TEA TIME

TEA TIME

No.74. Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre, Bad Nenndorf, Lower Saxony, British Occupation Zone. July 1945.

British officer, Captain Smith, sat at the conference table and continued to brief his newly arrived commanding officer.

“So that’s two more in custody, sir. They’re both in denial of course but we shall crack them pretty quickly with the help of Klein”.

“Ah, yes. This Klein. What can you tell me about him, Captain? I hear he’s been a tremendous help to us in the hunt for these Nazis”.

“First rate chap, sir. Luckily, we got to him before the Russkies. He’d been a prisoner at Neuengamme for almost six years. In March, the SS forced the prisoners to take part in a death march to Bergen-Belsen but he managed to escape en route. We picked him up literally minutes before the Reds and he volunteered his services. Speaks English and German fluently and hates these Nazis with a passion for what they did to his family. Loathes Germany, in fact.

Says that the country turned its back on him and other German Jews. In particular, he hates the Germans in the north. Says they knew full well what was going on at Neuengamme but stood idly by.

He swears that he will never set foot in the north again after today. We’ve tried to get him to help us identify Nazis in Neuengamme, itself, but he won’t have it. Been a tremendous help to us elsewhere though, I must say”.

“Neuengamme. What’s the go there?”

“Concentration camp since ’38, sir. Himmler declared it a stammlager -an independent camp - in ’40 under SS control. Main camp and 85 satellite camps. Estimated 43,000 dead from Nazi brutality, including women, sir. The Soviets have it now and are using it as a displaced persons camp”.

“Filthy bastards! I don’t need to tell you, Captain, but this is why it’s so important that we hunt down these vermin to the best of our ability. Such atrocities. Why, they’re not fit to be called humans. But how exactly does Klein help us if he’s not actually identifying the very brutes that persecuted him and his family?”

“Yes, that is rather a shame, sir, but wild horses couldn’t drag him back anywhere near Neuengamme again and it was all I could do to get him here for these last two interrogations. But, to answer your question, he poses as an SS officer and we stick him in a cell with our suspect. He, somehow, manages to have them begging to confess in no time at all. Don’t ask me how or what he does but it’s been an absolute godsend to us”.

“Um, not exactly orthodox, Captain. But, as far as I’m concerned, you have my full authority to do whatever is needed to bring these pigs to account”.

“Today is Klein’s last day, actually. We’ve got him on a flight at midnight; flying him to Buenos Aires”.

“ Couldn’t we have continued finding a use for him?”

“Indeed, sir. But he wants to get as far away from Europe as he possibly can. That was part of his agreeing to help us”.

“Damn shame but I suppose you can’t blame the poor chap after what he’s been through”.

A cell door is unlocked and a man, dressed in cheap clothing is thrust forcibly inside, falling to the floor as the door is relocked. He is small and dark complexioned.

The prisoner sitting on the lone bunk looks down at the newcomer warily.

“Who are you?”

The new arrival sits up but ignores the question

“What are you here for”.

“Fuck off and mind your own business”.

“Ah, I can tell from your accent that you’re no Northerner . Berliner? You may fool these English idiots but not me”.

The two ignore each other for a few minutes but, eventually, the newcomer speaks:

“Never mind me. What about you? Who the fuck are you?”

Now it is the other man’s turn to refuse to answer. The newcomer continues:

“Look, we both know what is happening. This is no ordinary place. It is an interrogation centre. We lost this cursed war and, now, they are hunting us down so that they can punish us for our crimes. So let’s not pretend. We’re both German officers and we’re here because they suspect us of war crimes of some description. I don’t give a rats arse if you talk to me or not but I, for one, am glad that it’s the British who caught me and not the Russians”.

The occupant of the bunk remains silent but appears to be thinking on the last part of what the new arrival has just said. Eventually, he can refrain no longer and shuffles along the bunk making space.

“Here, whoever you are. Have a proper seat, at least”.

The other man rises from the floor and sits on the bunk bed.

“So, what have you heard about the Russians?”

“Animals! If they were to get their hands on the likes of us, we’d be begging for a bullet. Torture’s the least of it. Trust me”.

“How do you ...know this?”

“I was held with another officer who had been a prisoner of the Bolsheviks for four days. What he told me, chilled my blood. They killed all of his comrades-after days of horrific torture. Disembowelled one, poor sod. The English? They’re babies by comparison. They’ll serve you tea while questioning you”.

“And what happened to the man who told you of this?’

“Dead! He was so badly beaten that his internal organs gave out after just a day”.

Hearing this seems to have a profound effect on the other German.

“What do you think will happen to us here?’

“Like I said, interminable cups of tea. Always tea with the English. They’re obsessed with it. Questions that can be easily lied to. Ultimately, some kind of punishment. Perhaps, a prison sentence of a year or two-just to make them look like they’re doing their job but, in a couple of years, this fucking war will be, as the English like to say, yesterday’s fish and chip paper and we can all return to our former lives.

But the Bolsheviks? They took 91,000 prisoners at Stalingrad. Do you really believe any of them will ever see Germany again? I guarantee you they will all die horribly”.

His co-prisoner is shaken to his core at hearing this. He comes clean in an attempt to form an alliance.

“My name is Becker. I was second in command at Dachau...”

