“And the name Cerberus? I know that he is the multi-headed hound who guards the gates to Hades,” asked Meyer.
“Ah, is it the name of the bar, or perhaps Cerberus is supposedly on guard to protect it? If it is the later, then that would make this Hell,” smiled Deschler. “No, Cerberus was the name of the ship where all of this wonderful wood panelling came from. The Cerberus was a vessel used for polar exploration. A strange and fascinating story, but one for another day.” He lifted his glass of whisky. “Prost.”
Meyer lifted his in response and replied in turn, then took a sip of the yellow liquid.
“The whisky you are drinking was distilling in view of the Imperial Navy scuttling itself in nineteen-nineteen,” said Deschler. Meyer took another sip. “I think it is important to see the whole picture, whether it is experiencing a glass of whisky, or defending a client.
“This is my favourite whisky; I can taste honey and sea salt when I let it sit on my tongue. It is an aside that it was present when the ships went down. Is it important? To me it is. That this whisky was only a hundred metres or so away from the brave actions of our sailors, the very last actions of the Great War. It gives me a connection to that event.
“After what happened in court today, I think you can appreciate what I am talking about.”
Meyer took another sip of whisky. “You mean the murder weapon? It woke me in the middle of last night. But you had already spotted it. Already seen that the very implement which caused that wound was missing, and if it was missing then someone removed it, and who would do that? Kolb didn’t. Why would he kill someone, leave with the murder weapon to remove it from the scene of the crime, and then return to be caught? Unlikely in the extreme. But, Herr Deschler, it was luck that it came to my mind.”
“Nonsense. It is your experience and intelligence which led you to the same conclusion as myself. And it was your abilities as a defence lawyer which allowed you to outmanoeuvre the prosecution. Also, Manfred, if I may call you that, in private, please call me Kurt.”
Meyer and Deschler sat in silence for a short while, enjoying the warmness of the room and the whisky. Deschler stretched out his wooden leg, the pain from which showed itself on his face momentarily, then lit a cigarette using a book of matches on the table, which Meyer noted were from a different establishment.
“My father was in the war,” Meyer found himself saying. “My father and my brother. I lost them both. I was too young to go.”
Deschler took a deep drag from his cigarette and emptied the last of the whisky into his mouth. He motioned to the barman that another two drinks were required, then replied in a low voice. “War is a terrible thing, Manfred. Do not be ashamed that you were too young to be involved in that bloodbath. It destroyed so many lives, not just the ones who were killed but those who made it home again. Many will carry the wounds of war secretly. Here,” he said, pointing to his head and then resting his hand on his leg.
“If we can have a generation who don’t have to fight in a war, then the world will change for the better. We should never forget those who gave so much, but we should always look forward.
“It is one of the reasons I joined the National Socialists. A strong army will keep the wolves away from Germany so we can have a peaceful existence and our children can grow up safe.”
The barman brought over two more glasses of whisky and slid them onto the table.
“How are your wife and your two girls?” asked Deschler.
“Very well, thank you, Kurt,” replied Meyer. It felt strange calling him by his first name.
Deschler took another drink from the whisky glass. “I was married too, you know Manfred. To a beautiful girl from just outside Berlin. I met her before the war and it was love at first sight. She had the most delightful golden hair. It shone, even when there was no sun.
“When the war began I signed up as soon as I could. I went from a life of law school and love to one of mud and blood and horror. I missed her. I wrote to her every opportunity that I had. And she wrote back. She couldn’t wait for me to return to see her. In the short time I had with her when I was on leave she told me how much she loved me and how much she hated the war for taking me away from her.
“And then I was wounded. I lost my leg and I spent over a year in hospital. She visited me when she could, brought me books and fruit. She told me it didn’t matter about the leg. She loved me and it didn’t matter.
“So we got married. I had my wooden leg by then. I walked down the aisle with her holding on to my arm, helping me so I didn’t have to use my stick. She really didn’t care about the leg and she really did love me. But the shell which took my leg took something else as well.
“I had always wanted children. I had always imagined us with a huge brood of children. In particular, I always wanted a son. But it was not to be. She said it didn’t matter. But it did. I gave her everything she could possibly want except children.
“Then, one day, I came home from Bauer & Bauer early. It was to surprise her, to take her out for the afternoon to the zoo. She loved the zoo. But she wasn’t alone.
“The man she was with was a baker from the corner of our street. I don’t know how long she had been...I mean, it wasn’t the first time. I didn’t know what to do so I went to see Friedrich Bauer. He let me stay in a spare room at his house. He and his wife had never managed to have children either so they understood my pain. I went back after a week and she had gone. I never saw her again. I moved out of the apartment to the other side of the city and had my things sent on.
“Friedrich Bauer really looked after me then. He made sure my rent was paid even though I was rarely at work. He eventually talked me round and I started my life again without her.
“But what I missed, what I really missed was what had never been; a son.”
Meyer took a large drink of his whisky. Deschler had suddenly, after such a long time, shown him his vulnerable side, and it had taken a courtroom defeat to do so. Perhaps this was the beginning of a friendship that could only exist while they were professional adversaries.
