A Case of Criminal Obedience

Old Moritz Koppe’s bungalow living room emptied in dribs and drabs throughout the evening. Family members from across the board, some of whom he hadn’t seen for decades, and whom lived as far away as Nebraska and Argentina, and even back in Germany, had come to pay their respects and nibble on the hastily prepared buffet that Marie, his wonderful daughter-in-law, had put together the previous evening.

As the last relatives trickled out — an odd couple of distance cousins from Michigan with an endless stream of tales about the “horrors” in the slums of Flint and Detroit — old Moritz’s son, Sam, breathed a relieved sigh and shouted a sincere hallelujah to the hum of another beer can cracking open. He was a truck driver by trade who had rushed from a job in Texas upon hearing about his ma, Agnes, and the tumble down the stairs that proved to be her last moments. John Koppe, who, by some misfortunate, was a most vigilant police officer who once almost arrested his very own nephew upon seeing him walking the streets with a switchblade, sat with a little smile at the corner of his mouth. That came about on account of the numerous pats on the back he’d received throughout the day as he told of his exploits with the local law enforcement in putting down the latest streams of protest and disorder right under his nose in the heart of Minnesota. Finally, they said, his dedication was being put to good use.

Sam joined his father and son, and the three men, three generations apart and yet so similar, sat — Moritz in his bruised and battered armchair, Sam and John squeezed on the sofa — with stoic expressions, comfortable with the silence and the fact none of them had shed a tear for poor old Agnes (though Moritz had struggled with some difficulty to hold back the tears during the funeral procession). Meanwhile, Marie rushed about cleaning up the buffet, washing dishes, and muttering anything at all as she floated by to lift the room’s spirits. Even now, in this most squalid of circumstances, she had a smile on her face. 

Eventually, Moritz broke the silence and began to ramble on about his lost wife. Even now, hunched over, his back no longer able to properly support him, his saggy chin hanging down like a rooster’s wattle, only a few sporadic grey hairs left on his rugged head, he looked good for ninety-six years old. But, naturally at that age, despite every confidence in Moritz’s mind to the contrary, his mental state was a question of constant debate among the family. 

’Seventy-four years,’ he began, his voice slow and crackly, hints of his German accent recognisable, even after all these years. ‘She never left me, had never even considered it.’ He began nodding slowly, ‘a real treasure, my Agnes.’ 

‘That’s right, paps,’ Sam muttered. 

‘I don’t think you’ve seen what she was like in her youth, have you… er, John?’

‘No sir,’ John said, leaning attentively at the edge of his chair, catching Sam at his side rolling his eyes.

‘Fetch that box under there, will you, Sam, son? No, oh, for heavens— that green one in the side table,’ Moritz nagged. His house was typical of a man his age: unorganised boxes and containers slumped arbitrarily into every corner and crevice, the walls lined with photos and achievements from family spanning all generations. Even some of the visiting families from abroad had been surprised to see a photo of themselves on his wall from when they were toddlers and teenagers. 

‘That’s her there, on Lake Eerie. Oh, what a time,’ he said, holding up a photo he scooped from the box, letting out a whooping cough in-between every sentence. Sam sat lounged in his chair, more interested in staring into his can of beer than his father’s reminiscing. ‘Oh, now this one, this goes way back — you can see we love the water, ey? Good heavens, look at her! Come here, Sam, take a look. Oh, to hell with you! How beautiful was she, ey, John? Bildschön, in der Tat,’ he exclaimed. ‘That was in Stettin — well, I suppose you know it as Szczecin, ey?’

‘I’m sorry, grandpa, I’ve not been to either of them places,’ John said. 

‘It’s the same place— Oh, heavens above, haven’t you took this boy to his home, ey, Sam? Samuel,’ he shouted, leaning up in his chair as best he could, pointing his long, wretched index finger at Sam.

‘This is his home, paps,’ Sam said, slapping the rotten finger away. 

‘Nonsense — born here, perhaps, but our family’s blood is Germanic. Tell me you’ve took the boy to Europe, at least?’

