

Copyright © 2013 J.C. Stephenson

J.C. Stephenson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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SAMPLE COPY ONLY – THIS IS NOT THE FULL TEXT

Front cover design by J.C. Stephenson

For Anna
CONTENTS

 | Author's Note | i

---|---|---

1 | Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 | 1

2 | Berlin, 14th November 1929 | 5

3 | Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 | 12

4 | Berlin, 18th November 1929 | 17

5 | Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 | 28

6 | Berlin, 18th November 1929 | 31

7 | Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 | 36

8 | Berlin, 24th December 1929 | 40

9 | Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 | 49

10 | Berlin, 24th December 1929 | 55

11 | Auschwitz, 25th July 1943 | 63

12 | Berlin, 17th July 1930 | 68

13 | Auschwitz, 30th July 1943 | 75

14 | Berlin, 30th July 1930 | 77

15 | Auschwitz, 17th August 1943 | 84

16 | Berlin, 30th July 1930 | 87

17 | Auschwitz, 29th October 1943 | 95

18 | Berlin, 10th February 1931 | 104

19 | Auschwitz, 1st December 1943 | 108

20 | Berlin, 15th June 1931 | 117

21 | Auschwitz, 13th December 1943 | 123
CONTENTS _continued_

22 | Berlin, 16th June 1931 | 125

---|---|---

23 | Auschwitz, 3rd February 1944 | 132

24 | Berlin, 2nd August 1934 | 135

25 | Auschwitz, 4th February 1944 | 141

26 | Berlin, 20th May 1936 | 147

27 | Auschwitz, 4th February 1944 | 154

28 | Berlin, 29th January 1938 | 157

29 | Auschwitz, 5th February 1944 | 161

30 | Berlin, 3rd May 1939 | 167

31 | Auschwitz, 6th February 1944 | 175

32 | Berlin, 7th November 1941 | 183

33 | Auschwitz, 7th February 1944 | 185

34 | Berlin, 2nd May 1942 | 196

35 | Auschwitz, 7th February 1944 | 203

36 | Berlin, 19th July 1943 | 210

37 | Auschwitz, 9th February 1944 | 215

38 | Berlin, 20th July 1943 | 219

39 | Auschwitz, 10th February 1944 | 223

40 | Germany, 23rd July 1943 | 232

41 | Auschwitz, 10th February 1944 | 237

42 | Auschwitz, 24th July 1943 | 241

43 | Auschwitz, 10th February 1944 | 243

Epilogue | 248

Author's note

It was only after I had finished writing this story that I realised that it would be possible to read it in three different ways; starting at page one and finishing on the last page, reading it in chronological order, or starting on any random chapter and reading around to the beginning again. The story is effectively cyclical, as unfortunately, is history.

This novel is written in tribute to the men, women, and children who suffered in the concentration camps of Europe during the Nazi era; to those who died, to those who survived, and to those who live with it still.

_"We should consider every day lost on which  
we have not danced at least once."_

Friedrich Nietzsche

Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

MANFRED Meyer stood in line. His eyes darted from left to right as he tried to take in as much about this place as possible without standing out. Or perhaps it was fear that kept him facing straight ahead.

He did not know where he was, but he had caught a glimpse of an old railway sign from the tiny crack in the cattle truck door that he had been forced up against for most of his long journey. It had read Oświęcim. This must be Poland.

Where were his wife and daughters? Meyer's stomach ached at the thought of them.

His eyes searched the area. Meyer turned his head slowly and tried to see behind him, but all that he could see was a mirror if what lay ahead of him; a never-ending line of men. And soldiers.

There had been brandished guns, shouted commands and pushing and pulling when they had first arrived. This had been some kind of selection process; old from young, men from women.

And then a quick march to this point. The soldiers were quiet now apart from the occasional shared joke, waiting for something.

Now Manfred Meyer waited too. With all the other men, some young, some middle-aged, some much older than Meyer. But no-one very old and no children.

Where were his children? Were they standing in a line like he was? They would still be with his wife - hopefully. At least they would be together so they wouldn't be too frightened. His stomach turned over again at the thought of them being afraid.

It was hot. And this place stank. It was a smell he had never experienced before. It had penetrated the train even before it had stopped. The stench had overpowered the dreadful smell of sweat and urine and defecation which had filled his carriage. It was much worse.

It was a mixture of all the unpleasant, unclean, unwanted smells in the world. It was a thick loathsome odour. It sat on your tongue and forced you to taste the pollution. And there was something else. Something sweet. Meyer couldn't put his finger on what it was but it repelled him.

