenson

  Berlin, 24th December 1929

  ANNA and Greta had been fed and set down for the night, with Frau Fischer sitting in front of the fire with her knitting. Before they left, she had made a fuss of Klara, making sure she was warm enough.

  The snow had stopped by the time they had left the apartment building. There was a crisp crust to the snow on the pavements, and Meyer had Klara hold his arm to steady her as they walked to the tram stop.

  “I have heard that the Bierwurst is excellent in the restaurant next to Clärchens Ballhaus,” said Meyer as they stood hand-in-hand at the tram stop, waiting for the Number 7 to Auguststrasse.

  “Ah, but will it be as garlicky as the Bierwurst at Eden’s dancehall?” replied Klara, with a giggle.

  “It didn’t matter how garlicky it was when I kissed you, because you ate much more Bierwurst than I did!” teased Meyer.

  “It was a particular favourite there. The whole dancehall must have smelled of garlic,” she replied, and they both laughed at how the doors of the hall would open at the end of the night, and the dancers and the garlic smell would spill on to the street.

  Soon there was the sound of the tram bell and the rattling of the tracks as the Number 7 made its way through the snow-covered streets. Meyer helped Klara aboard, and they took a seat at the back, on the bottom floor.

  “It is a pity Karl couldn’t make it to Berlin for Christmas,” said Klara, “I haven’t seen him since we left Leipzig.”

  “I am sure he is very busy, either with the electric company or busy trying to save us all from ourselves,” joked Meyer. Klara smiled but then looked out of the tram window, her gaze miles away, in Leipzig.

  It had been on a tram to work in Leipzig that Meyer had met Klara’s brother Karl in his working clothes for the first time. He had been an apprentice electrician and wore blue overalls with big leather boots. He carried a box for his lunch and a toolbox.

  “Hello, Karl, what are you doing on this tram?” asked Meyer, as he sat down next to him.

  “Good morning, Manfred,” replied Karl, “I am working on Konigstrasse this week with the company. Is that near your office?”

  “Not too far. I can show you what stop to get off at.”

  Karl thanked him and they sat for a few moments without talking.

  “I never really got a chance to thank you properly for looking after Klara that night,” said Karl.

  Meyer smiled. He had not seen much of Klara since the night Karl had come home late. It had been three weeks before Klara’s mother had let either of them out at night. Then Meyer had had legal exams to study for, and, although they missed each other dreadfully, Klara had insisted that he spent the time studying. It was only if he passed these exams that his future as a lawyer would be certain and they could start making plans to be married.

  “I wasn’t sure what to make of you at first,” continued Karl, “with you being a lawyer, I mean.”

  Meyer raised his eyebrows and was about to ask if Karl had something particular against lawyers, but he did not need to, as Karl continued his explanation.

  “It’s a very bourgeois occupation. Your aspiration to join the bourgeoisie does not fit your background. Unless you are going to be defending the working man against the threats to his livelihood?”

  Meyer stared at Karl Steinmann.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were a communist, Karl,” he said.

  Karl became very animated and leaned in closer to Meyer, as if he was about to tell him a great secret.

  “It is the only way forward,” he said in a whisper. “The workers of Germany must unite and create a socialist state. You have seen the anarchy on the streets with the Freikorps. These are disillusioned workers being caught up in the flames of revolution.”

  “And were you caught up in these flames the night I took Klara home?”

  Karl turned and looked out of the tram window for a long time before answering, so long that Meyer was wondering if he had insulted him in some way and if the conversation was now over.

  “You guessed that night that I hadn’t been an innocent bystander. But you must promise not to say anything to Klara, she will only worry.”

  Meyer promised, and Karl began to tell him what had really happened that night.

  “I am a member of the Communist Party of Leipzig. We were having a meeting in the beer cellar when those Brownshirt thugs from the National Socialist Party came in. I don’t think they knew we were going to be there, it was just coincidence. National Socialist Worker’s Party? Their name is a joke. There is not a decent socialist value in any of their policies. All they want to do is create chaos.

