‘Can’t say because you don’t know, or because you’re not allowed?’
‘Of course I know, Frau Schimmel, but it’s official business.’
‘I was just wondering whether they found anything that indicated to you what crimes he is supposed to have committed. Whether anything they found put your own doubts to rest.’
Schleiffer hadn’t thought of it that way. ‘They took some papers, that’s all. Police records, I think.’
‘Well, Herr Schleiffer, if you have cause to be in his apartment again, could you do me a favor? There’s a little green vase in there he borrowed from me. Would you please get it for me?’
As guardian of the building, Heinz had a key for every apartment. And he had been tempted more than once to explore Karl Juncker’s apartment. But he hadn’t had any ‘legitimate’ reason to do so until now. A few days later he brought her the vase.
‘No, no, Herr Schleiffer, that’s not mine. That’s the wrong vase. Let me show you.’ Two minutes later they were both inside the apartment. ‘Where is that darn thing?’ she said. Before he could stop her, she was opening and closing drawers and cupboards. ‘Ah, here it is,’ she said finally, holding up a small vase triumphantly. ‘It’s more blue than green, isn’t it? It just shows how mistaken you can be, even about something you think you know. My mother gave this to me. What have you found there, Herr Schleiffer?’
Heinz had been looking around too and had just pulled an intriguing small brass box from the top desk drawer. He opened it. It was full of medals in all colors and sizes, including an iron cross. Heinz leafed through the folder of citations that was in the same drawer: citations for valor in the war, for excellent police work, for outstanding service, citation after citation after citation.
‘My goodness,’ said Frau Schimmel. ‘That’s a surprise, isn’t it? Who could have known?’
Heinz found he was unable to answer.
The Second and Third Interrogations
The striped clothes that had been too small when he had first arrived in Dachau were tattered and threadbare now, and much too large. After being beaten, Willi had been allowed one day in the infirmary to recover enough to be returned to his barracks and put back to work. He didn’t know how long he had been in Dachau. Trying to keep track of time was a fool’s errand. He thought it was probably now late February, early March of 1938. Some kept track, but he didn’t.
Quite a few faces were gone from his room and new faces had arrived to take their place. The new prisoners brought news. Mobilization for war was in full swing. Hitler planned to invade to the east – Czechoslovakia, Poland, Russia. Hitler said Germans needed Lebensraum, living space, room to expand. That’s what people were saying anyway.
One morning Willi was marched, again by Neudeck, to an interrogation room more or less identical to the one where he had been beaten senseless. This time Neudeck was told to stay. He stood against the wall next to another kapo. A different SS interrogator, also a Hauptsturmführer, was seated at the table. He had his hat on, cocked at a rakish angle. Not a good sign, Willi thought. A file folder lay open in front of him. He looked at Willi for a long time.
‘You don’t recognize me, do you, Geismeier?’ He paused. Willi thought the voice sounded familiar. ‘From the precinct,’ said the Hauptsturmführer. Another pause. ‘Ah, well,’ he said, sounding a little disappointed.
The interrogation did not go well. The Hauptsturmführer asked Willi again about various conspiracies within the police department against the government. Who besides Willi had wanted to overthrow the Third Reich? Who besides Willi had sabotaged Otto Bruck and brought about his death? He asked about Frau Schimmel. He asked about Lola, about various other people of Willi’s acquaintance. Willi knew nothing about most of what the captain asked, but in every case, whether he knew anything or not, he remained silent.
Once the Hauptsturmführer stood up, Willi saw that he was a gigantic man, two meters in height easily and a muscular hundred kilos. He took off his hat. His head was shaved. Now Willi recognized him. He came around the table and stood in front of Willi. He put on his gloves, as though hitting Willi might damage his enormous hands. He slapped Willi’s face hard. ‘Why, Geismeier?’ he shouted. ‘Why make things harder for yourself? And for me?’ Willi tasted blood. The man slapped him again, then turned away in disgust.
This time Willi was not whipped. Instead he was taken to a cell in the so-called Bunker where he was to be held in total darkness with only a tin of water and almost no food for an indeterminate length of time. The cell was small and filthy and pitch dark. Despite a small ventilator in the door, the air was thick and foul. There was no bed and no bedding. A slop bucket in the corner was the only furniture.
After sitting against the wall or standing for the better part of his first day, Willi started walking around the periphery of the cell, his right hand on the wall to guide him. He had to be careful not to stumble over the slop bucket. The wall was mostly smooth stone; the floor was uneven, damp and slippery. There was a sharp metal burr on one edge of the door he had to be careful of. He had to walk slowly so he didn’t get dizzy. He counted his steps. One circuit took ten steps, so he counted each time he passed the door. Ten times was a hundred steps, a hundred times was a thousand. Every thousand steps he reversed direction.
Deprived of liberty, food, and now even light, Shakespeare came to mind. ‘I must become a borrower of the night for an hour or twain,’ he said to himself. Willi began to recite
