A Murder in Auschwitz (5 page)

“According to Herr Färber’s report to the police, this Gypsy had dark features, wore dark clothing, may have had an earring, and wore a kerchief on his head. A description of a Gypsy which could have been taken from any story book.

“We have already discovered that although Herr Weide was in the area of Herr and Frau Färber’s home at the time of the murders, Herr Weide was with another member of the Gypsy community. We have also discovered that Herr Weide was in possession of a large sum of money, from the sale of a horse.”

Deschler then paused and pointed to the papers containing the notes he had made from the trial. Meyer quickly picked them up and handed them to Deschler, who then took a few moments to study them before turning to his client.

“Herr Weide, can you remind us of your movements on the day you were arrested?”

Prala Weide cleared his throat and, with a deep voice and thick Romany accent, replied, “In the morning, after leaving the family, I took a cart horse to sell to a family camping in the north of Berlin at Mauerpark. We had agreed to meet at the flour mill in Ritterstrasse. I walked with the horse, not riding, and took him to the flour mill and waited.”

“And you were on your own on this journey?” asked Deschler, which Weide confirmed. “Where are you and your family camped, Herr Weide?” he asked.

“Sommerbad Kreuzberg. It is a small, wooded area, but very quiet. And the police leave us alone there as long as we don’t stay for too long.”

Deschler ran his fingers across his moustache before asking the next question.

“What time did you leave your caravan, Herr Weide?”

“It was four thirty in the afternoon. I am certain of this as I wanted to leave plenty of time to reach the mill, and I also spoke with my wife about my time of return.”

“And what time did you meet at the flour mill?”

“We were to meet at five o’clock at the mill. I was there ten minutes early.”

“So it took you twenty minutes to walk with a horse about a kilometre? That is a reasonably slow pace.”

“I had plenty of time; there was no need to rush the horse. I wanted him to look his best and strongest so I could get the best price.”

“Which route did you take Herr Weide? Did you pass Mariannenstrasse?”

Prala Weide shook his head.

“It is nearby but in the wrong direction. It would have added another, maybe, ten minutes to my journey.”

“So you took the most direct route to your meeting?”

“Of course. Why would I take a longer one?”

Deschler smiled.

“Why indeed, Herr Weide? The prosecution has already tried to establish that you were in the general area. The fact that you were within ten minutes of Mariannenstrasse means that you were in the locality. Could you be mistaken? Could you have passed Mariannenstrasse?”

Prala Weide shook his head once more.

“No. I am not mistaken. I was not near Mariannenstrasse. There was no reason for me to be there.”

Deschler nodded and took the piece of paper he was holding, turned it over and placed it on the table before picking up another from his pile.

“Herr Weide, what was the name of the man you were meeting?” he asked.

“Josef Jauner,” replied Weide.

“Were you meeting him alone?”

“Yes.”

“And did he buy your horse?”

“Yes. For seven hundred and forty-eight Reichsmarks.”

“That is a very precise number.”

For the first time Meyer saw Weide smile.

“It was how the negotiations progressed,” he replied, with a shrug.

Deschler stroked his moustache before continuing.

“Were you happy with that price, Herr Weide?”

“It was a reasonable price for the horse, yes.”

“Remember you are not on trial for illegal horse trading Herr Weide, please be frank with the court about the price you were paid and the quality of the animal.”

The smile had left Weide’s face now and his deep Romany voice was much quieter as he gave his answer.

“I was very happy with the price. The horse was worth it mind you, but yes, I was very happy with the price.”

“Josef Jauner paid you in full? And in cash? No promissory note?”

Weide looked aghast.

“In full. In cash. Nobody Romany does business on a promise!”

Deschler made a mark with a pencil on the paper he was holding before continuing with the questions.

“How long did these negotiations over the price for the horse take?”

“I couldn’t be entirely certain but around twenty minutes, including the usual pleasantries.”

“Pleasantries?” asked Deschler.

“You know, asking about family health and so on. Passing on stories and news from the road.”

Deschler nodded.

“And after Herr Jauner had paid you and bid you farewell, did you go directly home?”

It was Weide’s turn to stroke his moustache.

“No, I didn’t go home directly. There are a few bars on the route and I thought that I would quench my thirst with a beer or two.”

“How many bars did you frequent on your journey home?”

“One.”

“Only one, Herr Weide?”

“Yes. Only one.”

“And why only one, Herr Weide?”

“I was arrested coming out of the bar next to the mill.”

Deschler turned over his paper and placed it face down on the desk.

“Thank you, Herr Weide. No further questions.”

Deschler sat down and Judge Koehler asked Fuhrmann, the prosecutor, if he had any further questions.

Fuhrmann stood and ran his fingers through his white hair, while reading notes through spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose. Without looking up from the paper he held, he asked, “Where is this Josef Jauner?”

Weide looked over at Deschler and then back to Fuhrmann.

“I don’t know.”

Fuhrmann blinked and finally peered over his glasses at Weide.

“The police also do not know where he is. Or where this,” Fuhrmann cleared his throat, “horse is.”

He was then silent for a few moments before starting his next question.

“I suspect that Josef Jauner does not exist and the money which was found on your person was from several crimes, some of which may not yet have been reported! Is this not the case, Herr Weide?”

Weide looked slightly shaken, before replying that Jauner did exist and that he did sell him a horse.

