Auschwitz, 13th December 1943
THE stench of the latrine block was overwhelming. Meyer attempted the impossible task of breathing without smelling, but no matter what he did the stench invaded his nose and mouth so that it almost lay as a layer on his tongue. Normally, Meyer attempted not to use the latrines. He would urinate while in the forest with the work party. He would also defecate there on the rare occasion that that was required; his body seemed to be using every bit of sustenance from the thin gruel they received each day, leaving nothing as waste.
The previous evening and all through that day, Meyer had suffered from stomach cramps. Anton Geller had helped him while out with the work party, picking the wood from the clearing floor next to him, a task which they were still required to carry out in between cutting down trees, and doing what he could so that the guards did not notice Meyer’s pain.
“You do not want to take a trip to the infirmary, my friend,” warned Geller. “You would not be making a return journey.”
Luckily, Meyer felt better being doubled over, picking up the wood, and the pain eased as the day progressed. By the time they were marching back, the pains had abated, but when they arrived back in the camp and he had eaten the thin soup, Meyer felt the pains return.
The latrines were holes in the floor of the building. The excrement filled large buckets, which were then emptied by hand by prisoners on punishment detail. It was a dirty, disgusting job, which often left them physically ill and unable to continue which led them to be taken on the one way journey to the ‘infirmary’.
Meyer felt as though the soup had passed straight through him. He cleaned himself as best he could and headed for the door, desperate for the cold, clean air outside, where he found Geller waiting for him.
“Are you alright?” Geller asked.
“Yes, but my soup has gone straight down the latrine.” Meyer held his stomach with his hand, the slight pressure easing his discomfort.
“Come on, we need to head back to the hut,” said Geller. As they began the walk back to Hut 72, they were met by several SS guards coming the other way.
“Out of the way!” one of them shouted, and pushed Meyer to the ground. Geller squeezed himself against the wall of one of the buildings as the men, followed by five prisoners who in turn were being pushed along by a further two guards with their rifles pointed at their backs, hustled past. Behind them, two SS officers casually followed, hands behind their backs chatting to one another.
Geller took Meyer by the arm and helped him to his feet as the two officers passed by. One of them suddenly stopped and turned.
“Wait!” came the command.
Meyer felt his heart stop. He did everything possible to keep a low profile from the kapos and the guards. He had seen men being shot for reasons as simple as soiling themselves when they were ill, or simply getting in the way of the guards while they were walking. Geller and Meyer stood still.
“Turn around,” came a further command.
Meyer and Geller turned to face the two officers. They were immaculately dressed in field grey uniforms with polished black jack boots. The silver death's-head badge on their peaked caps sparkled in the winter sun, as did their tunic buttons, which matched the silver threaded SS version of the Third Reich eagle worn on their upper arms.
Neither of the officers spoke, but one of them began to slowly walk back towards them, his eyes boring into Meyer’s. When he was a metre away, he opened his mouth to speak but was immediately interrupted by rifle shots behind him. Beyond the officers, the five prisoners had been lined up against a wall and executed. Smoke and dust and cordite filled the air, obscuring the fallen bodies. The officer looked annoyed at the interruption, and then stepped even closer to Meyer.
“I know you,” he said, very quietly. The officer’s breath left his mouth like smoke.
Meyer was astonished. He knew him? He searched his memory for any SS officers he had met in the past few years, but he was certain he had never known this one.
“Before the war. I was your client.”
Meyer searched his memory. Before the war. Before the war? And then it struck him. “Kolb? Wolfgang Kolb?” he whispered.
The SS officer’s eyes gave nothing away. “I am Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb, Manfred Meyer.”
This was a sample of from the novel
“A Murder in Auschwitz” by JC Stephenson
Hopefully, you have enjoyed the story so far, and would like to read what happens to Manfred Meyer and his family.
If this is the case, the full novel can either be downloaded
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standard format and in large print format.
An audio book is also in production and should be available soon.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D94X8CG
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A Murder in Auschwitz (Sampler) Page 22