A Murder in Auschwitz (25 page)

“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?”

Kramer stared directly into Kolb’s eyes. Neither man blinked until Kramer suddenly raised his voice. “Are you?”

Kolb jumped and hurt his teeth on the gun barrel.

“I should have shot you this morning and faked your signature on the confession,” said Kramer, his voice soft and calm again. He slowly pulled the gun from Kolb’s mouth and held it against his temple.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” asked Kramer, a smile across his face. “Which officer would you like to have as your defence council during your court martial? If you mention a prisoner’s name, I promise I will put a bullet in your head.”

Kolb realised that he needed to change tact. The man he had known the longest at the camp was Heinrich Fuchs. They often worked together, and Kolb was certain that he would agree to represent him. It was an officer’s name that Kramer wanted and Fuchs’ would be as good as any. There must still be a way of using Meyer though. Kolb was convinced that his chances of survival rested almost entirely on his old lawyer.

“Kolb, I am losing my patience,” said Kramer through gritted teeth.

Kolb quickly answered. “Heinrich Fuchs, Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer. He is in my barrack room.”

Kramer nodded, returned his Luger to its holster and began to leave.

“Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer,” said Kolb. He steeled himself for another assault, but he needed to push the possibility of Meyer helping in his defence. Kramer turned to listen.

“I would like to see Obersturmbannfuhrer Liebehenschel. I need to ask his permission for the use of the prisoner, Meyer.”

Kolb watched as the colour left Kramer’s face. Then Kramer turned and left in silence. Kolb tasted blood on his tongue from where the sight on the barrel of Kramer’s luger had scratched the top of his mouth and wondered if his request to see the Commandant would even leave the cell.

Arthur Liebehenschel was surprised to see Kramer so soon but was delighted when he was told of the quick setting up of the court martial and that the date had been set for the 10th of February, only six days away.

“Well done, Josef, let’s get that out of the way so we can continue with our work here,” said Liebehenschel.

Kramer smiled and thanked Liebehenschel. The Commandant picked up his pen once more and returned to his paperwork, which lay on his desk. Then he noticed that Kramer was still in the office.

He looked back up at Kramer. “Thank you, Josef. You may go.”

Kramer smiled once more and made to get up out of the chair but then sat back down again.

Liebehenschel was puzzled. “What is it, Josef? Is there something else?”

Kramer nervously pulled at the peak of his cap before answering. “Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb has made an unusual request.”

Liebehenschel returned his pen to its holder and clasped his hands together. “What, may I ask, is this unusual request?”

Kramer pulled at his cap once more and then, feeling that it had been pulled too far forward, removed it altogether and slid it under his arm. “He has chosen a fellow officer, as advised, to represent him at the hearing. But...” Kramer paused and steeled himself for Liebehenschel’s reaction. For a moment, he wondered if he should really tell the Commandant.

“Yes?” prompted Liebehenschel.

“He has made a further request, sir. He has asked for the help of one of the prisoners. A Jew.”

Berlin, 20th May 1936

MEYER sat at his desk in the Bauer & Bauer offices, leafing through the notes to a case he had been given. It had become normal practice for Meyer to be given the notes to two or three cases at a time, from which he would choose one or more before passing the others to Weber or one of the other lawyers on his floor.

This particular case though, looked very interesting. It involved the murder of a tug boat captain on a barge which was found to contain large quantities of imperial-era Russian vodka. Meyer was just going through the witness statement from the policeman who was first at the scene, when the door to his office suddenly opened. It was Deschler. Behind him was Meyer’s new secretary.

“I am sorry, Herr Meyer, he just came straight in, I couldn’t stop him,” she pleaded.

“That is okay Frieda, this is Herr Deschler. He is a legend in this office,” replied Meyer, smiling. Frieda nodded and retreated back to her desk.

“Come in, Kurt. What a surprise,” said Meyer, standing up and pointing to the seat in front of his desk. Deschler closed the door behind him and lent heavily on his stick before limping over to slump in Meyer’s guest chair. Meyer’s smile left him as he saw that Deschler looked grim.

Meyer took his seat once more and waited for Deschler to say something, the dread building inside him.

“It’s Friedrich Bauer I have come to see, Manfred. Someone has taken Marie.”

Meyer sat blankly for a moment. “Marie? The coffee girl?”

Deschler rubbed the scar on head and hung his cane on the edge of Meyer’s desk. “She isn’t just the coffee girl, Manfred; she is Friedrich Bauer’s adopted daughter.”

It took a second or two for Meyer to process this and then he realised; the shared smiles between the two, the fatherly looks from Bauer. Of course, how did he not realise?

“What do you mean she has been taken? Taken by who?” asked Meyer.

Deschler sighed. “I am not fully certain. I received a handwritten note from a messenger boy half an hour ago, asking me to come as quickly as possible to see Friedrich in his office.” He fished around in his jacket pocket and retrieved the crumpled note. Meyer took it from Deschler’s outstretched hand and unfolded it.