The Kindly Ones

Trains had been leaving Gleiwitz every day since January 19, taking inmates as they arrived from the closest camps. The first trains, I knew, had been sent to Gross-Rosen, where Bär had gone to prepare for reception, but Gross-Rosen, soon overwhelmed, had refused to take any more; the convoys were now passing through the Protektorat, then shunted either to Vienna (for the KL Mauthausen) or to Prague to then be scattered among the KLs of the Altreich. They were loading another train when I arrived at the Gleiwitz station. To my great horror, I saw that all the cars were open, already full of snow and ice before the exhausted inmates were driven into them with rifle butts; inside, no water, no provisions, no sanitary bucket. I questioned the inmates: they came from Neu Dachs and hadn’t received anything since their departure from the camp; some hadn’t eaten in four days. Alarmed, I looked at these skeletal phantoms, wrapped in soaking, frozen blankets, standing up, squeezed against each other in the car full of snow. I shouted at one of the guards: “Who’s in charge here?” He shrugged angrily: “I don’t know, Obersturmbannführer. We were just told to load them in.” I went into the main building and asked for the station chief, a tall, thin man with a toothbrush moustache and a teacher’s round glasses: “Who is responsible for these trains?” He pointed at my stripes with his red flag, which he was holding rolled up in one hand: “It isn’t you, Herr Offizier? In any case, I think it’s the SS”—“Who, exactly? Who’s organizing the convoys? Who’s allocating the cars?”—“In principle,” he replied, slipping his flag under his arm, “for the cars, it’s the Kattowitz Reichsbahndirektion. But for these Sonderzüge, they sent an Amtsrat down here.” He led me out of the station and pointed to a barracks a little lower down, alongside the tracks. “He set himself up in there.” I went over and entered without knocking. A man in civilian clothes, fat, poorly shaved, was sprawled behind a desk covered with papers. Two railroad men were warming themselves by a stove. “Are you the Amtsrat from Kattowitz?” I barked. He raised his head: “That’s me, the Amtsrat from Kattowitz. Kehrling, at your service.” An unbearable reek of schnapps emanated from his mouth. I pointed at the tracks: “Are you the one responsible for this

Schweinerei?”—“Which Schweinerei are you talking about, precisely? Because at the moment there are quite a few.” I controlled myself: “The trains, the open cars for the Häftlinge

from the KLs.”—“Ah, that Schweinerei. No, that’s your colleagues. I coordinate the assembling of the trains, that’s all.”—“So you’re the one who allocates the cars.” He leafed through his papers. “I’ll explain to you. Have a seat, old man. Here. These Sonderzüge are allocated by the

Generalbetriebsleitung Ost, in Berlin. We have to find the cars on-site, among the available rolling stock. Now, you may have noticed”—he waved his hand at the outside—“that it’s something of a mess these days. The open cars are the only ones left. The Gauleiter requisitioned all the closed cars for the evacuation of civilians or for the Wehrmacht. If you don’t like it, just have them covered.” I had remained standing during his explanation: “And where am I supposed to find tarpaulins?”—“Not my problem.”—“You could at least have the cars cleaned out!” He sighed: “Listen, old man, at the moment, I have to organize twenty, twenty-five special trains per day. My men scarcely have the time to couple the cars together.”—“And the supplies?”—“Not my job. But if you’re interested in that, there’s an Obersturmführer somewhere who’s supposed to take care of all that.” I went out, slamming the door. Near the trains, I found an Oberwachtmeister from the Schupo: “Ah, yes, I saw an Obersturmführer who was giving orders. He’s probably at the SP.” In the offices, I was told there was in fact an Obersturmführer from Auschwitz who was coordinating the evacuation of inmates, but that he had gone out to eat. I sent for him. When he arrived, scowling, I showed him Schmauser’s orders and began assailing him with reprimands about the state of the convoys. He listened to me, standing at attention, red as a poppy; when I had finished, he answered, stammering: “Obersturmbannführer, Obersturmbannführer, it’s not my fault. I have nothing, no provisions at all. The Reichsbahn refuses to give me closed cars, there are no supplies, nothing. I keep getting phone calls asking me why the trains aren’t leaving faster. I’m doing what I can.”—“You mean that in all of Gleiwitz there’s no food stock you can requisition? Tarps? Shovels to clean out the cars? These Häftlinge

are a resource of the Reich, Obersturmführer! Aren’t SS officers taught to show initiative anymore?”—“Obersturmbannführer, I don’t know. I can find out.” I raised my eyebrows: “Then go find out. I want suitable convoys for tomorrow. Understood?”—“Zu Befehl, Obersturmbannführer.” He saluted me and went out. I sat down and had some tea brought to me by an orderly. As I was blowing on it, a Spiess came to find me: “Excuse me, Obersturmbannführer. Are you from the Reichsführer’s staff?”—“Yes.”—“There are two gentlemen from the Kripo who are looking for an Obersturmbannführer from the Persönlicher Stab. That must be you?” I followed him and he showed me into an office: Clemens was resting both his elbows on a table; Weser was perched on a chair, hands in his pockets, leaning back against the wall. I smiled and leaned on the doorframe, my cup of tea still steaming in my hand. “Look at this,” I said, “old friends. What fair wind brings you here?” Clemens aimed a thick finger at me: “You, Aue. We’re looking for you.” Still smiling, I tapped my epaulettes: “Are you forgetting I have a rank, Kriminalkommissar?”—“We couldn’t care less about your rank,” Clemens muttered. “You don’t deserve it.” Weser spoke for the first time: “You must have said to yourself, when you got Judge von Rabingen’s decision: That’s it, it’s over, right?”—“Indeed, I took it that way. If I’m not mistaken, your case was deemed extremely open to criticism.” Clemens shrugged: “No one knows what judges want. But that doesn’t mean they’re right.”—“Unfortunately for you,” I said pleasantly, “you’re in the service of the law.”—“Precisely,” Clemens grunted, “we serve the law. We sure are the only ones.”—“And you came all the way here just to tell me that? I’m flattered.”—“Not entirely,” said Weser, bringing his chair back to the ground. “You see, we had an idea.”—“That’s novel,” I said, bringing the teacup to my lips.—“I’m going to tell you about it, Aue. Your sister told us she had gone to Berlin, not long before the murder, and that she had seen you. That she had stayed at the Kaiserhof. So we went to the Kaiserhof. They know Freiherr von Üxküll very well at the Kaiserhof, he’s an old customer who has his habits. At the front desk, one of the employees remembered that a few days after his departure, an SS officer had come by to send a telegram to Frau von Üxküll. And you see, when you send a telegram from a hotel, it’s noted down in a register. There’s a number for every telegram. And at the post office, they keep a copy of telegrams. Three years, that’s the law.” He pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and unfolded it. “You recognize this, Aue?” I was still smiling. “The investigation is closed, meine Herren.”—“You lied to us, Aue!” Clemens thundered.—“Yes, it’s not good to lie to the police,” Weser said. I calmly finished my tea, motioned politely to them with my head, wished them a good afternoon, and closed the door on them.