Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

Morgen folded his arms over his stomach. Schlegel noticed he had put on weight. With his eyes closed Morgen said, ‘Prophecy and improvisation.’

  ‘Another of your riddles?’

  ‘Quite plain, I think. If you go back over the leadership’s speeches you will find what is happening was foretold, which we misread for exaggeration or metaphor. No one expected anything so literal. Our leader didn’t walk among us. He left it to us. He saw into our souls and read something very dark in our psyche that sidestepped two thousand years of Christianity. And work it out we did, and the ones that did nothing were party to all those auctions from requisitioned properties in Berlin and the taking from Canada because how it got there is of no consequence to the takers. Look at this place, a temple to improvisation and corruption the result.’

  Morgen deduced the garrison was intrinsically different from the death camps, which had replaced the defunct euthanasia campaign.

  ‘No one from that programme is here. So is it a separate enterprise, an anomaly even?’

  ‘Are you saying the killing programme here might not be technically authorised?’

  ‘Through an oversight, perhaps, which means it may – just – not fall into the same extralegal category as the other.’

  ‘You mean prosecutable?’

  ‘Whether anyone will let us live to carry out those prosecutions is quite another matter.’

  He stood up.

  ‘Palitsch has agreed to talk. Not so tough now. A crybaby looking to cut a deal. Wirths will too.’

  Morgen had to explain about their arrests, with a look that asked what planet was Schlegel on.

  ‘And the security police will let them?’ Schlegel asked trying to sound clued-up.

  ‘The security police’s motives are unfathomable, but that slippery little chancer Broad is saying they are looking to offload.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Probably because Grabner wants to cut a deal, giving us them in exchange for letting him off.’

  ‘Are you all right with that?’

  Morgen shrugged. ‘We’ll get him anyway.’

  The cynicism was new. Morgen struck him as being as desperate as the rest of them.

  Broad was waiting at the punishment block. They could see Palitsch sitting in the assizes room. He pulled off the difficult trick of appearing craven and cocky, with his easy slouch, knees planted wide, hands dangling. He nodded at Schlegel, his eyes betraying his need.

  Broad said, ‘A word first.’

  He took them to another room and shut the door. He barely had a stripe to his name yet felt he could address Morgen as an equal. Morgen, never one to stand on ceremony, looked as though he wanted to snap a salute out of Broad. Instead he asked for a cigarette when it was garrison etiquette not to, and Morgen had been there long enough to know. Morgen took the cigarette and waited for Broad to light him. Round one to Morgen, Schlegel thought. Broad wouldn’t forget. Schlegel considered him one of the more entertaining types but deeply untrustworthy.

  Broad told them it was being said the commandant wanted dismissal and a long sentence for Palitsch, preferably with an option of capital punishment for the death of Tanner.

  He was like a megaphone when it came to discretion, saying his boss Grabner was playing them off against the commandant.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Morgen. ‘It’s also known as falling between stools.’

  Schlegel supposed it was Broad’s job to convey his master’s wishes even when appearing not to. He admitted Palitsch was being sacrificed, as a peace offering to the commandant, given their mutual loathing.

  Broad imitated playing his squeezebox. ‘That old vendetta rag.’

  Schlegel wondered if Broad knew how much he irritated Morgen.

  They joined Palitsch. Broad tried to stay, claiming it was part of the deal, said in his usual lazy way.

  Morgen looked about to explode, said nothing, and held the door until Broad ambled out, hands raised in mock surrender.

  Schlegel remembered Palitsch and Broad’s drunken interruption after the round of executions. It was as well to remind himself.

  Palitsch watched cautiously, waiting for them to settle.

  Schlegel thought perhaps he wasn’t aware of being framed. For all the pretence of a front, the man looked confused and needy, and when he spoke it came out whiny.

  He said the racial defilement charge was being pressed by other parties.

  Morgen said, ‘We were told you wanted to speak to us.’

  Palitsch, slow to cotton on, finally pretended he had.

