ever meet a chemist called Albert Wildmann?”
“Yes. I met him. Many times.”
“And Hans Schmidt? Also from the same institute?”
“I think so. What are you driving at?”
“Isn’t it the case that you returned from Minsk to Berlin at the behest of Arthur Nebe, not to join the German War Crimes Bureau, as you told us, but to meet with Wildmann and Schmidt in pursuit of your explosives idea?”
I was shaking my head, but Silverman wasn’t paying attention, and I was gaining a new respect for him as an interrogator.
“And that, having discussed the idea in detail, you yourself returned to Smolensk with Wildmann and Schmidt in September 1941?”
“No. That’s not true. Like I said, I think you must be confusing me with Günther Rausch.”
“Isn’t it the case that you brought with you a large quantity of dynamite? And used it to rig a Russian pillbox with explosives? And that you then herded into it almost a hundred people from a mental asylum in Minsk? And that you then detonated the explosives? Isn’t that what happened?”
“No. That’s not true. I had nothing to do with that.”
“According to the reports we’ve read, the heads and limbs of the dead were strewn across a quarter-mile radius. SS men were collecting body parts from the trees for days afterward.”
I shook my head. “When I made that remark to Nebe…about blowing up Jews in a field. Look, I had no idea he would actually try something like that. It was sarcasm. Hardly a genuine suggestion.” I shrugged. “Then again, I don’t know why I’m surprised, given everything else that happened.”
“We’ve always thought it was Arthur Nebe himself who came up with the idea of the gas vans,” said Silverman. “So maybe that was another of your jokes, too. Tell me, did you ever visit an address in Berlin—number four Tiergartenstrasse?”
“I was a cop. I visited a lot of addresses I don’t remember.”
“This one was special.”
“The Berlin Gas Works was somewhere else, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Tiergartenstrasse number four was a confiscated Jewish villa,” said Silverman. “An office from where Germany’s euthanasia program for the handicapped was planned and administered.”
“Then I’m sure I was never there.”
“Maybe you heard about what was happening there and mentioned it in passing to Nebe. As a little thank-you for getting you out of Minsk.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” I said, “Nebe was head of Kripo and, before that, a general in the Gestapo. It’s quite likely he knew Wildmann and Schmidt for the same reason I did. And I daresay he would have known all about this place in Tiergartenstrasse as well. But I never did.”
“Your relationship with Waldemar Klingelhöfer,” said Silverman. “You were quite helpful to him. With advice.”
“Yes. I tried to be.”
“Were you helpful in any other ways?”
I shook my head.
“Did you accompany him to Moscow, for example?”
“No, I’ve never been in Moscow.”
“And yet you speak Russian almost as well as he does.”
“That was later, when I learned. In the labor camp, mostly.”
“So between September 28 and October 26, 1941, you say you were not with Klingelhöfer’s Vorkommando Moscow, but in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“And that you had nothing to do with the murders of five hundred and seventy-two Jews during that time?”
“Nothing to do with it, no.”
“Several of them were Jewish mink ranchers who failed to provide the prescribed quota of furs for Klingelhöfer.”
“Never shot a Jewish mink rancher, Gunther?”
“Or blown one up in a pillbox?”
“No.”
The two lawyers were quiet for a moment, as if they’d run out of questions. The silence didn’t last long.
“So,” said Silverman. “You’re not in Moscow, you’re back on the plane to Berlin. A Junkers 52, you said. Any witnesses?”
I thought for a moment. “Fellow named Schulz. Erwin Schulz.”
“Go on.”
“He was SS, too. A
“Yes. I met him. Many times.”
“And Hans Schmidt? Also from the same institute?”
“I think so. What are you driving at?”
“Isn’t it the case that you returned from Minsk to Berlin at the behest of Arthur Nebe, not to join the German War Crimes Bureau, as you told us, but to meet with Wildmann and Schmidt in pursuit of your explosives idea?”
I was shaking my head, but Silverman wasn’t paying attention, and I was gaining a new respect for him as an interrogator.
“And that, having discussed the idea in detail, you yourself returned to Smolensk with Wildmann and Schmidt in September 1941?”
“No. That’s not true. Like I said, I think you must be confusing me with Günther Rausch.”
“Isn’t it the case that you brought with you a large quantity of dynamite? And used it to rig a Russian pillbox with explosives? And that you then herded into it almost a hundred people from a mental asylum in Minsk? And that you then detonated the explosives? Isn’t that what happened?”
“No. That’s not true. I had nothing to do with that.”
“According to the reports we’ve read, the heads and limbs of the dead were strewn across a quarter-mile radius. SS men were collecting body parts from the trees for days afterward.”
I shook my head. “When I made that remark to Nebe…about blowing up Jews in a field. Look, I had no idea he would actually try something like that. It was sarcasm. Hardly a genuine suggestion.” I shrugged. “Then again, I don’t know why I’m surprised, given everything else that happened.”
“We’ve always thought it was Arthur Nebe himself who came up with the idea of the gas vans,” said Silverman. “So maybe that was another of your jokes, too. Tell me, did you ever visit an address in Berlin—number four Tiergartenstrasse?”
“I was a cop. I visited a lot of addresses I don’t remember.”
“This one was special.”
“The Berlin Gas Works was somewhere else, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Tiergartenstrasse number four was a confiscated Jewish villa,” said Silverman. “An office from where Germany’s euthanasia program for the handicapped was planned and administered.”
“Then I’m sure I was never there.”
“Maybe you heard about what was happening there and mentioned it in passing to Nebe. As a little thank-you for getting you out of Minsk.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” I said, “Nebe was head of Kripo and, before that, a general in the Gestapo. It’s quite likely he knew Wildmann and Schmidt for the same reason I did. And I daresay he would have known all about this place in Tiergartenstrasse as well. But I never did.”
“Your relationship with Waldemar Klingelhöfer,” said Silverman. “You were quite helpful to him. With advice.”
“Yes. I tried to be.”
“Were you helpful in any other ways?”
I shook my head.
“Did you accompany him to Moscow, for example?”
“No, I’ve never been in Moscow.”
“And yet you speak Russian almost as well as he does.”
“That was later, when I learned. In the labor camp, mostly.”
“So between September 28 and October 26, 1941, you say you were not with Klingelhöfer’s Vorkommando Moscow, but in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“And that you had nothing to do with the murders of five hundred and seventy-two Jews during that time?”
“Nothing to do with it, no.”
“Several of them were Jewish mink ranchers who failed to provide the prescribed quota of furs for Klingelhöfer.”
“Never shot a Jewish mink rancher, Gunther?”
“Or blown one up in a pillbox?”
“No.”
The two lawyers were quiet for a moment, as if they’d run out of questions. The silence didn’t last long.
“So,” said Silverman. “You’re not in Moscow, you’re back on the plane to Berlin. A Junkers 52, you said. Any witnesses?”
I thought for a moment. “Fellow named Schulz. Erwin Schulz.”
“Go on.”
“He was SS, too. A
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