Meyer's thirst taunted him. He watched a bead of sweat slowly trickle from the hairline of the man in front. It caught on a black hair on the back of the man's neck and hung there like dew on a blade of clean, cold grass.

Then there was a shout. Orders being conveyed from one soldier to another from the front of the line. In spite of the shouts, the line of men did not move. He tried to see what was happening but it was out of sight. He stole a glance at the two SS guards nearby.

Summer clung to the battle helmets and jackboots they wore. They carried their rifles in their hands, not slung over their shoulders, and stood in their dusty field grey uniforms with full webbing as if waiting on an attack from a crack Red Army brigade. For a moment Meyer wondered if they were perhaps afraid of the huge number of men they had in the line. If everyone charged the guards they could easily overpower them.

He tried to look down the line again but his attention was taken by the drop of sweat on the back of the man in front's neck. It still sat on the hair. It vibrated from the heartbeat of its owner as gravity attempted to drag it to its inevitable end. Meyer watched it bulge into a teardrop and then back again to its rounded shape and although it moved infinitesimally closer to the end of the hair, it still clung on for dear life.

There was further shouting and then someone up ahead was pulled from the queue. In spite of the distance, Meyer could make out that he was wearing very smart clothes, a grey suit and a flash of a white collar. The man was gesticulating at a guard and an officer. Meyer strained to hear what was being said, but the man's voice was carried away on a sudden breeze. Dust was blown around them all and a speck got into Meyer's eye. Instinctively, he turned away from the direction of the wind and through his watery vision saw that his SS guards had been caught unaware by this sudden flurry of granular dirt. Together, both guards and prisoners suffered from this irritation.

Once Meyer had rubbed the dirt from his eyes he once again caught sight of the smartly-dressed man, now on his knees and holding his hands together, pleading for something. But Meyer still couldn't hear.

The officer put his hand on the guard's shoulder and said something that was taken away on the wind, then walked around to behind the smartly dressed man and took out his pistol. The guard moved away, pointing his machine gun at the man.

The smartly-dressed man stopped talking and his arms dropped to his side. His head bowed forward and he sat back on his legs. He looked like his life had left him already.

Meyer closed his gritty eyes and waited for the noise. He could hear the dust-filled breeze pass over his ears and he could hear the voices of soldiers talking. And then he heard the crack of the gunshot.

Meyer opened his eyes and saw that the officer had already holstered his pistol and was walking away. The smartly-dressed man lay face down in the dirt. A dark pool surrounded his head. Thank God his wife and children had not had to witness this.

Maybe family units would be re-united once they had been processed. He had heard the use of this word several times since arriving. There would be a processing of prisoners, or that there was a processing procedure.

Meyer's attention was once again taken by the back of the man's neck. The drop of sweat had gone.

Now there was more shouting. Meyer hoped it wasn't going to be another execution. He looked desperately up the line of men, but instead of a victim being pulled from the queue, the guards were gesturing to everyone to start moving forward.

Meyer's two SS guards walked slowly closer to the line, keeping a watch along the queue, waiting for the forward movement of the prisoners to snake backwards to their position. Both of these men were young, no more than twenty-two years old and although they were both clean-shaven, the dirt and grime of the heat stuck to their faces like a beard.

Meyer watched with them, waiting for the man in front to step forward. He wanted to make sure that he was moving as soon as possible, not giving the guards any reason to single him out.

Then, to Meyer's horror, the sweaty man in front collapsed. He fell straight down as if his legs had disappeared completely, until he was sitting in the dirt. Then he toppled over sideways.

Meyer stopped breathing. The line of men in front had started to walk away. He didn't know if he should step over the collapsed man, or bend down and help him or stay where he was until the guards removed him.

Meyer looked to the two SS guards for guidance.

"MOVE!" screamed the closest guard. A tiny particle of spittle left his lips and landed on Meyer's face. His comrade joined in the command before Meyer had had a chance to step over the collapsed man.

"MOVE!" came the command again, and the guard's hand shot out to grab hold of Meyer's arm.

He felt himself being pulled forward over the sweaty man's body. He stumbled, and for a second he thought he was going to join the other man face down in the dirt, but he managed to keep his feet and, with the guard now shouting at the men behind him, Meyer walked quickly to catch up with the rest of the queue.

He snatched a look back and saw that the line of men was being forced to walk over the collapsed man's body. It wouldn't be long before he died, if he wasn't dead already.