  Morgen surprised him by saying, ‘Tell us what you know and, depending on how useful I find it, I will limit the number of questions we ask about you.’

  Palitsch’s expression shifted. Still crafty, thought Schlegel.

  ‘Tell us about the commandant,’ said Morgen.

  Palitsch looked at them, not sure why he was being asked.

  ‘Did you ever see him exercise any personal cruelty?’ Morgen prompted.

  ‘It’s not really his style.’

  Schlegel mentioned the whipped groom. Palitsch shrugged to say that was routine.

  Schlegel supposed the commandant was as capable of killing Tanner as anyone. There was the sexual frustration and his black museum was a temple to morbidity. He could see them all lining up to take turns. Pick a suspect, any suspect, and he could be shown to be capable.

  ‘You would exonerate him then in terms of personal conduct,’ Morgen went on.

  ‘The commandant is always very careful about being correct.’

  ‘More facilitator than initiator?’

  ‘It’s a desk job, however much he pretends otherwise. He attends meetings, talks on the telephone and keeps regional bureaucrats happy, which I believe he does very well.’

  Morgen asked, ‘Is that as good as you are giving?’

  Palitsch looked nervous for himself. ‘Are you talking about the time he made eight hundred prisoners stand in minus-twenty-six degrees until a quarter of them died.’

  ‘For any good reason?’

  ‘A problem with overcrowding was how he put it.’

  Palitsch looked pleased by his effort.

  Morgen said, ‘Tell us about gassing here.’

  Schlegel held his breath.

  ‘What gassing?’ Palitsch gave a short whinny and added that a sense of humour was essential in the job. He continued to regard them uncertainly.

  Morgen said, ‘Off the record. Depending on what I am hearing, we could have you placed under our jurisdiction, take you back to Berlin.’

  Morgen made a show of dropping the case.

  He may as well have fired a starting pistol. Palitsch was falling over himself to tell, saying it started for the same reason the commandant left eight hundred standing in the freezing cold.

  ‘Numbers.’

  ‘So the problem of overcrowding persists,’ Morgen noted drily. ‘Was it his initiative rather than Berlin’s order?

  ‘Neither, technically.’

  The experiment had been thought up by one of the commandant’s deputies, after a drunken idiot of a soldier had wandered into a building being fumigated and survived only because he managed to stagger outside and fall down and break his arm.

  ‘You could see him in his splint for weeks afterwards and everyone said, ho-ho, there’s the cretin who gassed himself.’

  ‘When was this first experiment?’

  ‘After the Russians came, towards the end of 1941.’

  ‘I need you to be specific about the commandant’s role.’

  ‘He made sure he was away that weekend.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If it’s not Berlin’s order, he’s not going to leave his fingerprints all over it.’

  ‘Are you saying the commandant deliberately looked the other way?’

  ‘Not how you are thinking. The executions were authorised. The method was new.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It didn’t need an engine, like the buses they used elsewhere
. Nothing to break down. No pistol to jam.’

  ‘You are talking about the cyanide poison used for standard block fumigations.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Morgen held up his hand. ‘Just so I am sure. What was the commandant’s attitude to this new method?’

  ‘He could see what would happen and was against it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Everyone would take advantage.’

  ‘Tell us about the experiment.’

  Palitsch looked uncertain. ‘This is not about me?’

  ‘Not if it isn’t about racial defilement.’

  Palitsch looked uncomfortable.

  Morgen said, ‘To show I have a sense of humour too.’

  Palitsch laughed without conviction. He pointed to the floor.

  ‘The first time they did it downstairs. I got a telephone call on the Sunday because they had fucked up the dose, or whatever you want to call it, and half of them hadn’t died, so I had to go into the cells with a gas mask and finish them off with head jobs.’

  ‘What was the purpose of this first test?’

  ‘Backlog. The Gestapo from Kattowice had come and set up court – in this room – and had a big political sorting of hundreds of Russian officers.’