“Am I supposed to be impressed? Look, I don’t give a shit who you are or what you did. I don’t want to know how you “only did your duty”. We’re all in the same boat, and thousands more like us. We did what we had to do; what was expected of us. Save your bullshit for the English. If I were you, I’d just hope they don’t hand you over to the Bolsheviks”.

“But why would they?’

“Well they won’t -if you’re cooperating. But, if you’re not, they won’t want to waste their time on you so they’ll just let the Russians have a go”.

Becker seems even more stunned by this.

“You are cooperating, aren’t you?’

Becker shakes his head -no.

Just then, the sound of keys turning in the locks is heard. The cell door swings open and two British soldiers enter and grab Becker. He resists.

“Wait, Stop. Where are you taking me? I want to speak to your commanding officer”.

“Just obeying orders, mate. We are to escort you to the Russian Zone...”

Horrified, Becker clings onto the sides of the doorframe.

“Wait. I am Lieutenant Klaus Becker. I was at Dachau. I want to make a statement”.

The two soldiers release Becker and grab his cellmate instead. He doesn’t resist and the cell door is locked once more leaving the self-confessed Nazi war criminal alone to ponder on what has just occurred.

Outside, Captain Smith congratulates Klein.

“We’re going to miss you, Isaac. That was a record, even for you”.

“Tell me. What actually will happen to him, this Becker?”

‘Not for me to decide, I’m afraid, but, initially, he will stand trial at Nuremberg. After the atrocities that happened at his camp, almost certainly, he’ll hang”.

“It’s too good for him. It was all I could do not to strangle him myself”.

“Understood, old chap. Well, we’ve just one more for you before you head off to the airport.. You’ve been invaluable to us and I would personally like to thank you for everything you’ve done”.

Once again, Klein is bundled into a cell occupied by a suspected Nazi war criminal and the cell door slammed shut. Captain Smith stands waiting outside the cell.

“Sir, the jeep is here to take Mr. Klein to the airport”.

“Very well, Corporal. I’m quite sure he won’t be very long”.

Ten minutes later, a thud is heard on the door of the cell and a British soldier rushes to open it and Klein emerges.

“Captain, unfortunately, this time, I cannot help you, I’m afraid.. The man is SS certainly but just a lower echelon book-keeper, I’m afraid”.

“You’re quite sure?’

“Absolutely, he opened up almost immediately. I am so sorry to have ended our collaboration on a sour note”.

“Nonsense, dear chap. Your transport is here for you, by the way, so don’t let me keep you. Thanks, yet again, for your invaluable assistance over the last few months. Hopefully, we’ll meet again, one day”.

“Yes. I would like that, Captain. Maybe, we could share a pot of tea!”

The following day, the Captain is finalising paperwork and has his only remaining prisoner brought before him in his office, the last man that Isaac Klein had been locked in with. He is a slim man of forty years of age, long, unkempt hair and with a thick growth of beard covering most of his face.

“So, you now freely admit that you are SS Staff Sergeant Helmut Gerhitsch, formerly of Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp but were employed merely in office duties, is that correct?’

“Yes. That is all easily proven. The camp ledgers will all contain my signature. I admit that terrible things were done there but I was not personally involved. I arrived at the camp in 1942, shortly after Sauer became Schutzhaftlagerfuhrer for the second time. After he left in ’43, I served under SS Standartenfuhrer, Kaindl who was a stickler for accurate records and kept me on my toes”.

“Yes, yes. We have been able to confirm most of that. You will, nevertheless, face trial for having served under such a regime, so we will be transferring you to Berlin. You will then have the opportunity to explain just why you felt it necessary to go into hiding and why you chose to disguise your appearance by growing out your hair and beard and hiding away in a hay loft. For the moment, however, you are no longer my problem. But we English are not barbarians and, while you await your transport, I’ll have them bring you a sandwich and a cup of tea”.

The office is quiet, the Captain is reading through files and Gerhitsch sits sipping from a mug of tea.

“Tell me, Captain, what of Zimmerman?’

“What became of who?”

“Zimmerman. SS Colonel. Zimmerman, Commandant of Nuengamme. What became of him?

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m afraid that he has not yet fallen into our hands but, I can assure you, it’s only a matter of time Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m not too inclined to have a cosy chat with somebody like you”.

There is a knock on the office door and an adjutant enters.

“Transport for the prisoner is here, sir”.

The German is looking astonished. As two guards enter and take him by the arms, he pleads with Smith.

“But, Captain. That cannot be. I saw him just yesterday!”

The British officer looks up, bemused.

“I beg your pardon?’

“Zimmerman, one of Himmler’s favourites. He was sent to Sachsenhausen to instruct the Ukrainian officers, because he is multi-lingual, before returning to Neuengamme where, I am reliably informed, he was affectionately called The Butcher.”

“Instruct the Ukrainians about what?”

“Why, the best methods of extermination, of course.”

Captain Smith’s face blanches. He stands and speaks slowly as if in shock.

“You saw him... here? Where exactly?"

“In my cell, of course. I recognised him immediately because of his dark, almost Jewish looks. He didn’t seem to recognise me with my beard and all, even after I told him who I was”.

High in the sky, over the Atlantic, SS Colonel Hans Zimmerman, the Butcher of Neuengamme, woke from a fitful sleep, breathed deeply and, looking out on the clouds below, thought: “I’ve done it. I’m free”.