Deschler drained his glass and set it down on the table, taking a few notes from his wallet and placing them under his glass. Meyer realised that it was time to go and finished off his glass of whisky.
“I was proud of you today, Manfred,” Deschler suddenly said. “I have watched you grow as a lawyer and today I was proud of you.”
Klara and Meyer held hands as they walked back along Zehlendorf Strasse to their apartment and Meyer whistled one of the tunes they had danced to. The evening sun cast long, golden shadows along the pavement. They could hear the newspaper-seller before they could see him.
“Do you think he shouts like that at home?” giggled Klara.
“Yes, I know for a fact that he does but luckily his wife is deaf so she doesn’t notice,” joked Meyer, making Klara laugh out loud.
As they got closer, they could see that the newspaper front pages of the evening editions carried large pictures of Hindenburg and Adolf Hitler. It was customary for Meyer to question the newspaper-seller each morning and evening when he saw him.
“What ails the world this evening, Paul?” asked Meyer.
The newspaper-seller tipped his hat to Klara as he answered. “Hindenburg has resigned. Hitler is now the leader of Germany.”
Auschwitz, 4th February 1944
THE freezing mist had persisted throughout the night and still hung in the early morning air, chilling anyone coming on duty. The senior adjutant officer, Hauptsturmfuhrer Josef Kramer, sat in the anteroom outside the Camp Commandant Obersturmbannfuhrer Arthur Liebehenschel’s office.
Kramer had been summoned to see Liebehenschel that morning. He knew what the subject matter would be; the murder which had taken place the night before. He had written a preliminary report for the Camp Commandant and had one of his men wake Liebehenschel’s secretary and give it to him to pass on. Kramer was not the sort of man who would wake the Camp Commandant himself. That was a job
for someone else.
Liebehenschel’s office door was open, and Kramer could see the Commandant on the telephone at his desk. After a short while, Liebehenschel hung up the telephone and spoke to someone who was standing out of Kramer's sight. It was Liebehenschel’s secretary, and he immediately came to the door and asked Kramer to go straight in. Kramer entered the modest office and saluted. Liebehenschel returned the salute and indicated to Kramer to sit down.
“Josef, I got your report from last night,” said Liebehenschel, opening the card folder and re-reading the single page inside. Once he had scanned over it one more time, he looked up at Kramer.
“So, one of my senior officers is found dead in his office with a junior officer holding a smoking pistol in his hand. Why has this...” and Liebehenschel checked the report again. “Why has this Kolb not been shot?”
Kramer had known that this question would be asked this morning. The camps had their own internal affairs and security. This allowed discipline and policing of the staff employed there to be dealt with within the camp quickly and efficiently. In the winter, when the snow was at its worst, Auschwitz could be effectively cut off, so it was imperative that the SS and Gestapo policed their own. And this included punishment.
Lesser crimes were dealt with by demotion of rank, reduction in pay, or time within the camp stockade. More serious crimes, such as corruption, would be dealt with locally to ascertain probable guilt and sometimes be processed further by a military court in Germany. Murder, on the other hand, would definitely be dealt with quickly and within the camp’s own infrastructure.
Kramer had had Kolb arrested and placed in the stockade while he took advice from the Camp Commandant. Initially, he had presumed that since Kolb had been found with the gun that killed Straus in his hand, there would be an instant confession and therefore a quick execution by firing squad.
However, for there to be a quick resolution, there had to be a confession, and no matter what pressure was brought to bear on Kolb, he insisted that he was innocent. Even when Kramer had employed some of the techniques he used against the Jewish prisoners, Kolb had not changed his story.
“As you know, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, we can’t carry out the execution of a military prisoner without either a confession from the prisoner or a direct order from yourself or, in your absence, Berlin,” explained Kramer.
Arthur Liebehenschel sat back in his chair and smoothed his thick black hair with his hand.
“And I am assuming a confession has not been forthcoming?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“This is despite your usual methods for extracting information, Josef?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Kramer. He felt that he had not been too brutal with Kolb. Kolb was an SS officer after all; however, he would be sporting some visible cuts and bruises as a reminder of his time in Kramer’s hands.
“You had better tell me from the start what occurred last night,” said Liebehenschel. The smoothing back of his hair had transformed into his holding his hands together at the back of his head, as if he was making himself comfortable for a radio play.
Kramer cleared his throat and started to explain the events which had led to Kolb’s arrest the previous evening. “From what we have put together, Straus was working in his office until just after seven o’clock. This was when his adjutant, Untersturmfuhrer Dietrich Ritter, retired for the evening. Ritter confirms that although he didn’t bid Straus a good night, as he had been told to retire to the barracks much earlier by Straus, he had seen that there was light coming from under his door. Very soon after this, a shot was heard coming from Straus’ office by two of the internal perimeter guards. When they arrived at his office, they found Straus dead in his chair behind his desk and Kolb standing in the middle of the room with the pistol in his hand.
I was called and I arrested Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb and took him into custody. He was vociferous in his denial of the murder from the moment when I arrested him. He kept saying that he hadn’t killed Straus and it was all a big mistake.”
