hoping his behavior would be overlooked and he’d get the okay to resume his police work in Hamburg, or Bremen. ‘I’m not cut out for this kind of thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he said, ‘I care nothing for the Jews, but no one should be asked to do this kind of work. No one. They should find some other means of doing it,’ he said. That’s what he told me, anyway.”
“So,” said Earp. “Are you telling us your alibi is another convicted war criminal?”
“Schulz was convicted? I didn’t know that.”
“Gave himself up in 1945,” said Earp. “He was convicted in October 1947 of crimes against humanity and sentenced to twenty years. That was commuted to fifteen years in 1951.”
“You mean he’s here, in Landsberg? Well, then he can confirm our conversation on the flight back to Berlin. That I told him what I already told you. How I was sent back for refusing to kill Jews.”
“He was paroled last January,” said Earp. “Too bad, Gunther.”
“I don’t think he’d have made such a great character witness for you, anyway,” said Silverman. “He was a brigadier general in the SS when he gave himself up.”
“The reason Bruno Streckenbach went easy on Schulz is obvious,” said Earp. “Because he participated in the murders of fifteen thousand Jews before he sickened of the work. Probably Streckenbach figured Schulz had done more than his fair share of killing.”
“And I guess that must be why you let him go, too,” I said.
“I told you,” said Silverman. “That was down to the high commissioner. And the recommendations of the Parole and Clemency Board for War Criminals.”
I shook my head. I was tired. They’d been nipping at my heels the whole day like a pair of nine-to-five bloodhounds. I felt like I was trapped up a tree with nowhere left to run.
“Have you considered the possibility that I could be telling the truth? But even if I wasn’t, I might be tempted to put my hands up just to get you two off my back. The way you hand out paroles around here, I’d have to be Hideki Tojo to get more than six months.”
“We like things to be neat,” said Silverman.
“And you have got more loose ends than an old maid’s sewing basket,” added Earp. “So that when we leave this job, we can be sure that we gave it our best shot.”
“Pride in the job, huh? I can understand that.”
“So,” said Silverman. “We’re going to look into your story. Comb it through for nits.”
“That still won’t make me a louse.”
“You were SS,” said Silverman. “I’m a Jew. And you’ll always be a louse in my book, Gunther.”
9
GERMANY, 1954
I t was easy to forget that we were in Germany. There was a U.S. flag in the main hall and the kitchens—which were seemingly always in action—served plain home-cooking on the understanding that home was six thousand kilometers to the west. Most of the voices we heard were American, too: loud, manly voices that told you to do something or not to do something—in English. And we did it quickly, too, or we received a prod from a nightstick or a kick up the backside. Nobody complained. Nobody would have listened, except perhaps Father Morgenweiss. The guards were MPs, deliberately selected for their enormous size. It was hard to see how Germany could ever have expected to win a war against this more obvious-looking master race. They walked the landings and corridors of Landsberg Prison like gunfighters from the OK Corral, or perhaps boxers entering the ring. With each other they had an easy way about them: They were all big, well-brushed smiles and booming laughs, shouting jokes and baseball scores. For us, the inmates, however, there were only stone faces and belligerent attitudes. Fuck you, they seemed to say; you might have your own federal government, but we’re the real masters in this pariah country.
I had a cell for two to myself. It wasn’t because I was special or because I hadn’t yet been charged with anything,
“So,” said Earp. “Are you telling us your alibi is another convicted war criminal?”
“Schulz was convicted? I didn’t know that.”
“Gave himself up in 1945,” said Earp. “He was convicted in October 1947 of crimes against humanity and sentenced to twenty years. That was commuted to fifteen years in 1951.”
“You mean he’s here, in Landsberg? Well, then he can confirm our conversation on the flight back to Berlin. That I told him what I already told you. How I was sent back for refusing to kill Jews.”
“He was paroled last January,” said Earp. “Too bad, Gunther.”
“I don’t think he’d have made such a great character witness for you, anyway,” said Silverman. “He was a brigadier general in the SS when he gave himself up.”
“The reason Bruno Streckenbach went easy on Schulz is obvious,” said Earp. “Because he participated in the murders of fifteen thousand Jews before he sickened of the work. Probably Streckenbach figured Schulz had done more than his fair share of killing.”
“And I guess that must be why you let him go, too,” I said.
“I told you,” said Silverman. “That was down to the high commissioner. And the recommendations of the Parole and Clemency Board for War Criminals.”
I shook my head. I was tired. They’d been nipping at my heels the whole day like a pair of nine-to-five bloodhounds. I felt like I was trapped up a tree with nowhere left to run.
“Have you considered the possibility that I could be telling the truth? But even if I wasn’t, I might be tempted to put my hands up just to get you two off my back. The way you hand out paroles around here, I’d have to be Hideki Tojo to get more than six months.”
“We like things to be neat,” said Silverman.
“And you have got more loose ends than an old maid’s sewing basket,” added Earp. “So that when we leave this job, we can be sure that we gave it our best shot.”
“Pride in the job, huh? I can understand that.”
“So,” said Silverman. “We’re going to look into your story. Comb it through for nits.”
“That still won’t make me a louse.”
“You were SS,” said Silverman. “I’m a Jew. And you’ll always be a louse in my book, Gunther.”
9
GERMANY, 1954
I t was easy to forget that we were in Germany. There was a U.S. flag in the main hall and the kitchens—which were seemingly always in action—served plain home-cooking on the understanding that home was six thousand kilometers to the west. Most of the voices we heard were American, too: loud, manly voices that told you to do something or not to do something—in English. And we did it quickly, too, or we received a prod from a nightstick or a kick up the backside. Nobody complained. Nobody would have listened, except perhaps Father Morgenweiss. The guards were MPs, deliberately selected for their enormous size. It was hard to see how Germany could ever have expected to win a war against this more obvious-looking master race. They walked the landings and corridors of Landsberg Prison like gunfighters from the OK Corral, or perhaps boxers entering the ring. With each other they had an easy way about them: They were all big, well-brushed smiles and booming laughs, shouting jokes and baseball scores. For us, the inmates, however, there were only stone faces and belligerent attitudes. Fuck you, they seemed to say; you might have your own federal government, but we’re the real masters in this pariah country.
I had a cell for two to myself. It wasn’t because I was special or because I hadn’t yet been charged with anything,
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