  “Anyway, there were ten of us sitting in our usual corner. Not all are members; one of us, Uwe Schaefer, is a member of the DDP, or rather, was a member. He is now a paid-up member of the Communist Party. Anyway, if they weren’t members, they were sympathisers with socialism.

  “As usual, we were debating the state that the Weimar was in and how democracy would flourish under a single party socialist state, rather than drift like a ship with a broken mast as it does at the moment.

  “So the Brownshirts arrive and are swanning around the bar as if they own the place. Then, before we know it, they have managed to intimidate the customers from one end of the cellar to move while more of them arrive.”

  Meyer interrupted Karl by holding up his finger, “Didn’t the bar owner do anything?”

  “No, the beer was flowing. He would have made a fortune that night. And there you see the problem with capitalism, Manfred. It is a whore and it will get into bed with anyone.

  “We were being pretty much ignored by the Brownshirts, so we stayed in our corner and resumed our political chatter. But I kept an eye on what was going on at the other end of the cellar, where all available chairs and tables were being lined up.

  “Then, suddenly, there was a roar of cheering and applause and some men came down the steps into the cellar, all smiles. I didn’t recognise them, but at first I thought one of them was that little man with the limp, what’s his name?”

  “Goebbels,” said Meyer.

  “Yes, Goebbels. He has been elected to the Reichstag now. Can you believe it? He is such an anti-Semite, with a name like 'Goebbels' too? You are not telling me that his family does not have a rich Jewish history?”

  Meyer laughed. He liked Karl Steinmann’s turn of phrase. Karl reminded him of his own brother, Nils, in the way he could take something serious like the war with France and Britain and manage to make a joke out of it. Perhaps if Nils had survived the war he might have become a politician, although, hopefully, not a communist.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t Goebbels. The little man was taken to the very back of the cellar by a couple of guys who I assume were bodyguards. Then the political crap started to be spouted.

  “We sat in the corner, watching and listening to a never-ending stream of clichés, bombast, and half-truths. Have you heard them, the Nazis?”

  Meyer shook his head. He was interested in politics but was not a follower of any party. He managed to follow what was happening in the on-going rounds of elections in the country through reading the newspaper and discussions with the other law students. He had not heard any of the leaders of the parties speak, except, of course, the president, Hindenburg.

  “So the little man with the limp finishes his speech with some crap about the Jews profiteering during the war; you know the rubbish that the Freikorps are spouting.”

  Meyer nodded in agreement. There had been growing anti-Semitism after the war. Not that it had affected Meyer directly, as he didn’t really consider himself Jewish but he had seen it, especially when the Freikorps were roaming the streets.

  “Werner Beyer stands up and shouts that it was the Kaiser’s fault that the Armistice was signed, not the Jews', and especially not the Jews who were fighting in the trenches alongside the Protestants and the Catholics, the communists and the monarchists. And Werner is not
even Jewish, or a communist, or a monarchist!

  “But this is when all hell broke loose. The Brownshirts didn’t like being heckled like that, especially about the Jews. That was when the fight started. The Brownshirt cowards came for us, shouting and calling us Jew-lovers and communists, which to be fair, I certainly was,” continued Karl, laughing.

  “Anyway, I got my hands on one of them and gave him a good couple of punches to the face. You know, you don’t ever forget your military training. I made my way through a couple of the Brownshirts who had probably never worn a military uniform before, and then I saw it. One of these thugs had a pistol and was pulling it from his belt. I tried to get my hands on his wrist but was pulled back. Werner was beside me and he must have also seen it. He was heading for the Brownshirt and managed to wrestle him to the floor, but the gun went off. I saw the spray of blood come from Werner and then saw him roll over, holding his arm.

  “It was really strange, there was suddenly no noise and everyone stopped moving. I was lying on the floor and had seen the little man with the limp being ushered towards the cellar stair, but they too had stopped and were staring in my direction. And then the pistol was lying in front of me. I picked it up and was going to empty out the bullets to make it safe, but, and I don’t know why, I pointed the gun right at him. He was looking right at me, absolutely terrified! I don’t know if I was going to squeeze the trigger or not, but in the end I didn’t get the chance.”

