A Murder in Auschwitz (36 page)

“Secondly, if Straus’ pistol was discharged twice in his office, and there is one bullet in Straus, where is the other bullet? If we find that, we can prove two shots were fired and we have corroboration of Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb’s story.”

“That will be up to you, Heinrich,” said Kolb. “I can’t see Kramer allowing a murder suspect and a Jewish inmate to do a site visit to a crime scene.”

“Actually,” said Meyer, “I think that you could request to be taken to Straus’ office under guard to show your representative your movements inside the office, as they could have an impact on the outcome of the case.”

Fuchs agreed. “If we request that Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer was present while we made the site inspection, it may make it more acceptable.”

“But there is no way that he would allow Meyer to accompany us,” said Kolb.

“You are right, Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb,” said Meyer. “However, you do not require my presence in the office. What you and Scharfuhrer Fuchs need to do is find the second bullet. You can show him where you stood, where you picked the gun up from and which direction it was pointing in when it went off. Hopefully, with a bit of searching, you should be able to locate the bullet hole. If Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer is present, he can corroborate the find.”

A smile began to form on Kolb’s face. This was why he had wanted Meyer. As long as they could find evidence of the second bullet then he was halfway to proving his innocence.

“I will make a request tonight to make the visit tomorrow,” said Fuchs. “Kramer will never agree to taking us this evening.”

“You are remembering that I only have tomorrow to have you and Meyer finalise my defence?” said Kolb.

“I have the witness statements from Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer’s office,” said Fuchs, pulling sheets from the blue card folder. “There is one from Ritter and a joint one from the two guards who arrested you. And there is one from Kramer but it is only a few lines and not worth much at all.”

Fuchs handed Meyer the statement from Ritter. It was a typewritten sheet on headed paper which bore the eagle and swastika. It was dated from the morning of the fourth of February; the day after Straus had died. Meyer read through the statement.

“There is not much here of note,” remarked Meyer, running his tongue along his gums and unconsciously touching his painful teeth. “He says that he was working later than Straus had told him to, left his office at almost exactly seven, and went straight to his barrack room.”

“The guards' statements are not much better,” said Fuchs, handing the piece of paper to Meyer. Meyer scanned down the page.

“They mention that they saluted Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb several minutes before they heard the shot from Straus’ office. Then they confirm that they found Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb with a pistol in his hand and Straus dead in his chair. And they say how he handed over both Straus’ pistol and his own when arrested. That is about it.”

Meyer put down the statement and looked at Kolb. He looked tired. He still had the same uniform on from when he had been arrested, but the blood stains had now darkened to match the bruises on his face. There were loose threads and frayed edges on the collar, epaulettes, and cuffs which he had not noticed before. The silver thread which made up the SS runes, rank insignia, and the SS version of the Third Reich eagle on his arm was faded and dull. Apart from the bruising, Kolb’s face was grey, and stubble peppered his chin.

The colour was leaving Kolb. He was becoming a faded man.

Berlin, 19th July 1943

DESCHLER replaced the handset of the telephone in its cradle and gazed out of his office window. He was on the third floor of the Reich Ministry of Justice building and he watched as clouds lazily floated past his window. Berlin was a picture drawn in charcoal, the only colour the vivid blood red of the numerous Nazi flags hanging from building facades.

He only had a few minutes before they came.

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Scapa scotch whisky which only had two glasses worth of liquid in the bottom at the most. He had been saving this whisky for a special occasion, and he could not think of one more special than now. He reached back into the drawer and retrieved a crystal glass, which he blew into to ensure no dust remained, before pulling out the stopper from the bottle and pouring the honey-coloured spirit into the glass.

He lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled the bouquet, which was so familiar to him yet which he had not indulged in for a very long time. Memories flooded back as the aroma of the whisky summoned thoughts of places and people, events and occurrences. The first sip slid over his tongue; the salt and honey flavours filled his mouth with silken abandon, and he closed his eyes. He inhaled, pulling cool air over his palate and the fumes from the alcohol down into his lungs, then slowly exhaled, the heat of his breath re-ignited the flavours of the drink, making them burst around his gums and teeth and tongue.

Deschler lit a cigarette and placed it in the ashtray on his desk, then fished around in his jacket pocket for his bottle of painkillers. This was the worst pain he suffered from; the pain from his phantom leg. He could not rub it, or hold it, or attempt to soothe it in a hot bath. It lay somewhere in a field in France and yet it still sent him pain signals to his brain. The pain was the same as it had been almost thirty years ago when he woke up in the infirmary, screaming in agony, telling the nurses that it felt like his leg was on fire, that the bones were smashed.

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.