A Murder in Auschwitz

by J. C. Stephenson

  He had not believed them at first. The nurses had called on the doctor and it was only when he had pulled back the covers of his bed to show that the leg was not there that he understood. But he could not understand the pain.

  The painkillers had stopped working long ago. Only when mixed with alcohol did they have any effect at all. However, that was not why he took them. He took them because he had to. He dropped several into his mouth and swallowed them down with a large mouthful of whisky.

  Deschler pushed himself up, unhooking his walking stick from the back of his chair and making his way to the window, where he leaned against the window frame and looked down into the street. He hung the stick on the window latch and took a deep drag of tobacco smoke, which he held in his lungs before exhaling in a long, thin stream, the smoke dancing on the glass like ghosts.

  It would not be long now before they came for him. How different it could all have been.

  Deschler had been attending a meeting on internal security, an issue which involved all of the security services, from the police to the Gestapo, the SS to the German military intelligence, the Abwehr. The meeting had finished and Deschler was enjoying a coffee which he had fortified with some brandy from a hipflask, when another of the attendees, a Major in the Abwehr, introduced himself.

  “Major Stefan Greis, Kriminaldirektor Deschler,” he announced, and gave the traditional army salute.

  “I do not wear a military uniform, Major. And have not done so for a considerable time. You do not need to salute me.” Deschler held out his hand, which Greis took in a firm handshake.

  “Would you like a little additive for your coffee?” asked Deschler, showing Greis the top of his hipflask.

  Greis raised his eyebrows and checked in a theatrical manner that no-one was looking. “Thank you, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I often find that the so-called coffee that we drink these days benefits from almost any type of addition, although brandy would be my particular choice.”

  “It is not only contraband brandy you need to be watchful of,” said Deschler pouring a reasonable amount of brandy into Greis’ ersatz coffee. “That salute you gave me could be considered to indicate your loyalties, Major. It would have been more in keeping, as I am a Kriminaldirektor in the Gestapo, if you had made the Nazi salute.”

  “Which of course you would have returned, sir. But I am a member of the German Army, not a political branch, and we in the Wehrmacht and Abwehr like to keep our traditions,” replied Greis, taking a sip of his fortified coffee.

  “Or were you probing my loyalties, Major?”

  Greis did not answer. “You made some interesting points at the meeting today, some of which could be construed as being in contradiction with official Reich policy,” he said instead. Deschler raised his eyebrows.

  “I also heard a rumour of a high-ranking civilian member of the Gestapo intervening in the arrest of some Jews. It was only a rumour, of course. I would have thought that Himmler would have weeded out such a person and had them shot, don’t you agree?” said Greis.

  Deschler finished his coffee and poured the remainder of the hipflask into the empty cup. “Has the Abwehr been spying on the Gestapo, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. Just as the Gestapo spy on the Abwehr,” came the smiled reply.

  “You haven’t come to arrest me, Major Greis. It would be someone with a slightly different uniform that would be given that pleasure. So what can I do for you?”

  “Nothing for the moment, Kriminaldirektor Deschler. Nothing for the moment,” replied Greis, finishing his coffee and saluting, using the army salute again.

  Deschler finished the whisky in his glass and realised that he had left the bottle on his desk. Picking his walking stick from the window latch, he made his way back to the table and extinguished his cigarette while pouring the last of the whisky into his glass. He immediately lit another cigarette and returned to the window. He replaced the walking stick on the window latch and waited.

  It had been six weeks before Deschler saw Greis again. There was a knock at his office door and Major Greis entered, followed by another officer.

  “Ah, Major Greis,” said Deschler. “I have been expecting you.”

  “Kriminaldirektor Deschler, this is Oberstleutnant Clausen,” said Greis. Both men gave Deschler the army salute.

  “Can I provide you with a little sustenance against the cold, gentlemen?” asked Deschler. “Please, sit down.” Deschler opened his bottom desk drawer and, bypassing the whisky bottle, he pulled out an unopened bottle of brandy and three glasses.