  Meyer was entranced by Karl’s story. This was like another world to him. How boring his life was compared to Karl and his friends who were fighting their political enemies for the future of their country. Karl continued his tale.

  “I was mobbed by Brownshirts and the pistol was knocked from my hand. I managed to pull myself out of the fight and get a hold of Werner. With the help of someone we didn’t know, I managed to get him out of the cellar and into the street. The rest of my friends were soon outside with us, just before the police arrived. God knows what happened down there when they went into the beer cellar. I would have thought that the Brownshirts got a pretty hard time from the police.

  “Anyway, I helped Werner into a taxi and we took him to hospital. He was okay, thank goodness. The bullet had passed straight through his arm and the bleeding had all but stopped. It was then that I realised that I was late for Klara and started to head home.”

  Meyer pointed out that Karl should be getting off at the next stop, and the building he was looking for was right around the corner. Karl thanked him and got his toolbox and lunchbox together, ready to leave the seat.

  “Remember,” he said, as he got to his feet, “not a word to Klara.”

  “I promise,” replied Meyer.

  Klara was smiling again as they got off the tram. There were knots of people around the entrance to Clärchens Ballhaus, groups of friends waiting for others to arrive and swell their numbers and young couples making their way into the building.

  Meyer took Klara’s hand and guided her towards the steamed-up glass door of Cafe Wien, the restaurant next to the dance hall. Someone from the dance hall or restaurant had cleared the street outside of snow and the hard ice that collects in city streets from the constant pounding of feet.

  The air was full of laughter and the aroma of hot gluhwein as Meyer pushed open the cafe door. A bell above the door tinkled but was almost totally drowned out by the voices inside. With his hand still around Klara’s arm, Meyer pushed through the crowd and made his way to the bar, where a waiter was pouring another cup of steaming hot gluhwein.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said over the noise, “Can I help you?”

  Meyer shouted back, “We were looking for something to eat before we went next door.” Then, looking around, he added, “but I don’t think you have any tables.”

  The waiter smiled, handing the cups of gluhwein over to a waitress.

  “We have more tables upstairs, come with me.”

  Meyer and Klara were taken to a little steep stairway and followed the waiter to the first floor. The sound of the crowd below faded slightly, and they were met by a sight of busy tables and waitresses bustling amongst them, delivering beer, wine, and food.

  “Take this table here,” suggested the waiter, pulling out a chair for Klara to sit at. Meyer thanked him and helped Klara off with her coat. He hung his over hers on the spare chair at the table. A few moments later, they were greeted by a waitress and handed a menu each. Meyer took the opportunity to order a beer for himself and a glass of gluhwein for Klara.

  “What a place,” said Klara, when the waitress disappeared to get their drinks, “It is so busy.”

  “Herr Deschler recommended it to me,” said Meyer.

  “Herr Deschler? Really? I thought you said he didn’t like you,” she replied.

  “I know. That was what I thought. But then yesterday he asked me what I was doing for Christmas and if I was visiting my family in Leipzig. When I said that we would be spending our Christmas in Berlin and that I was going to take you dancing, he said I should bring you to Clärchens. He said it was very popular and had good bands playing.”

  Klara looked surprised. Her husband had been sure that Deschler thought of him as a nuisance and that his abilities as a criminal lawyer were subject to conjecture. Furthermore, that perhaps a career as a baker would be more suitable for him. Deschler was particularly scathing of the bakery trade and seemed to attribute an extraordinary amount of negative proceedings to them. Meyer had jokingly promised Klara that he would find out the reason why Deschler hated bakers so much, although he wasn’t entirely sure how he would go about this.

  The waitress came back with the drinks, and they both ordered the Bierwurst, which came with potatoes covered in a thick, stew-like gravy, and a pot of mustard.

  “I didn’t realise how hungry I was,” exclaimed Klara, giggling as she chewed on a large piece of sausage. Meyer laughed as a blob of mustard dribbled down her chin. She was so beautiful and looked no different from the day he had first seen her at the dance hall in Leipzig.

