A Murder in Auschwitz (26 page)

‘
Kurt, they have taken my Marie. I don’t know what to do and I need your help. Please come at once. At the office. FB.’

“I came as soon as I had read it. On the way over from the Justice Department I thought that I should also have you with me,” continued Deschler. “Come with me to see him.”

Meyer and Deschler climbed the grand staircase up to the walnut hall and made their way to Bauer and Muller’s offices. Deschler was surprisingly quick for a man with a wooden leg, although Meyer could see beads of sweat breaking out on his scarred forehead.

When they arrived at the door to Muller’s office, Deschler took hold of the handle and walked straight in. Muller jumped up from behind his desk.

“Herr Deschler! Thank goodness,” exclaimed Muller, as Deschler and Meyer walked straight past him and into Bauer’s office.

Bauer was sat in his leather chair, his unlit pipe hanging from his mouth as he stared at something invisible to Meyer in the middle of his enormous wooden desk. The windows were open and a cold wind stole the heat from the room. Deschler motioned to Meyer to close the windows and then sat in one of the chairs in front of Bauer.

“Friedrich, tell me what has happened,” said Deschler. The gentle tone took Meyer by surprise. He had finished closing the windows and taken the seat next to Deschler before Bauer had gathered enough strength to answer.

“They came this morning to the house and they took her away,” replied Bauer, his pipe bouncing in his mouth as he spoke.

“Who came, Friedrich? Who came to the house?” prompted Deschler.

Bauer absentmindedly removed the pipe from his mouth. “They said they were from some charitable foundation.” He threw a folded document onto his desk, which Meyer picked up after stretching over the enormous table.

Meyer unfolded the paper and looked at it, before handing it to Deschler. Along the top of the paper, under the eagle and swastika of the Third Reich, was the title of the organisation which had removed Marie from Bauer’s home that morning; The Charitable Foundation for Curative and Institutional Care. Below this was an address, Tiergartenstrasse 4, Berlin.

“Who is this ‘charitable foundation’?” he asked.

Deschler read through the document before answering. “They are a government department, according to this. They enforce the ‘Law for the Prevention of Hereditarily Diseased Offspring’. It says here that Marie has been taken into care ‘for her own protection’, to be ‘cared for by technically-trained staff who will ensure her continued good health and prevent any further spread of her hereditary condition’.”

Meyer watched as a single tear ran down Bauer’s face. “What will they do to her, Kurt?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Friedrich. I don’t know,” replied Deschler.

“She is just a child, Kurt. In her mind, she is just a child. She always will be. It is something that I envy. To be childlike forever. To never have to grow up. She will be frightened,” said Bauer, his voice breaking.

“I know, Friedrich,” said Deschler.

Deschler and Meyer made their way back along the walnut hall and down the grand staircase. Meyer could see in Deschler’s speed along the hallways and down the steps that he was furious. This was a return to the Deschler he first knew, a volcano ready to blow up at any given second.

As they neared Meyer’s office Deschler commanded, “Come with me.” And then he slowed and then stopped. He turned to Meyer.

“I am sorry. I forget myself, this is no longer my office and you are no longer my assistant,” he said, his anger suddenly gone. Meyer smiled.

“No, Kurt. Do not apologise. Please take me with you.”

Outside they hailed a taxi. Once they were inside, Deschler took Bauer’s document from his pocket and read the address to the taxi driver.

It only took six minutes to reach the office at Tiergartenstrasse. Meyer paid the driver as they left the taxi, allowing Deschler time to get out of the car and start up the steps of the building. A brass plaque at the double doors confirmed that this was the location of The Charitable Foundation for Curative and Institutional Care, the name sitting underneath the eagle and swastika.

“Kurt, wait,” said Meyer. “What are you going to do? Just walk in here and demand the release of Marie?”

“Why not?” said Deschler, as he pushed open the doors. “I am a very well-respected member of the party. My remit has expanded over the last year. I am no longer just a prosecutor.”

Meyer raised his eyebrows. Deschler had more than an air of authority about him. He was commanding, dictatorial even. Meyer felt that whoever was going to bear the brunt of Deschler’s fury would probably remember this day for a long time.

Inside the building, a young blonde woman sat writing at a reception desk. On either side of the smooth ash countertop sat miniature Nazi flags, which were reflected in the shining marble floor. Meyer had visited a charity headquarters before, in preparation for a case, but it certainly had not looked like this.

Deschler removed a wallet from the inside pocket of his dark coat and presented it to the young woman. She looked at the identification card within and then back at Deschler’s face, obviously checking the photograph’s authenticity, then noted his name in a visitor’s book, along with a time and date.

Once she handed it back to Deschler, he returned it to his inside pocket. “I wish to speak to someone about the removal of a young woman from her home this morning,” he said.

“Yes, Herr Deschler,” she replied, checking his name once again in the visitor’s book. “Please, take a seat.”

“No, thank you,” replied Deschler. “We will stand.”

The young woman looked from Deschler to Meyer, then back again. Then she picked up her telephone. After a second or two, she spoke to someone at the other end to say that a Herr Deschler from the Geheime Staatspolizei and an associate would like to discuss the removal of someone that morning. Deschler noticed Meyer looking at him at the mention of the Geheime Staatspolizei.

After a few minutes, a middle-aged man in metal-rimmed spectacles and a white medical-style tunic buttoned down one side, made his way down the marble staircase. On the right-hand side of his tunic, he wore a golden version of the eagle and swastika pin which Deschler also wore.

“Good morning. I am Doctor Woerner. How can I help you?” he asked, looking from Meyer to Deschler.

Deschler reached into his inside pocket once again and flipped open his identification wallet, allowing Woerner to read it. Meyer watched as the doctor’s eyes widened.