  Purge and panic, Schlegel thought. He wondered if the local Gestapo even had Russian speakers.

  ‘How many sorted?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘Seven, eight hundred. The doctors chucked in a bunch of sick prisoners as well.’

  ‘Big numbers.’

  Palitsch shrugged. ‘Bullets are expensive. Shooting takes time and is noisy. Someone came up with a method that was dirt cheap and could get rid of loads in one go. It was only a matter of time before somebody tried it.’

  ‘How long does it take, done properly?’

  ‘Fifteen, twenty minutes.’

  ‘Problem solved then, compared to a day’s shooting.’

  ‘You could say.’

  Palitsch looked at Schlegel, not knowing what to make of Morgen’s almost breezy tone. Morgen folded his hands and closed his eyes.

  ‘So I can picture it properly, this new service was like a standard delousing except the building was sealed and people were left inside.’

  Schlegel found it impossible to tell if Morgen was being droll.

  ‘You could say,’ Palitsch replied. ‘Except you need much less of the stuff, but more than they came up with that first time.’

  Palitsch treated it as a perfectly logical and normal extension of existing problems.

  ‘So they had to do it again?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘Soon after. The punishment block was considered the wrong location. They had to drag the bodies out afterwards through the camp, not that bodies on carts are an unusual sight, so next time they used the morgue in the old crematorium.’

  Morgen looked surprised. ‘In the middle of the garrison? So everyone could stand and watch?’

  Palitsch grinned. ‘Ha-ha, no, not on a Sunday. Day off. The doctors had got interested. This was their turn and they made sure the commandant attended. Stone’s throw from home. Back in time for breakfast.’

  Palitsch smirked.

  ‘The first test wasn’t theirs?’

  ‘Political sorting. I said. Grabner and the Gestapo. But the doctors knew because they chucked in a bunch of sick.’

  Palitsch sat quite relaxed now.

  ‘What do you make of the commandant’s absence on that first occasion?’ Morgen asked.

  Palitsch shrugged. ‘He didn’t have to be there as his deputy was, but he was unhappy well before then.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He didn’t want the petrochemical plant. He didn’t want the Russians. He complained early on Berlin would turn the place into a dump. Women, he didn’t like them coming. The rest of us weren’t complaining.’

  Palitsch gave a hee-haw laugh.

  ‘What did he want from the place?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘He didn’t want factories. He was a farmer.’

  ‘So he was fairly passive in all of it?’

  ‘Not at first. We worked our arses off to build the place up, no thanks from Berlin, which wanted change in ways the Old Man didn’t.’

  ‘You were there from the beginning?’

  ‘Day one.’

  ‘What happened after the second experiment?’

  ‘People suddenly expected us to take care of their problems. Just as the Old Man feared.’

  ‘Berlin?’

  ‘I doubt if Berlin knew.’

  On an officers’ social occasion someone had bragged about the new method to the proprietor of a network of regional Jewish labour camps and next thing was all those considered unnecessary to his requirements were being offloaded onto the garrison.

  Schlegel wondered if gossip really had been responsible. Far from any deciding programme, the whole thing seemed to have been determined by a snowball effect.

  Morgen leaned forward. ‘Offloaded on a legitimate basis?’

  ‘Not me you should ask, though there was a previous clearing in the summer of ’41 under a new heading – unfit for work – which let a team of doctors come and weed out those incapable of recovery.’

  ‘And they were killed here?’

  ‘Sent home.’

  ‘But later these regional camps could offload, knowing the garrison had the facilities for disposal, and you were obliged to get rid of them?’

  Palitsch looked amused by the idea. ‘Well, they couldn’t be put to work, could they? 14f13.’

  ‘14f13?’

  ‘Designated unfit for work. Dead weight. Not wanted. Nowhere to put them.’

  ‘How often did this happen?’

  Palitsch looked vague. ‘Not much, for the reason you said.’

  ‘Enough to prove it worked.’