  “From our French allies,” he said, and poured the contents into the glasses. “Prost!”

  “Once again, Herr Kriminaldirektor, you will have noticed that I am not here to arrest you,” said Greis, after taking a sip of the brandy.

  “And neither am I,” said Clausen. “Although, I think that as a Lieutenant Colonel in the military intelligence of the Third Reich, I should be permitted to question your loyalties, whether you are a member of the Gestapo or not, would you not agree, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

  Deschler laughed out loud. “Herr Oberstleutnant, I am questioned on my loyalty on a daily basis and have been since I joined the party in the thirties.”

  “And where does your loyalty lie, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

  Deschler leaned back in his chair, cradling the glass, swirling the golden liquid around the bottom. “Where do any of our loyalties lie, Herr Oberstleutnant? Where do yours lie? Be careful how you answer, Herr Oberstleutnant; do not forget that I am, of course, a high-ranking member of the Gestapo.”

  “Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor, one who saves the lives of Jews and makes statements at a security meeting which would get a lesser-ranked officer shot,” replied Clausen. “My loyalty is to Germany. I know you fought for the Fatherland on the western front and that is where your loyalty lies too. We all wear the swastika on our uniforms and as pins on our ties and I would of course consider the overthrow of the government an act of treason. However....” Clausen trailed off.

  “However, Oberstleutnant Clausen, a change of head of government would not be treason?” Deschler enquired.

  “Indeed,” was the short answer from Clausen.

  Deschler’s eyes were drawn to the two cars and the military truck which pulled up outside the ministry building. He recognised some of the SS officers who stepped out of the cars and watched as the soldiers streamed out of the truck and into the building.

  Deschler unhooked his stick and limped back to his desk, where he slumped back down into his chair. He hung his stick on the edge of the table and took a deep drag on his cigarette, feeling the heat of the burning tobacco on his lips. He pushed the stub of the cigarette into his ashtray and held up the glass of Scapa to the light, before sinking the remains of the whisky in one go. He had always wanted to visit Scapa Flow; to see the fleet. Where his brother had gone down with his ship.

  But it was all over now. The phone call from Greis had been to warn him, to tell him of the failure, to perhaps give him a head start on the SS. Deschler was not going to try to escape. He had a wooden leg, an addiction to painkillers, and an alcohol problem. He had come to the end.

  He removed the pistol from his shoulder holster, the pistol which he had never fired, clicked off the safety catch, loaded a round into the breach and laid it on the desk in front of him.

  Deschler had locked his office door that morning, something which he never did. Perhaps it was a premonition of sorts. He listened to the sound of the soldiers’ boots outside in the corridor and then the shouts when the door would not open.

  Deschler stared out of his window at the sky. The clouds were gone, leaving a beautiful blue expanse where a single song thrush flew. He lifted the pistol from the desk and placed it against his temple.

  Auschwitz, 9th February 1944

  MEYER’S face was swollen. His teeth hurt and his gum was bleeding. He had not slept the previous night as the dull pain had grown and begun to throb until it felt like someo
ne was pushing a sharp piece of glass through his gum. But the pain in his mouth was nothing to what he felt in his heart.

  He had thought about Anna and Greta all through the night; about the last time he had seen them, about the very first time he had laid eyes on them, in the apartment in Berlin, the surprise when he saw that it was twins. He remembered the first day at school for them both, the walks in the park, taking them to Wertheim department store to look at the toys. All gone and in the past, now no more than memories.

  Geller had tried to help while they were in the forest. He had made Meyer tell him about his girls and joined in with stories about his boy, Franz. It had been an attempt to let Meyer express his love for his children, but the pain was too great. Both Meyer and Geller shed tears that day while they discussed better, safer times with their children, Geller blaming the wind for his watering eyes and Meyer blaming his toothache.