“A young woman was taken from her home early this morning and it has quite obviously been a mistake,” said Deschler. He handed Woerner the document which Bauer had been left with.

“As you will see from this paper, Marie Bauer was taken into protective custody this morning under the Law for the Prevention of Hereditarily Diseased Offspring. This has quite obviously been an error, as Marie Bauer is very well provided for by her family and, indeed, enjoys employment in an office in the centre of Berlin.”

Woerner quickly looked down the document he now held in his hand. “Herr Deschler, I am entirely unaware of this Marie Bauer, but if she has been taken into custody, then it will be for her own good.”

The colour in Deschler’s face changed. “You have not understood what I have just told you. Let me explain this in a much clearer way...”

But he was cut off by the doctor.

“I am afraid that it is you who does not understand, Herr Deschler. The mentally subnormal are a drain on the resources of the country. It has been made clear in the statute on the prevention of hereditary diseases that it is imperative that these subnormals should not be allowed to reproduce or...”

It was Deschler’s turn to interrupt.

“Herr Bauer, Marie’s father, is a very wealthy man and has made every provision required for Marie’s future. She will not be a financial drain on the Fatherland and she has already been medically diagnosed with a condition which prevents her from having children.”

Woerner stood for a moment holding the document, before handing it back to Deschler. “I am sorry Herr Deschler, I cannot help you,” he said, before turning and beginning to walk away.

“Doctor Woerner,” called Deschler, causing the doctor to stop and turn once more to face them. Woerner’s face was one of boredom and annoyance. Deschler smiled.

Meyer recognised it as the smile that was a lie. Deschler walked up to Woerner, lent close to him, and said something in a low voice into his ear which Meyer could not catch. He watched as the colour evaporated from Woerner’s face. Deschler turned and started heading towards the door. Meyer fell in behind him, looking quickly over his shoulder to see Woerner staring after them.

Once they were outside, they hailed another taxi. Deschler gave Bauer & Bauer’s address on Potsdamer Platz and explained to the driver that mmediately after their arrival, he would be going to the Reich Ministry for Justice.

“Kurt, you are carrying around a Gestapo identification card. Is that normal practice for a Reich Prosecutor?” asked Meyer.

Deschler looked straight ahead. “As I said, Manfred, my remit has expanded recently, and one of the ways to get things done is to have a police identification card.”

“A police identification card? Is that what it is?” said Meyer, sarcastically, but Deschler ignored it. “And what did you say to the good doctor before we left that drained the blood from his face?”

“I explained that when looked at closely enough, everyone’s family had at least one member worthy of investigation, whether that was by his organisation or by the Gestapo. And I was sure that his family would be of particular interest.”

The taxi stopped outside the office doors of Bauer & Bauer and Meyer opened the door to get out.

“Thank you for accompanying me, Manfred,” said Deschler.

“But I didn’t do anything,” replied Meyer.

“You were there. That was enough.”

It had been a long, difficult day, and Meyer looked forward to going home and seeing Klara’s smiling face and his two lovely girls. As he walked along the street to his apartment, he could feel the stress of the day begin to evaporate, although his thoughts kept returning to Friedrich Bauer and his pain at losing Marie. Meyer could not even begin to guess what it must feel like to be separated from your children in such a manner.

Paul the newspaper-seller was at his kiosk, sorting through the afternoon editions of the newspapers and did not notice Meyer’s approach.

“Good afternoon, Paul, tell me that all is well with the world,” joked Meyer.

“Afternoon, Herr Meyer. Good news today, no reaction from France or Britain over the re-occupation of the Rhineland,” he replied. Meyer dropped some coins into his hand, picked up one of the papers, and headed up the stair to his apartment.

He opened the door and shouted that he was home. Anna and Greta came running to see him.

“Hello Papa,” they both squealed. “Look, Papa,” said Anna, “I made a bracelet.” She held up her wrist to show her father a paper ring around it.

“And I made a necklace,” declared Greta holding up her paper jewellery. Meyer loved coming home to this. “Mama is sad,” said Greta, as she absentmindedly pulled on her homemade necklace.

“Sad?” asked Meyer. “Are you sure?”

“She is in the living room,” said Anna. “She has been crying.”

Meyer stood up and tousled the hair on both of his girls. “Klara?” he shouted through to the living room. He followed his own voice through to the room and saw his wife sitting on the edge of the sofa, a handkerchief in her hand. She tried to hide her face from him as he came to sit down beside her, but he cupped her chin in his hand and gently turned her to face him.

“Tell me what is wrong, Klara,” he implored. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her soft cheeks. It broke his heart to see her cry.

“Oh, Manfred. Herr Glauber called me into his office today. He said that he had to let me go. I asked him what he meant and he said that he wasn’t allowed to employ Jews. So I had to go.”

Meyer held her tightly and kissed the top of her head. He felt for her, that she had worked so hard and yet this had happened. But he also felt something else; a growing disquiet, a growing fear.

Meyer opened the folder on the murdered tug boat captain case and tried to read through the main statements again before making his notes and organising a trip to Spandau to see the client. But he could not concentrate.

Klara had cried into his shoulder for quite some time the previous night. Then she had become angry and said all manner of things about the Nazis and Hitler and their racial policies and if the world knew then the Olympics would never be allowed to be held in Berlin. And then more crying. She had been exhausted and Meyer made her go to bed early, just after the girls had been told their story and gone to sleep.

Meyer’s office door was open and he heard something familiar, the tinkle of coffee cups. He peered through his open doorway and, for a second he thought he saw Marie. He felt he must have been mistaken. And then there she was. It was Marie, and she was smiling and coming into his office. Behind her, leaning against the doorframe, was Bauer, a grin spread across his face, almost forcing his rheumy eyes entirely closed.