Meyer considered that in the past few minutes two men had lost their lives. He hoped that this wouldn't be a pattern for the rest of his time here, before he was processed.

Berlin, 14th November 1929

MANFRED Meyer sat on a green leather bench in the cool,  
walnut-panelled hallway of the Bauer & Bauer Criminal Lawyers office on Potsdamer Platz. A trickle of sweat ran down his back in spite of the temperature.

He wore his whitest shirt with a dark tie, his good suit and shoes, and, after much deliberation, had his coat folded over his arm.

Meyer couldn't get comfortable. He crossed his legs and sat back. Then uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He stood up. Walked down the hall a short distance and examined one of the portraits hanging there.

It was of an elderly gentleman in a black suit with snow-white hair and a kind face with a ruddy complexion. He was seated in an office which was wood-panelled, not unlike the hallway where Meyer now stood. The oil paint had stained over the years, and Meyer felt the urge to run a wet finger over the painting to bring up the original colours.

"Herr Meyer?"

The voice startled Meyer from his examination of the picture. He turned and saw a tall, middle-aged man half hidden by the doorway next to the bench he had been sitting on.

"Yes. Yes, I am Herr Meyer," he replied and started to make his way towards the man.

The man stood to one side and indicated with his arm that Meyer should enter the room.

"Please come in, Herr Meyer, and take a seat. Herr Bauer will see you forthwith."

Meyer followed the man's instructions and entered a windowless,  
high-ceilinged room with a large door on the back wall and another, slightly smaller, door behind a beautifully carved desk. He looked around but could not see a chair.

The man followed Meyer in and shut the door behind him.

"I am Herr Muller, Herr Bauer's secretary," he said as he took his seat behind the ornate desk. Muller then noticed that Meyer was still standing.

"Please, Herr Meyer, sit. Herr Bauer will be with you soon," and indicated with his hand a small wooden chair which Meyer had not noticed as it had been behind the open door.

"Thank you," replied Meyer, and sat down.

Meyer decided that he should not go through the dance he performed on the bench outside and chose to sit with his legs together and his coat folded over his arms, resting on his knees.

Meyer surveyed the room while Muller occupied himself with writing at the desk and occasionally stamping and moving paper from one pile to another. There were more portraits on the cream walls as well as a mahogany clock and two different sized metal filing cabinets in one corner.

Occasionally, Muller would look up from his writing desk at Meyer, stroke his moustache and then continue with his work.

After a few minutes the large door on the back wall opened and an amiable looking gentleman filled the doorframe.

"Herr Meyer," his voiced boomed. "How very pleasant to meet you."

Manfred Meyer stood up and walked over to shake the man's hand.

"Friedrich Bauer," he announced, and took Meyer's hand in a great paw. "Please come in."

Meyer followed Bauer into his office. It was opulent. Beautiful paintings hung on every wood-panelled wall, and the ceiling had deep, moulded cornices and an enormous rose, from which a chandelier hung, its electric lights sparkling in the crystals. In the centre of the room, an Indian carpet covered most of the dark floorboards on which sat a desk that was even larger and more ornate than Muller's. So large in fact, that a telephone, various ornaments, piles of papers and books, a crystal water jug with glasses, an ashtray and an inkwell with pens which sat around the perimeter of the leather insert still left vast amounts of space available for work.

Bauer made his way around the desk to take his place on the leather wing chair and indicated to Meyer to take a seat opposite on one of the much smaller but just as beautiful guest chairs.

The large man held a handkerchief to his mouth, coughed, and cleared his throat.

"Damn cough," he apologised. "Can't seem to shift it. Now Herr Meyer," he continued, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket. "I have heard some very good things about you."

Meyer smiled. He had sat as carefully as he had done in Muller's office; legs together, his coat folded over his arms and sitting on his knees. Meyer thought that this seemed the most respectful and attentive way to sit. Then he thought that he might be thinking too hard about his posture and not concentrating on the reason that he was in this office.

"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" asked Bauer.

Meyer took a deep breath. This was it; his only chance.

"Herr Bauer, first of all I would like to thank you greatly for allowing me this opportunity to see you and state my case for engaging in full employment with Bauer & Bauer. As I am sure you are aware, as you are in full possession of the facts of my visit to you today, let me please start by telling you about my personal position before moving on to my professional qualifications, experience, and requirements."