  Meyer had gone to Eden’s dancehall with his friend Alex, who had been badgering him as he wanted to see bands playing jazz. Meyer had not been very keen on the idea at first but had been persuaded when Alex said that not only would he pay him in to the dance hall, he would also buy the beer all evening.

  They had only been in Eden’s for a short while when Meyer had spotted Klara. She was with two friends and was sitting at a table across the dance floor from where he and Alex sat. Her dark hair and shining smile entranced him, and he could not stop himself from looking over at her. A few times, she caught him staring and he quickly looked away. He had not noticed, but he had drained his beer glass while looking over at her.

  “You finished already?” asked Alex, in a slightly alarmed voice, “I know I said I would pay for the beer tonight but slow down, I am not made of money.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t really notice,” Meyer replied.

  “I will get you another one after this tune. What do you think of the music, Manny?”

  “Yes, it’s good,” he replied but his attention was still on the dark eyed girl across the dance floor.

  Alex followed Meyer’s gaze, saw the dark-haired girl, smiled and shook his head, then turned back to watch the band. Meyer slapped Alex on the arm, held up his empty glass, and peered through it like a telescope.

  “I detect a lack of beer in this glass,” he said.

  “For goodness sake, Manny,” replied Alex, “Can’t you at least wait until the end of this tune?”

  Almost on cue, the music stopped and everyone clapped.

  “I don’t know if I can wait that long,” laughed Meyer.

  As Alex headed back to the bar to have the glasses refilled, Meyer tried to keep an eye on the beautiful girl. But she had disappeared. His eyes were still searching the room when Alex returned.

  “Manny...” started Alex, but Meyer interrupted him.
/>   “She has gone, Alex. I can’t see her. Do you think she has gone home?”

  “No Manny, I think she is standing behind you.”

  Meyer turned to see the dark-haired girl standing behind him, smiling at him. He jumped out of his seat, nearly spilling the beer that Alex had placed before him.

  “Manny, this is Klara. Klara, this is Manfred. Manny is one of my oldest friends,” Alex said by way of introduction, as Meyer nearly fell over his chair trying to turn and shake Klara's hand, while she giggled. “And Klara is in my chemistry class. She is going to be a pharmacist.”

  Meyer took Klara’s hand and felt himself fall into her eyes. They were so dark that they were almost black, and they shone like jewels. Her wide smile showed snow-white teeth, and she had tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth. She was so beautiful he felt that his breath had been taken from him. Then he heard Alex clear his throat and say his name, and he realised that he had been holding her hand and staring at her without talking.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” he finally managed to say.

  Klara giggled again and replied that it was also very nice to meet him. Then she made her way back to her friends, while Meyer and Alex took their seats once more.

  “You know her!” Meyer exclaimed.

  “Yes, like I said, she’s in my chemistry class.”

  “So what did you do? Go over to her and tell her that your friend couldn’t stop staring at her?”

  “I didn’t have to. She came over to me and asked who my handsome friend was that kept staring at her.”

  Meyer’s stomach turned over. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And she also wanted to know when you were going to ask her to dance.”

  Meyer’s stomach did another turn. “I can’t dance though.”

  After eating in Cafe Wien, they made their way into Clärchens Ballhaus. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and jazz. There were pictures of jazz musicians all over the walls, with many of the pictures sporting signatures of their subjects.

  Meyer put their jackets and hats into the cloak room before they headed into the main hall. An enormous Christmas tree, sparkling with lights, was in one corner of the hall, while the stage where the next band was setting up was directly opposite.

  Meyer took Klara by the hand and wove through the crowd with her, to where most of the tables were situated. He looked around, but there were no free seats available.

  “It doesn’t matter, Manfred,” said Klara, “listen!” Both Meyer and Klara started to laugh.

  The band had started to play and it was the tune to which Meyer had first danced with Klara. Manfred led Klara on to the dance floor, and they danced. And danced.