  Palitsch held up his palms in a strange gesture and said, ‘It may not look like it but I respect the dead.’

  Morgen asked what happened after the garrison crematorium was closed for repairs.

  ‘You mean, where did they do the business?’

  Morgen stared, his loathing of the man no longer disguised, and Palitsch started backtracking, saying they would have to ask the police or the doctors.

  Morgen looked surprised. ‘I thought you were police.’

  ‘No. I am a roll-call leader. Freezing my balls off in winter while idiots that can’t add up try to do a head count, which can leave everyone standing for hours.’

  Morgen, astounded, said, ‘But you execute for the police.’

  ‘For a per capita fee. It was no skin off my nose to shoot a bunch of riffraff.’

  ‘For a fee?’ Morgen repeated blandly. ‘With overtime?’

  ‘Double on Sundays.’

  Morgen shook his head, as though he had heard everything.

  Schlegel asked, ‘Do you have any more to add about Ingeborg Tanner?’

  Palitsch stared at him with his pale eyes, unbothered.

  ‘She behaved like one of the boys, and some men didn’t like that.’

  ‘Any in particular?’

  ‘She gave that creep from Berlin the runaround.’

  ‘Fegelein?’

  ‘Is that his name? The smoothie.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Showered her with gifts when she couldn’t care less.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Jewellery. Silks. Perfume. French knickers.’

  ‘Do you know what he was doing here?’

  ‘Hush-hush. He was always bragging he was on a secret mission.’

  ‘Was she promiscuous?’

  ‘She was more like a man. To her mind she could go with whoever she wanted.’

  ‘Was she popular?’

  ‘A terrific lay, but socially popular didn’t matter to her because she couldn’t care what anyone thought.’

  They left him to it.

  He looked at them beseechingly. Morgen waggled his hand and said, ‘Interesting.’

  Palitsch looked crushed. Not a man in good
shape, Schlegel thought. The bully turns craven.

  Outside, Morgen fumed.

  ‘This had nothing to do with orders and everything to do with the time-honoured and haphazard tradition of suck it and see.’

  None of it was policy.

  Schlegel said it nevertheless belonged to a tradition of culling that had gone on for several years.

  Morgen looked interested.

  Schlegel said it had started in ’39 with involuntary euthanasia. Next it was the turn of the Poles. Then in the summer of 1941 huge numbers of civilians were shot in the wake of the military’s eastern campaign.

  ‘And last summer it started here,’ finished Morgen.

  Schlegel had been in the east in 1941. Morgen knew.

  There the daily refrain went: Shitty work but someone has to do it. What he most remembered was endless discussion on how to improve things: how to make it more efficient, less stressful, even for the poor bastards they were shooting. Everything was approached in a tough, practical way. Problem-solving. The job. Always how. Never why the fuck are we doing this? They were part of the grand design, left to sort it out for themselves, until the bureaucrats and the rest turned up, by when it was too late.

  Only now did Schlegel see a self-regard to the process, vanity even: Look at me being tough about this shit. He was reminded of Haas admiring and flexing his muscles. Krick they had found ambiguous, probably because he reflected that vanity they could not admit.

  Compared to the arduous ditch-shooting of a whole village, getting a crowd to undress willingly and step en masse into a chamber could – in terms of efficiency and time management, and herding the action off-stage – be taken for progress.

  Schlegel had rarely talked of that time in the east to Morgen, and only did so because he suspected it connected to what was going on now.

  Morgen asked, ‘What do you think happened here?’

  ‘The same. Moaned and got on with it.’

  ‘And Berlin?’

  ‘If the situation developed because of local gossip Berlin would have got to hear sooner or later.’

  Morgen said, ‘We’re talking about what Schulze called a quiet spring, after which it all went crazy.’

  Schlegel thought about how the wife had talked of their fashion parades.

  ‘I expect a situation was being set up to create pressure – overloading being the obvious example – until the loyal apes worked out for themselves what needed to be done.’