Meyer noticed that Bauer's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly and that he sat slightly forward in the wing chair. He was surprised and interested. Meyer realised that he had hit the correct note.

"I live with my wife on Zehlendorf Strasse in an apartment overlooking the market. We have been married for a year and a month and she is expecting our first baby.

"We moved to Berlin from Leipzig ten days ago with the express intention of myself gaining employment in a criminal defence lawyer firm, Bauer & Bauer being my preferred option.

"I took my law exams at Leipzig University and have been an intern at Schubert's Law Office for the past two years. I believe that Herr Schubert and yourself are well-acquainted. He has spoken very highly about Bauer & Bauer and encouraged me to seek employment with you."

Bauer gave a smile which showed nicotine stained teeth with a pipe hollow.

"Yes, Franz Schubert and I are very well-acquainted. We passed through law school together." He then chuckled and leaned even further forward in his chair and whispered, "There was the possibility of neither of us graduating. A story I may tell you some other time." He leaned back in his wing chair and felt around in his pocket. Bauer produced a pipe and waved it at Meyer. "Do carry on Herr Meyer. Don't mind me if I smoke."

"Yes, Herr Bauer. So I discussed this possibility with my wife and explained how I felt that Berlin would offer many more opportunities for a prospective criminal lawyer than Leipzig might."

Meyer watched as Bauer continued to fish around in his pockets until a pouch of tobacco was found.

"And if Frau Meyer had not wished to move to Berlin? After all, she must have been heavily pregnant?" he asked, while now searching the table for something.

"Then I would have persuaded her, Herr Bauer," replied Meyer.

He spotted what Bauer was looking for and leaned forward to pick up a brass pipe lighter and passed it to the large, grateful hand of the old man.

There was a twinkle in Bauer's eyes.

"Persuade her? Do you think that would have been possible? Women, especially spouses, are so very difficult to persuade, don't you think?"

"Herr Bauer, my wife is the most intelligent woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I would not attempt to convince her of anything unless I truly believed it to be the case."

Bauer had tucked some tobacco into his pipe and was sucking the flame from his lighter into the bowl while puffing out smoke from the side of his mouth.

"And if Frau Meyer wanted a new pair of shoes, do you think you could persuade her otherwise?"

Meyer thought for a moment before replying.

"If my wife required a new pair of shoes, I would not wish to dissuade her from the purchase."

The old man smiled but continued his questions.

"Ah yes, but if there was no requirement. If it was a desire, would you be able to bring your powers of persuasion, such an important skill in a lawyer, could you bring your persuasive powers to the fore and convince her that she does not require the shoes?"

Again Meyer paused before answering.

"Herr Bauer, as she is my wife and I have promised to give her all she requires and desires in our life together, I would never attempt to dissuade her from such an inconsequential purchase or convince her otherwise. However, I am certain that I could persuade any other woman in Berlin that a purchase of unrequired shoes would be entirely unnecessary due to any number of factors which would include fashion, sensibility due to the time of year and possible poor quality of the product. But my main argument would be that I had seen such a pair of shoes on one of her friends."

Bauer smiled. He waved his pipe around before clamping it between his teeth and asking Meyer to continue.

Meyer paused. He realised that he had lost his train of thought. He had tried to give his case to Bauer as if in a court of law and, mid-way, this amiable old man had broken his concentration through a series of questions about shoes and the search for a lighter for his pipe.

"Do carry on Herr Meyer, please," he said, while producing larger and larger amounts of smoke.

Meyer stumbled for words as he tried to pick up from where he had been interrupted.

The old man took the pipe from his mouth and gave Meyer a wide smile and scratched the yellowed whiskers around his mouth.

"Herr Meyer, you certainly talk like a lawyer. But...," he trailed off and stared into the bowl of his pipe before letting his eyes rest back on Meyer again.

"But your train of thought was broken quite easily by the use of some very simple courtroom techniques. The distraction of the finding and lighting of the pipe while I moved the questions away from your main theme but included some of your own elements so that you wouldn't notice me make your train jump the tracks. I then continued down my own track, taking you with me until your train became derailed completely."

Meyer felt his stomach turn over. He had blown it. He had practised his resume in his own mind so often, along with how he would be able to prove his worth to this firm.

Bauer continued. "And this is something you only learn through experience. You were able to formulate an argument about a subject and discuss it and answer questions until you found a final solution which satisfied me.

"My old friend Franz Schubert also telephoned me to tell me that I was to look after you and give you a job. Even if it was to deliver the mail. But after meeting you and having our little game this afternoon, I can see that you will make a very able lawyer one day.