“No more questions,” sneered Fuhrmann as he sat down.

Deschler immediately stood up and indicated that he wished to call his next witness, Dieter Färber, the victim’s son, before taking his seat again and turning to Meyer.

“Have you been following the questions?” asked Deschler in a low voice.

Meyer thought that he meant the questions written on the papers he had shown him at the beginning.

“Yes, Herr Deschler, and these have been marked as you requested.”

Deschler’s eyes narrowed.

“Herr Meyer, if you think I am going to pat you on the back for being able to tick off questions as they have been asked then perhaps you would be better off working in a kitchen.”

Meyer felt his face flush.

“Herr Deschler, my apologies. I have misunderstood you.”

Deschler rubbed the scar on his eye and Meyer could see a vein in his forehead pulse with his heartbeat.

“Herr Meyer, you may be here as my ‘assistant’ but I am sure I could have found a prettier assistant if I had requested one directly from Herr Bauer. I don’t need you to do these menial tasks such as ticking off lists of questions or pointing out addresses and names of witnesses. It is mildly helpful but not a requirement.”

Deschler’s voice lowered even further and Meyer strained to hear every word, although the meaning was clear.

“You are here to learn, Herr Meyer. To learn. Anyone can memorise the rules of law. Anyone can ask questions. You might even be able to ask the right questions. But working as a defence lawyer is not about what you ask. It is about how you ask it.”

Deschler took a deep breath and looked directly into Meyer’s eyes. He must have seen the disappointment that Meyer felt in himself. Deschler was right. It didn’t really matter if he managed to keep up with ticking off lists of names and attributed questions. That was a clerk’s job, and a stenographer was in the court making a full transcript of everything that was said. Meyer was a lawyer, and he should be learning the techniques, especially from a man such as Deschler.

Deschler’s voice softened.

“Ask some questions that you would expect the prosecution to ask but in a way which allows your client to give an answer you would like. I asked Herr Weide several times about his journey that day, finishing with asking him if he was mistaken. Of course he wasn’t mistaken and would never admit to being mistaken but this allows the jury to see you as pushing the point to its foremost conclusion. Juries expect lawyers to be confrontational, even with their own clients. You must not be seen to be giving your client an easy time in the witness box. In fact, if you can appear to be harder on your client than the prosecutor, the jury will accept the answers you have provided for them and may take the prosecutor’s apparently softer questions as an indication of innocence.”

Meyer nodded and managed a small smile. Of course, it seemed so obvious when Deschler pointed it out. It was all technique. Like Bauer being able to take Meyer’s train of thought down his own tracks to a dead end, Deschler was showing Meyer how questions were asked. It was as if he was being given the secrets to life itself.

“Did you notice anything about the papers I used during my questioning?” asked Deschler.

Meyer ran through the last few questions in his mind, like the re-running of a cinema film. What did Deschler do when asking the questions? Where were the papers? In his hand. In his left hand. He held them tight in his left hand and looked down at them occasionally. Then they were discarded. Face down. He turned them over at the end of a series of questions and placed them face down on the table.

“You discarded the pages face down on the table when you finished each area of questioning, Herr Deschler.”

Deschler leaned closer to Meyer, his eyes betraying a smile that did not sit on his lips.

“Turning over a page and placing it face down puts a full stop on a series of questions. The jury will naturally see that gesture as the end of something. It helps them to understand that you have made your point. That there is nothing else that could possibly be understood from any further questions on that particular subject,” explained Deschler in a whisper.

“Use this technique when you can. If you are lucky, and this is luck, the prosecutor may also unconsciously see this as an end to questioning and be unable to formulate any further questions of his own,” he continued.

“Unfortunately, in this case, Herr Fuhrmann does not allow such things to trouble him.”

The clerk of the court brought Dieter Färber to the witness box and reminded him that he was still under oath.

Deschler stood and smiled at Dieter Färber. This time his eyes showed no smile. The smile that sat on Deschler’s face was a lie.

Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

AFTER being photographed and catalogued, Meyer followed Kapo Langer to his hut and stood outside, along with the other men. The Kapo turned and stood with his arms folded, barring the way in through the door.

“This is hut number seventy-two,” he said as he pointed to a faded number '7' and an almost imperceptible '2', both painted in what would once have been blood red but was now a rusty brown, flaked and nearly impossible to read.

“This is my hut. It was built for a hundred men. It holds four times that number and is now your home.” He turned and pushed open the door, beckoning the men to follow him inside. The air was stifling in the summer heat. The smell of sweat and urine was oppressive and spilled from the wooden building to cover the waiting disinfected men with its putrid stench, making Meyer turn his head to try to get a lungful of cooler air.

He took a deep breath and forced himself inside with the others. Sweat began to form on his forehead immediately, and he let out the spent air from his lungs and tentatively took a short breath. He could taste the filth.

The wooden walls inside the hut had faded to grey, and mould and dirt covered the glass panes that remained in the windows, most of which were boarded up or cracked. The floorboards were filthy with dried mud and dust, and dirt lay in piles against the skirting. The ceiling was the direct underside of the roof and was stained from rainwater; white clouds from salts which had leached from the wood, and with fingers of black mould. Filling the room were stacked sets of wooden bunks. Most were three bunks high but some had four.

Langer held out his arms, and with them outstretched and his index fingers pointing, he slowly turned, as if proud of the dirty, decrepit building.