Liebehenschel sighed and sat forward in his chair again. “Do you think it may be possible that he is not confessing to save himself from a firing squad, Josef? Perhaps you were not efficient enough in your questioning.”
“Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, I assure you...” started Kramer, but was cut off by Liebehenschel waving his hand.
“It is of no consequence,” said Liebehenschel. “A court martial will serve the same purpose.”
“The same purpose?” questioned Kramer, uncertain of what Liebehenschel meant.
The Camp Commandant returned to his reposed position in his chair and ran both his hands over his black, shining hair, ensuring that it was flat and in the correct style before allowing his hands to sit once more behind his head.
“Discipline, Josef. Discipline. It is what authorities have struggled with throughout history. From the Greeks to the Roman Empire. From the British Empire to the Third Reich. The discipline of their police and soldiers has been the lynchpin for all the great empires of the world.
“The Romans enforced discipline on their legionnaires ruthlessly. Their punishments would vary from depleted rations, to flogging, to being beheaded, or perhaps forced to fight in the arena.
“It is interesting that not much has changed. More importantly though, it has always been the military who have policed and judged the military. We have always looked after our own and therefore always punished our own. And now, we are in the greatest military organisation, serving the greatest nation the world has ever known.
“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will guard the guards, Josef? The SS, Josef, that is who.
“But here, Josef, our discipline requires sharpness. Because of the nature of our facility, we need the utmost standards in discipline. We cannot allow the manner in which we treat the Untermenschen here to be matched in the way we treat each other. The SS must maintain the most impeccable reputation with regards to our demeanour, our professionalism, but most of all, our integrity.
“For the sake of the men, Josef, we must be seen to be doing the correct thing. We must follow the known procedures. I am sure that Kolb will be found guilty and he will be shot, but we must have a court martial to have the evidence presented in the correct manner.”
Liebehenschel sat forward in his chair again and picked up his pen. “Make the necessary arrangements, Josef.”
Kramer stood and saluted Liebehenschel, who once again returned the gesture. As Kramer turned to leave, Liebehenschel made one final comment. “Joseph, I want this court martial over with and out of the way.”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer,” he replied, then turned and left.
Kolb sat on the floor in the small cell in the stockade. He was hungry. That morning, he had been given some water, but no food had been forthcoming. He hurt all over. Kramer had certainly done what he could to extract a confession from him. His ribs in particular were sore. It did not hurt when he breathed, but every small movement he made caused him to wince from the pain it generated. He was sure that at least two of his ribs on the left hand side were cracked. He touched the soft tender area that was under his right eye. It stung from the salt sweat on his fingers. His hand then ran down his nose. This had spewed blood last night from the repeated blows to his head, but Kolb was grateful that it had not been broken.
There was a noise on the other side of the cell door. It was the jangling of keys and then the unmistakable sound of one of them being pushed into the lock and turned. Kolb felt his stomach drop. He was certain that it would be Kramer and he would be receiving another beating, another attempt to get him to confess.
The door was pulled open and Kramer’s frame filled the narrow doorway. Kolb looked up at him and waited to be pulled to his feet and dragged to the interrogation room, but instead Kolb stood, looking at him.
“You are lucky, Kolb. The Camp Commandant wants you to have a court martial. Do you know what this means?” asked Kramer. Kolb was still
trying to take the information in and was not sure if Kramer wanted an answer or not.
“I may not have had you shot this morning, but you will be shot in a few days instead,” he continued. “You will need to nominate an officer to represent you at the court martial. Who do you want?”
Kolb still sat on the cell floor, clutching his side. Someone to represent him? He knew who he wanted, who would be able to find a way out of this mess for him; but it was impossible. It would never be allowed. He would need a fellow officer instead. “I think, maybe...” Kolb tried to think who would be the best person to defend him. Which of the fellow officers that he knew would be able to help him? His mind kept going back to the only man he knew that would have the capability to find a way to convince the court martial that he was innocent. Manfred Meyer. Kolb was destined to face a firing squad otherwise.
“Hurry up, Kolb. I don’t have all day. I have a court martial to organise,” came Kramer's sarcastic tone.
Kolb’s thoughts cleared. What did he have to lose? Kramer wanted him dead anyway. There was nothing for it but to see if some sort of agreement could be reached whereby Meyer could at least assist in his defence. He had to try. “Meyer. Manfred Meyer.”
“Meyer? I don’t know him. Is he in your barracks?” asked Kramer.
“No, Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer. He is a prisoner,” replied Kolb.
Kramer unclipped the flap on his holster and removed his pistol, then, kneeling down in the cell so that he was at the same level as Kolb; he squeezed Kolb’s face, forcing his mouth open, and pushed the barrel of the gun inside.
Kramer’s voice was very calm. It chilled Kolb as much as the cold metal of the Luger as it sat against his teeth. “Are you attempting to make me look like an idiot, Kolb? Are you expecting me to go to the Commandant and tell him that your choice of defence council is a prisoner?”
A Murder in Auschwitz Page 18