"This is Thursday, which will give you three precious days to spend with your expectant wife before you start work here at 8.30 precisely on Monday morning."

Meyer jumped from his seat. "Herr Bauer, thank you. Thank you very much for this opportunity."

The old man stood up, put his lit pipe in his pocket, and held out his great paw of a hand, which Meyer took and vigorously shook while nervously glancing at Bauer's smouldering jacket.

"Herr Meyer, wear the suit you're wearing today and visit Herr Muller first thing. You will be working with Herr Deschler, who requires an assistant."

Meyer had heard of Deschler. He had been reading in the papers about an ongoing murder trial he was involved in. It was occasionally making front pages. Meyer thanked Bauer again, turned, and left through Muller's office, politely bidding him goodbye. He forced himself not to break into a run as he walked down the walnut hall. Meyer couldn't wait to tell his wife Klara the good news, and a smile spread across his face as he descended the grand staircase and left the building into the winter sun shining down on Potsdamer Platz.

Under different circumstances, he would have walked home in the low afternoon sun, but he wanted to tell his wife the good news as soon as possible.

He found a tram stop and scanned the timetable for the tram which passed close to Zehlendorf Strasse. The 14A took him to within two or three minutes of his apartment and, after checking his wrist watch, he saw that is was due in seven minutes.

Manfred Meyer checked his pockets for change and found the twenty pfennigs he would need for the journey. He checked his watch again and was dismayed to see that it was still seven minutes until the next tram.

He thought about how happy Klara would be when he told her the news that he would have a real paying job with an excellent law firm and fantastic opportunities for his, her, and the soon-to-be-born baby's future. He realised he hadn't even asked about money when he was with Herr Bauer. No matter, as long as there was enough to pay their rent and look after his wife and baby, that would be all he would need.

He watched as a green tram turned into Potsdamer Platz, sparks showering from the overhead wires, wheels squeaking on the steel rails. This terrifying dragon was going to be taking him home. He climbed aboard, took a seat, and paid the conductor his fare.

Twenty minutes later Manfred Meyer stepped from the creaking old bone-shaker and made his way down Zehlendorf Strasse towards his apartment at a quick march. He smiled at the paper seller outside the stair door to his apartment, the newspapers still full of news of the great crash on Wall Street in America but also about the upcoming Berlin Municipal Elections. There were election posters from all the various parties all over the city. On a bill poster bollard next to the paper seller, some new posters had been recently added by the German National People's Party, the Communists, and the National Socialist Workers Party, all advocating change and smashing corruption.

Meyer used his key in the main door and ran up the stairs to the second floor, clinging on to the ornate bannister as he went. He found his apartment door ajar.

"Klara?" he shouted through the door, before pushing it fully open. Inside, he was greeted by a middle-aged woman that he had never seen before, wearing a white full length apron.

"Herr Meyer?" she asked.

"Yes, where is Klara? Is everything alright?"

Meyer tried to look beyond the woman, whose full figure barred his entrance into the apartment.

"Herr Meyer, please calm down. Everything is as it should be. I am Birgit Dietrich, and I am a midwife at the Berlin Charite Hospital. I am a friend of your neighbour, Frau Fischer, and luck would have it that I was visiting her."

Frau Dietrich gave a huge smile.

"Herr Meyer, congratulations. You have two beautiful, healthy baby girls."

Meyer could feel tears of joy prick his eyes. He could see into their bedroom but only the bottom of the bed was visible. Someone was moving around in the room.

The midwife followed his gaze. "Frau Fischer is just cleaning up. She is a retired nurse herself, of course, and you should be able to see your wife and babies in a few moments. Please wait here," she said firmly as she returned to the bedroom.

Meyer stood frozen to the spot. He could hear low voices in the room and then a tiny cry; a scrap of life making itself heard in the world.

"My God," he whispered to himself. "Twins."

Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

MEYER was conscious of keeping his feet as the line of men marched under a gate that shouted ' _Arbeit Macht Frei_ ' - 'Work Will Make You Free'. This must be some kind of hard labour camp.

He could see what looked like barracks up ahead, as well as guard towers and sentry boxes. They were kept marching until the full line of men had snaked through the gates. Then the command to halt was barked out by the guards.

It was very quiet considering the number of prisoners and guards that were there. Then he heard what, at first, sounded like birdsong but turned out to be the squeak of a wheel-barrow being slowly pushed by a short, thin man wearing a striped uniform. He looked as if the colour had been entirely removed from his face and clothes, only leaving different shades of grey.