  Soup and hard bread sat in front of him in Kolb’s cell. He was hungry, but the pain was too great. Kolb sat opposite him at the table with his arms folded. Meyer thought that his uniform looked even shabbier than it had the previous evening and wondered if that was possible. Was Auschwitz draining the colour from Kolb now that he was a prisoner, claiming another victim, turning Kolb into a ghost?

  “Why don’t you eat?” asked Kolb, but Meyer did not answer.

  The door to the cell opened as Fuchs arrived. His blue folder was balanced on top of a typewriter, along with paper and some envelopes, which he carefully placed down on the table. “Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer has agreed to myself and Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb visiting Straus’ office. I explained the reason and he insisted on accompanying us in person. He said that he will send a guard here when he is ready to take us across.”

  Fuchs began to organise the paper and envelopes in one pile, then, opening his folder and looking through his notes, he pulled out and checked some handwritten sheets. He then sat down and placed a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, releasing the paper lever and turning the thumbwheel.

  “Why the typewriter, Heinrich?” asked Kolb.

  “I need the notes I have taken over the past few evenings to be in order and easy for me to present at the hearing. As Meyer has pointed out, your case rests on the order of events in the run up to Straus’ murder. I am going to have them ordered on a sheet so I can refer to them and explain each one to the court martial.

  “I have already spent the day typing up the rest of the notes I have. Here is the sheet on Ritter,” said Fuchs, holding up a typewritten sheet. “His details, his history in the SS, the camps he worked at, and his time here, including the failed requests for transfer. I also have one on Straus and one on you, Wolfgang.”

  Kolb held out his hand so that Fuchs would pass his notes to him. He read through the sheets and then handed them back. “Is it entirely necessary to mention the blackmailing of Straus?”

  “Yes,” said Fuchs, emphatically. “As Meyer has pointed out, they are not going to shoot you for blackmail. Especially the blackmail of a homosexual.”

  “It allows us to bring in an unsavoury element,” said Meyer, rubbing his jaw. “Straus was a homosexual, a crime in the Reich punishable by being sent to a death camp. We can implicate Ritter in this, suggest that he may also be homosexual, adding uncertainty to the mix and a further possible reason that he may have wanted to kill Straus. A lovers' tiff.”

  “Ritter is not on trial. It is I who am on trial.”

  “I once had a highly respected lawyer tell me that when attempting to prove the innocence of a client, one of the best ways is to deflect blame. Find someone who may have had equal, if not more reason to commit the crime. It doesn’t matter if they are guilty of the crime, it puts uncertainty into the minds of the jury. Or in your case, the panel.”

  “Was this a Jewish lawyer?” asked Kolb.

  “No. He became a member of the Gestapo,” replied Meyer.

  “The Gestapo? And where is he now, this Gestapo lawyer?” asked Kolb.

  “Dead. Shot by the SS for daring to think for himself.”

  There was a knock on the cell door and an SS guard explained that he was there to take Fuchs and Kolb over to Straus’ office where Kramer would meet them. The two men left the cell. The door was locked behind them, leaving Meyer staring at the typewriter, the blank paper, and envelopes.

  It was just over half an hour before Kolb and Fuchs returned. Kolb had a wide smile across his face.

  “We found it,” said Fuchs. “It took us about twenty minutes but it was there, just above the skirting board, behind where Straus’ desk sits.”

  Meyer nodded. “That is the final piece of the jigsaw. We have a full account of what happened that night, the reason for only a single shot being heard, and a second bullet hole which matches Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb’s story.”

  “Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer was impressed when we found it and has agreed to confirm its existence tomorrow at the court martial,” said Fuchs. “I have quite a bit of work to do tonight to prepare for tomorrow. I will have you escorted back to your hut, Meyer.”

  He stood up from the desk to go to the door to shout on the guard.

  “Before you shout on the adjutant, I didn’t get the chance to ask Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb my question about the Pfeiffer case last night,” said Meyer.

  Kolb smiled. “I know what you would like to ask me. But I think Heinrich should give us a few minutes together so that I can answer this final question.”