‘We’re barely been able to afford a holiday here. Come off it, will you?’ Sam said, waving a dismissive hand at Moritz, followed by the old man mumbling some German under his breath, his brow in a deep furrow.

‘Well, listen here then, since your father’s not bothered to educate you,’ Moritz said, staring daggers at Sam, ‘this here was Stettin, a beautiful German city, until the war,’ he slammed his fist against the side of the armchair pathetically, his whole body recoiling and shaking as a result, ‘then those damn Poles threw everyone out and give it a gibberish name. Verdammt! Now it’s on the wrong side of the border.’ 

‘Is that— Stetzin, I mean, is that where you lived?’

‘Stettin,’ he said, emphasising the correction, ‘yes, that’s where our family lived for generations, as far back as it goes, and same for Agnes’ family, but they stole our houses, our jobs, and probably burned all that proof to ashes. Barely had a Deutschmark — that was the currency, you see — between us when we left.’

‘What, so they sent you here? Them that kicked you out, I mean?’

‘Ah, well, it’s all a little more complicated than that, but never mind all that—‘

‘Oh, no, paps,’ shouted Sam, jumping from his chair, ‘nah, it’s not all that complicated.’ As he stood up, he wobbled side to side, barely able to support himself. His eyes were fixated on his father, but seemed to be looking in two different directions, neither focused on the old man.

‘Oh, Samuel, please sit down, won’t you?’ Maria said, appearing from behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. 

He pushed her off, and she curled herself into the corner. Waving his fingers in Moritz face, Sam continued, ‘you’re going to sit there and tell him his “family history” — try and make the poor lad proud? Bloody nonsense, and you’ll happily make me look a fool for not taking him to bask in some good old national pride, eh? Ma was a treasure, you’re right, there, but a damn fool, too, she was.’ 

‘Enough! Don’t you speak of your mother—‘ he sentence tailed off, replaced by a coughing fit.  

‘That’s enough, da,’ John yelled, jumping up from his chair in his grandpa’s defence. Grandma’s just died, for christsake.’ 

‘You’ve not got a clue, son,’ he said, shaking his head. A moment later, he continued, ‘look ‘ere, they’d have butchered him if he’d stayed in Poland.’ As he spoke, Moritz wiggled in his chair, but was unable to muster the energy to even stand. John, uncomfortable in his chair, leaned his head away from his father to avoid his putrid breath, which reeked, typical of a man who’d been drinking ale all day. ‘Tell him, pops — how many’d you kill, eh?’ 

’Stop it, da, just sit down, for godssake.’ 

‘I never killed a single soul,’ Moritz said, the frustration in his voice reaching a crescendo. 

  Sam shook his head, bit his lip, looked away, and then, looking back, spat out, ‘he was a fucking prison guard. Swastika on the arm, grey suit, and all. He’d point at men, women… fucking kids, and off they went to the gas. Bet you’ve got photos in there, as well, ey?’ 

He grabbed hold of Moritz’s box of photos, but the old man gripped hold of the box, causing the box to rip in two, and the photos to fly across the room. 

Moritz began bleating like a goat, spit coming from his mouth, ‘I never killed anyone, you swine. We had no gas chambers. It was a labour camp. But look here, the law is the law, no? I did nothing but follow orders. That doesn’t make me a monster. Sit, sit, please, John, don’t listen to that — he’s plastered.’

 John slowly lowered himself, entranced by Moritz and how he could possibly rationalise his actions. Sam disappeared into the kitchen from which you could hear the bass tones of his complaints to Marie, who hummed along in an attempt to appease the man. 

‘You have to understand that the world was a different place, and—‘ 

‘Is it really true?’ 

‘Well… Yes— I was a guard. But, wait wait, heavens, listen! We didn’t murder anyone. Yes, some people died there. But it was war, heavens above, you cannot imagine. People died in the camps on both sides. My own cousin died in a Soviet camp, but who talks about that, ey?  

