“Yes, I ignored the rumours, but how could I have anticipated that this was all happening?”
He caught himself up in a thought process and inadvertently spoke aloud.
“Should I have anticipated this?”
Knocke realised he had voiced his thoughts but set the moment aside and continued.
“Yes, I’m guilty of being a soldier, but I fought for my country, as any man who loves it would do.”
He nodded, more to himself than any of his audience.
“Yes, I’m guilty of being a German and that more than anything is what will haunt me now. For now being me is not about what I have done or achieved any more… it’s about my country and how it has been stained by the actions of those who were entrusted with its safekeeping… and who abused it and the world so badly.”
“This will not define me… I’ll not let it define me. Nor will it define who I was, nor will it define those brave men who died wearing the same uniforms as the rabble who ran this camp.”
“You all knew of the camps before this… when we came together to form the Corps… to form Camerone… and we forged a wonderful spirit, which is now risked by being here… and the Russian has been clever but… perhaps… correct in some way… for we can now understand more of the horrors of this place. By recreating it in an attempt to divide us, they have shown all of us the very pits of human existence… something we’ll always remember… and that will always affect the way our lives go forward from this day.”
More than one man in the two groups had a tear roll down his cheek.
“But I understand, kameraden. Being here makes everything less distant. There is a reality in this nothingness that will stay with all of us for as long as we live.”
He gestured towards the Frenchmen with genuine affection.
“You’re the same men you were before this day dawned.”
He swept his arm across the German officers.
“They’re the same men as well. Some of you owe some of them your lives… and the reverse is true, is it not?”
There was mumbled agreement from many a mouth.
“They’re not responsible for this, no more than any of you are responsible for the capitulation of France and the rise of Vichy.”
That hurt a few of the listeners.
“You all know that some things have happened during our time together that are regrettable. We all remember poor old Vernais and what happened afterwards. Our kameraden at La Petit Pierre and the price the communists paid for their behaviour? What our American friends did at Hattmatt, eh? But we understand and condone those things, even though we were involved.”
He pointed at the gates, drawing everyone into turning around to examine the long brick structure.
“We were not involved in that… any of it… none of us.”
He waited until they had all turned back to face him before coming to the end of his words.
“Kameraden, what we are now involved in… responsible for… committed to… is ensuring that the horrors of this place are never repeated, no matter what. We, as legionnaires, are committed to that task, and together we will keep Auschwitz, Birkenau, and a hundred other awful places as memories, ensuring they are lessons learned, not models for the future.”
“The man opposite you is the same man he was yesterday. He’s your comrade and he’ll die for you as you would for him. Such men should not stand apart. They should stand together.”
He studied the two groups.
“So… stand together.”
Gradually, some movement started, and it was Durand who first extended his hand to Johannes Braun, with whom he had the best of relationships.
The rest followed suit and the rifts that had suddenly appeared faded, although not totally and some wounds might always remain, for Auschwitz-Birkenau was a place that would not fade in the memory of those who saw what it had to offer.
“We’re not responsible for this… but we must accept responsibility for it in a wider sense. Would that none of it had ever happened… but it cannot be undone. So we must all accept responsibility for what we can achieve in this place’s memory, for the memories of all those who died and suffered, and for guiding the future.”
His words had a keen edge and found the men’s hearts.
“Atten-shun!”
They sprang to the attention as Knocke about turned and offered the silent ground a formal salute, followed by the assembled officers and NCOs.
He moved back round to face his officers.
“Now, we must attend to the unfortunates here. First thing tomorrow… volunteers only… and make sure your men understand the enormity of the task ahead.”
He gave them a magnificent salute.
“Dis-miss!”
Knocke came to his senses, still stood in the selection area of Auschwitz-II, Birkenau.
His mind had become so wrapped up in itself that he had failed to recognise the departure of his officers.
All but one of his officers.
“Felix?”
“Oberführer.”
“Why are you still here? It’s Christmas. You should be celebrating.”
“You’re right.”
“I know I am, Now, say hello to your boys from me and…”
“No, you’re right. I should have said no.”
“Should have?”
“Yes. I should have.”
“You were here?”
“No, not here. Not here!”
“Where were you, Felix?”
“Majdanek, near Lublin. When I was wounded. I spent four months there waiting for my call up to Bad Tolz.”
Knocke had heard of Majdanek in much the same way as he had heard his present location; rumour, gossip, and the hushed whispers of men who knew they should speak no further.
“I did what I was ordered, no more, no less, but I did it… and I should have said no.”
“Mein Gott.”
“As you said, God has no part in these fucking places, Oberführer.”
He sobbed without tears.
“I was a coward.”
“No more than most would be, faced with choices like that.”
“No, you were right… there was only one choice.”
“You say that now, but at the time…”
“At the time I did what I was ordered, which is no fucking excuse… you said so yourself in so many words, Oberführer.”
“Felix, I…”
“No. I’m guilty… guilty of Majdanek, this place, all the awful places…”
“No, Felix, yo…”
“Enough, Oberführer. Our French comrades were right. We’re guilty and should be punished.”
“Stop this at once!”
The movement and the shot blended into one, and blood and brains splattered Knocke from waist to head.
Haefali appeared, running for all he was worth, followed by a few others who had been congregating on the other side of the entrance building.
Remarkably, Bach was not dead, despite the huge hole in his head, although his hold on life would not last much longer.
Knocke cradled the dying man, holding him close and whispering words of comfort, unsure if they could be heard or comprehended.
By the time Haefali arrived, gun in hand, Bach had joined the thousands upon thousands of other souls that had travelled from Auschwitz to wherever their God took them.
The new arrivals either spread out to find whoever had fired the shot or instinctively understood what had happened.
Knocke slid out from under the body and laid Bach gently to rest.
“He had blood on his hands, Albrecht. He told me that he served at a camp such as this. I fear my words brought him to this. I’m so sorry.”
Standing, Knocke was conscious of the spray of Bach’s vitals that covered him.
Haefali offered a handkerchief, which he gratefully accepted.