  The pain in Meyer’s gums had receded slightly, and he felt that the swelling in his face was going down. “I think that it is important that Scharfuhrer Fuchs understands the Pfeiffer case and why it is so important,” said Meyer.

  “What can possibly still be important in a case that happened ten years ago? There is nothing in the Pfeiffer case that Heinrich needs to know,” replied Kolb.

  “I disagree, Wolfgang,” interrupted Fuchs. “It was the case where Herr Meyer first demonstrated his skills as a lawyer to you. And I know that there is something about that case which you are holding back. I think that if you consider me a friend, and fellow officer, and you want me to represent you tomorrow, for God’s sake, you should trust me with whatever it is that you are trying to hide.”

  Kolb took a deep breath. “You had better sit down, Heinrich. I’m sorry, you are right, of course. If I can’t trust you on the night before my court martial, then I can’t trust anyone. I didn’t want you to know in case it made you think that I was guilty of Straus’ murder.”

  “Why would it make me think that?” asked Fuchs, taking his seat at the table once more.

  “Because although Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb was found innocent of the murder of Josef Pfeiffer, he told me a couple of nights ago that he had in fact been guilty,” said Meyer.

  Fuchs was silent for a while, allowing the information to sink in, before responding. “You were right not to tell me. If it had not been for Meyer realising that the first shot fired, the one which killed Straus, had been masked by the crack of thunder when you were still in the courtyard, then you would now be looking for another representative.

  “So, this whole Pfeiffer case hinged on a missing murder weapon, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Herr Fuchs,” replied Meyer. “The innocent verdict was based around the fact that the murder weapon was not found at the scene. It was the key to the whole case. It was the subject of the question which I was going to ask Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb. In spite of the police making a thorough search of the area the murder weapon was not found. It was an upholstery tool, of which, the name escapes me.”

  “A star tack hammer,” Kolb reminded him. “It was unfortunate at the time that it had been the first thing which came to hand. It was sharp and killed Josef almost instantly, but it is was the only one of its kind in the whole place, and had such an identifiable head that using it put me in quite a corner.

  “Once I realised what I had done, using the easiest murder weapon to identify in the whole building, I knew that I had to make sure th
at no-one would ever be able to find it.”

  “So where did you hide it?” asked Meyer.

  Kolb began to laugh. “It was there in the workshop the whole time. Once I realised that Josef was dead, I had to get rid of the star tack hammer. There was only one place where I had a chance that no one would look. We had been working late to finish the re-upholstery of a sofa and we had gone to the beer hall because we were nearly finished. We just had the base cloth to go on, so that was what I did. I sewed the star tack hammer to the frame of the sofa and then put on the base cloth. When the police came to search the workshop for the weapon, they carried the sofa outside and Josef Pfeiffer senior delivered it to the customer himself.”

  Meyer stared at Kolb’s laughing face, aware that his hatred for the man was written across his own.

  Berlin, 20th July 1943

  LIFE in the capital had become extremely difficult. British and American bombers targeted the city regularly, forcing Meyer and his family to scramble through the dark to the safety of their secret shelter.

  Food had become impossible for Meyer to buy, but every week, a messenger boy would arrive with enough to keep them going for the next seven days. Often there was a note, perhaps a sentence or two asking if anything in particular was required by Meyer or a simple line saying that everything was okay at the firm, always signed 'F'.

  Occasionally, there was a luxury, a bottle of wine for Meyer and Klara or sugar sweets for the children. Meyer was not sure how Bauer managed to supply another family with enough food when everything was rationed, but he was extremely grateful.

  Apart from the trips to the old coal bunker, none of the family left the apartment. After their attempted arrest, Meyer had told them that they all had to stay inside and keep as low a profile as possible. He did not want Frau Fischer reporting his or his family’s movements to whatever authority she felt compelled to report to. It was bad enough seeing her door ajar every week when the messenger boy arrived.