A Man Without Breath

The trial of Sergeant Kuhr and Corporal Hermichen took place the following morning at the army Kommandatura in Smolensk, which was less than a kilometre north of the prison. Outside the air had turned to the colour of lead and it was obvious that snow was on the way, which most people agreed was a good thing, as it meant the temperature was starting to climb.

Judge Conrad took the role of presiding judge with Field Marshal von Kluge and General von Tresckow assisting; Lieutenant von Schlabrendorff spoke for the accused; and I presented the facts that were ranged against them. But before proceedings commenced I spoke to Hermichen briefly and urged him to tell me anything he knew about the murders of the two telephonists.

‘In return I’ll inform the court that you have given the field police some important information that might lead to the arrest of another criminal,’ I said. ‘Which might weigh well with them – enough to show you some leniency.’

‘I told you, sir. When I know I’m off the hook I’ll tell you everything.’

‘That isn’t going to happen.’

‘Then I’ll have to take my chances.’

The hearing – it was hardly a trial – took less than an hour. I knew it was within my remit to press for a verdict and a sentence, but in the event I did neither, as I had little appetite for urging upon the court the execution of a man I suspected could solve a crime. About Sergeant Kuhr I felt more ambivalent. But there was another factor, too. Before the Nazis, I had strongly believed in capital punishment. Every cop in Berlin had believed in that. In my time at the Alex I had even attended a few executions, and while I took no satisfaction in the sight of a murderer being led kicking and screaming to the guillotine, yet I felt justice had been served and the victims had been properly avenged. Since Operation Barbarossa and the invasion of the Soviet Union, I had come to think that every German had played some part in a crime greater than had ever been seen in any courtroom, and to that extent I felt less than comfortable with the whole hypocrisy of prosecuting two soldiers for doing what an SS man from any police battalion would have considered to be all in a day’s work.

To his credit, Von Schlabrendorff spoke well for the accused men, and the three judges actually seemed inclined to give his words some weight before they retired to consider their verdict. But it didn’t take the trio long before they were back in the courtroom and Judge Conrad was pronouncing a sentence of death, to be carried out at once.

As the men were led away, Hermichen turned and called to me:

‘Looks like you were right, sir.’

‘I’m sorry about that. Really I am.’

‘Are you coming to see the show?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Perhaps I’ll tell you what you want to know just before they put the noose around my neck,’ said Hermichen. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I won’t be there.’

But I knew I would be, of course.

*

It was cold in the prison yard. Snow was falling gently from the breathless sky as if thousands of tiny Alpine paratroopers were taking part in some huge airborne invasion of the Soviet Union. It silently covered the crossbar of the gallows, turning its simple dark geometry into something almost benign, like a length of cotton wool on the Christmas crib in a quiet country church, or a layer of cream on a Black Forest cake. The two ropes that were curled underneath the icing-sugared beam might have been decorative, while below these tenantless holes in the air, the little flight of precarious wooden steps that led the way to pendulous death looked like something that had been provided by a more thoughtful soul, as if some child might have had need of them to reach a sink to wash its hands.

In spite of what was about to happen it was hard not to think of children. The prison was surrounded by Russian schools – one on Feldstrasse, one on Kiewerstrasse and one on Krasnyistrasse – and as I’d parked my car outside the prison a snowball fight had been in progress and the sound of their playing and laughter now filled the freezing air like a flight of emigrating birds. For the two men who were awaiting their fate that carefree sound must have provoked a painful memory of happier times. Even I found it depressing, reminding me as it did of someone I’d once been and wouldn’t be again.