‘Still,’ he added, looking down, his voice deflated, ‘I’ve thought about this for many, many years, and I’ve come to conclude that I did nothing wrong. No, really. Hear me out, will you? I was, what, twenty, twenty-one years old? Orders are orders, the law is the law. You’d have done the same.’ 

‘But, grandpa… No, no… I’m twenty-five now and I could never have done that. Not now. Not when I was sixteen, or—‘

‘That is untrue! I’ve seen the news here. I’ve seen the blacks burning down the station after what you lot did to them. Those people are fighting for their survival, so what’d you do? March the streets in armour and uniforms and beat them and murder them, all in the name of the state. The land of the free! Oh, the self-righteousness of it all! And you tell me you wouldn’t have done it?’ He began to laugh, but it faded into a whooping cough. 

‘That’s nonsense, grandpa,’ he said, violently shaking his head and laughing at the notion’s ridiculousness.  

‘Is it?’

‘Yes! Christsake, grandpa, listen to yourself. You’re comparing the murder of, what, Jews, was it? The Polish? You’re comparing that to the defence of my state against criminals. And, for the record, they’re not blacks. They’re African-Americans — and at any rate, it’s nothing to do with race. We are upholding the law, regardless of colour. What did those people do that… you…’

‘This is it — you must understand, John,’ Moritz began excitedly, cutting John off, ‘that the law is only the wishes of the men at the top. In those days, there and then, to be Jewish was a crime. Making sure those people were in the camp was my duty, in so far as I was following the law. That doesn’t make it right, perhaps. No — I know it was wrong now. But, maybe when you’re my age, you’ll look back and see it differently. And perhaps the world will see your work through a different lens, too. They’ll pat you on the back today, stab you in the back tomorrow. Trust me, young man.’ 

‘No, no, absolutely not, that’s—‘

‘Oh, stop being a fool, will you? You cannot survive in society if you don’t play along, this is true. You know inside here,’ he thrust his decrepit fist into his chest, pointing that wretched finger at his heart, ‘that you should be giving those blacks what they want, don’t you? They shouldn’t need to burn building, or whatever the hell they’re doing. But you’re following orders, like the good citizen you are. Well, the only difference is I was called up in a different time, in a different world.’

‘This is sick… How can you not be remorseful?’

‘Remorseful? Oh, I never said I wasn’t remorseful. I regret it every single day. But I know I wasn’t wrong to follow orders, that’s just how we work. As members of society. Are you following me, young man? I do regret that those were the orders. 

‘But heavens, do your history! We weren’t even the first to practice that horrid practice. We stole that trick from the British. And what about the Chinese, and the Reds? Christ, they’ve killed millions more since. It’s still going on now! But what difference does it make? We’re blinded by what we’re told, always will be. You’ll understand some day, young man, long after I’m gone.’ 

Moritz spluttered the whole rant out as fast as his can, and was barely able to breath by the time he finished. Suddenly, he began gasping for air, at which point Marie came rushing in brandishing his inhaler. 

It was now without question to John that Moritz’s mind had slipped, a matter which he had staunchly defended against Sam on innumerable occasions, and of which Marie refused to discuss.  

Sam returned to the living room while Marie scrambled around the room collecting the photos that lay all over the room while the three men sat in an uncomfortable silence. Some moments later, Sam stormed out of the house without a word. Marie and John stood up after him, looking with pity at Moritz, who presently stared off in the distance with a furrowed brow.

‘I’m so terribly sorry about Agnes, Moritz. I’ll be over tomorrow with your shopping, okay?’ Marie said, giving him a light hug. 

‘Take care of yourself, grandpa,’ John said, slipping away.

‘Come visit me again, John, won’t you?’ Moritz said suddenly, his head turned away. John smiled as best he could and agreed, disappearing a moment later. Sat in the backseat during the car-ride home, feeling like an infant while Marie lambasted Sam for his behaviour, he thought about the nonsense that Moritz had uttered. Could he be alone with that man again? Eventually his thoughts trailed off to the next day’s shift. The riots were still very much alive, and several events had been reported that very day, and for the first time in his career, he felt a subtle tinge of dread.