“We all have blood on our hands, Albrecht… the SS, Wehrmacht, the German people… Germany itself. When von Papen committed us once more to the fight against the spread of communism, he spoke quite clearly about atonement for our crimes.”
“I remember that speech, Ernst.”
“As do I. I wrote a bit of it down, but I never fully understood what he meant until today.”
Knocke fished in his tunic pocket and brought out his notebook as Haefali stood the circle of men down, ordering four to remove the body of their comrade.
He thumbed through the worn pages until he found what he sought.
He then read aloud, alternating between looking at the text and watching as Bach’s body was tended to.
“Crimes have been committed and those crimes must be atoned for by those responsible. There can be no other way. Regardless of whether you pulled the trigger, drove the tank, or stayed at home enduring the bombs, the German people have a collective responsibility to make amends for these excesses, to fully atone for our national actions before we can move forward as a nation without the burdens of our past.”
Having put the notebook back in its place, Knocke came to attention and saluted the corpse as it was carried away. Those not carrying Bach followed suit.
Within a minute Knocke and Haefali were alone in the gathering gloom of a winter’s evening, surrounded by the quiet of the ruined camp, accompanied only by the gentle whistle of the growing wind, and the smell of blood freshly spilt upon a ground already enriched by the blood of thousands.
Haefali broke the silence.
“Your words have done much, but I fear it’ll take much more for things to become whole again.”
Knocke took out his cigarette pack and checked himself, returning them to his pocket having thought better of the idea. It was somehow disrespectful in his eyes.
“I believe you’re right, Albrecht. For my part and, I suspect, for a number of my men, we may never be whole again.”
Haefali nodded, trying to put himself in the ex-SS officer’s position, and not liking what he imagined.
“Being here… in this awful place and armed with the knowledge of what went on here… overseen by my countrymen… actioned by members of the SS… well… it makes me want to stand in defence of everything that is weak, victimised…whatever… just be a soldier and stand up for what is right… not just my own country as a soldier… or for France as a legionnaire… but for all… for anyone and everyone… to make sure this fucking abomination can never ever happen again!”
Haefali extended his hand and gently placed it upon the shoulder of a man he had come to admire but who, at this time, was tarnished by association with the horrors around him.
“Auschwitz is not your fault, Ernst… I think we all know that… but it was the SS who ran this death camp… you and your men may not have served here, but it’s your collective responsibility, that’s clear… so it’s also your responsibility to atone for it.”
Knocke extended his hand, patted the Legion officer’s side, and walked forward before turning around and facing Haefali.
“You’re absolutely right, Albrecht. But the Gods of War have denied me the opportunity to soldier, now that peace has descended on Europe. So I’ll have to find another way… another means by which I can do my utmost to make up for this… and to say sorry to all those who perished here.”
The Camerone commander came to full attention and saluted his friend, who returned the honour smartly.
Knocke then turned and offered another salute to the darkness of the ruined gas chambers.
As his hand remained steady at the peak of his kepi, he spoke a few words, words that would remain with Haefali until his dying day.
“For my soldiers, my people, and my country, I offer this apology and promise. This will never happen again whilst I draw breath. On my honour, I swear it!”
The two men held the salute for what seemed like an eternity, both making other silent promises that were for them to honour in their own way, before returning to the entrance, walking perfectly in step, to start repairing the damage to their beloved Legion.
Chapter 182 – THE ELIMINATIONS
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
1107 hrs, Monday 30th December 1946, Marktplatz, Oberursel, Germany.
“That’s him.”
“Ja.”
“We just do it. Nothing fancy. There’s no kripos or soldiers that I can see… in fact… the only uniform I can see is that fat bastard on the junction… and he won’t catch us when we run. So… straight up… you watch, I’ll do it. OK?”
“Ja.”
“Do you ever say more than one fucking word at a time, Klaus?”
“Nein.”
“Fucking comedian.”
“Ja.”
Despite the fact that the two were about to take a man’s life in public, they had no qualms about it and were relaxed enough to go through an exchange they had done many times before.
They strolled casually out of their concealment and ate up the distance between them and their mark in slow confident steps.
Their mark was drinking coffee outside a small establishment that claimed to provide the best coffee in the town, which was true, mainly because it had a special link with nearby US army units, which kept it properly supplied.
The target brought his cup to his lips and brought his head upright, intent on finishing his drink, but instead bringing the approaching pair to his attention.
All his senses lit off in a moment, and he instinctively knew that they were coming for him.
As they instinctively knew they had been seen and recognised for what they were.
‘Where is Strauch?’
Three hands grabbed for weapons and found them.
“Die, you Nazi bastard!”
Shots mingled with screams as the three men sent bullets flying at each other.
The screams of the frightened were boosted by those of the injured, as confused people ran in all directions and some got in the way of bullets intended for others.
None the less, some of those shots fired found the targets for which they were intended, and the firing ended as abruptly as it had started.
Klaus would never utter another word, his face ruined by a single shot that struck the bridge of his nose and shredded the brain beyond.
His accomplice was coughing out the last of his moments as his lungs filled with blood, both having taken a round.
A woman who had run across the field of fire lay in soft repose, almost sleeping, except for the fact that she had no throat.
The café waiter was screaming in pain as his shattered elbow refused to stop moving.
A woman in the café suffered the double indignity of taking a bullet in her shoulder and being drenched in shattered glass, her screams less for the excruciating pain of her broken bone than for the clear sensation of broken glass ruining her eyes.
The fat policeman arrived, gun in hand, with nothing to shoot at but everything to bring under control.
He was helped by a local doctor who had sprinted from his practice with his bag in hand and started tending to those who were injured, some of whose injuries were simply sustained by falling over in the rush to escape.
The policeman started to make notes on what he saw and grabbed a journalist who arrived with a camera, allowing him close to the scene if he would take pictures for his report.
The camera fired its blinding flashes through the increasingly grey morning light, recording the bodies and the scene as directed by the policeman, who hadn’t always been old and fat.