A Murder in Auschwitz

by J. C. Stephenson

  “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 ongoing 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.

  Auschwitz, 25th July 1943

  IT took them over an hour of marching before they reached the edge of the forest where they would be working that day, and Meyer’s feet hurt in the wooden clogs. The group was ordered through the trees until they reached a clearing where there were stacks of wood of various sizes and the beginnings of ditches dug at one end.

  The men were instructed to line up in single file, and one of the guards unlocked and removed a padlock from a wooden crate where tools were stored. They were then handed tools and sent to do various jobs around the clearing. Some had saws for the tree trunks which lay there, some spades for continuing the ditches. Meyer and Geller were given no tools but were told to gather any wood lying on the ground and place it in the various piles according to size. It soon proved to be backbreaking work.

  Meyer could only speculate on the uses of the wood which was being collected. The smaller pieces were almost certainly firewood for the stoves on the camp, the larger logs could possibly be for fencing. The very big pieces which were still tree trunks were probably gobbled up in the factories of war back in Germany. But then it occurred to him that crematoriums required fuel to burn. Is this what he was doing? Was he helping find fuel for the disposal of thousands of poor murdered souls?

  As he worked, Meyer wondered how many had died here already. Death seemed to stalk each and every prisoner, just waiting for that moment, that illness, that mistake when death could step in and take away their life. How quick and easy it was to die here. And there was no mourning, no tears. It did not matter whether it was those who passed away in their sleep or those who were killed by the violence of the guards, there was no-one there to lament their passing, or to celebrate their life. No rabbi or priest prayed for their departed soul, no lifelong friend said any words. When life left you in this place you were alone. Your name was noted so that the next day, when roll call was taken, it did not appear as if you had escaped. You became a clerical notation. A tick or a cross against your name. Most likely with the date of your departure
to keep the records straight. Then you were bundled into a wheelbarrow and your remains burned. There would be no burial or headstone. It was quicker, easier, and more efficient to dispose of your body by cremating it along with hundreds more. And then you were ash. Scattered to the wind through the huge chimneys.

  “How long has the camp been open?” Meyer asked Geller.

  “Hey! No talking!” came an order from a guard.

  Meyer looked up from his bent stance. He felt sick as he saw an SS guard pointing straight at him and quickly returned to picking up the sticks and taking them to the piles in the centre of the clearing.

  The forest carried the same strange, loud silence that the camp suffered from. There was very little talking. The guards chatted in between shouts at the prisoners. The prisoners were only allowed to converse when it was required for their work.

  The guards permitted occasional stretches by those picking the wood from the clearing floor as they attempted to ease their backs, but anything more than that was met with a shout and sometimes a pointed rifle. There were no breaks or rests allowed, and Meyer wondered how long they could expect anyone to work like this without a respite from the constant bending and carrying.

  It was mid-morning when Meyer first heard the distant sound of metal clanging. A shout came from one of the officers that work should stop and all but two of the guards made their way to the dirt track which led to the clearing. From between the branches of the trees, Meyer could see a horse, which was pulling an old wooden cart with an old cast-iron water tank on board, and being led by a soldier. As the horse came to a standstill, the cups and ladles which hung from the tank stopped their mechanical song.

  Geller made his way over to Meyer, put his hand on his shoulder and, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, said, “Sit down Manfred. Take this chance to rest while you can.”