The man's eyes bulged from his sunken cheeks and, for a split-second, his eyes met with Meyer's as he passed. Meyer could see something in that gaze. He had seen it before in the courtroom; it was when someone was found guilty. No matter how petty or extreme the crime, that moment of being told that you were guilty and would be punished was difficult for everyone to bear, even if that moment was fleeting.

The man looked guilty and frightened, but the look was unfocused, almost dead. And what else did Meyer see in those eyes? Was that pity?

The wheelbarrow man passed by, followed at his shoulder by another thin, grey-striped man who looked almost identical, although slightly taller. Both were escorted by a guard with a rifle over his shoulder.

The smell was worse now. Perhaps the men who had passed him also carried the odour on them. It may have insidiously infiltrated their very being, breathing in the stench every day until it escaped from their pores. And then that sweet tang in the air. It sent a shiver down his spine even in the heat of the sun.

Meyer's tongue was dry. He hadn't been this thirsty for a long time. How long would they have them stand in the heat of the day before allowing them shade and something to drink?

He hoped Klara and the girls were not stood in the heat like this and that they had been looked after a bit better than the men. He was sure that even the Nazis would discriminate between how men were treated and how women and children were looked after.

Meyer watched as the guards quenched their thirsts from their water canteens. When would they give them water? He felt the grey dust from the camp stick to his face and clothes and wondered if this was sucking the colour from him, leaving him like the men with the wheelbarrow.

Soon he heard the false birdsong of the barrow approaching from behind. As it passed, he could see the two striped men now holding a handle each, struggling to push it over the baked, hard dirt, and the arms and legs of the two dead men from outside the gates hanging over the rim of the barrow.

A few moments later there were further shouts, and the line of men began to move again. This time it was a faltering walk forward. Meyer could now see that they were being taken slowly into a wooden hut.

As soon as he was inside, instructions were barked at the men to undress. There were more of the striped men inside, who were gathering up the clothes being discarded on the floor and taking them out of a side door.

Meyer removed his clothes and shoes as quickly as possible and dropped them on the floor next to one of the striped men.

The striped man tapped his own hand and wrist and indicated towards Meyer's watch and fingers. His wedding ring and his precious watch. At first, Meyer thought that the man wanted them for himself, but then he realised that everything was being removed; rings, necklaces and watches. Meyer pulled off his wedding ring and, feeling his stomach lurch at losing this symbol of his love for Klara, dropped it onto his pile of clothes.

"Your watch," said the striped man, his voice like sandpaper, and tapped his wrist again.

Meyer unbuckled the watch and turned it over one last time to read the back, 'For all eternity, Klara', before letting it slip from his fingers on to the pile of clothes that, until a few seconds ago, had belonged to him.

One of the SS officers who was shouting commands saw that Meyer was now naked and whipped him with a stick.

"Out the back! Quick! Move!"

Meyer pushed past those who were still undressing, back out into the hot sun. He did what he could to hide his modesty, but outside were more shouting guards and a buzzing noise which sounded like a huge insect.

There were rows of chairs which looked like the metal-framed and wooden-backed type that he had sat at in school. Above them ran a wire, from which hung large electric shavers. Naked men were being pushed into seats, their heads shaved before being pushed off again and ordered towards another hut.

Meyer stood for almost thirty seconds before being pulled by his arm and pushed into a chair by a striped man. His head was pulled to the side, then forward, then the other side, as the buzzing roared in his ears and raced over his scalp.

Before he knew it, he was pulled to his feet and pushed away from the chairs. Guards were barking orders at their newly shorn visitors.

"Move! Quicker! Through that door!"

Meyer could hear something from inside the concrete building he was being herded towards. He couldn't quite make it out through the incessant buzzing of the razors and the shouting. It sounded like gas or air escaping from a pipe.

"Inside quickly!"

The press of the naked men took Meyer in through the door of the building. The sound was water. There were shower heads in the ceiling, spraying out water mixed with disinfectant. The flow of men took Meyer out of a rear door to the shower, back into the sunlight, where there was a line of trestle tables. The striped men were also here, directing the wet, naked prisoners to one table or another.

Meyer was directed from one striped man to another until he was finally directed to a table where an SS officer sat. The officer sat with a lined book in front of him and held a beautifully ornate fountain pen in his hand. Without looking up, he started asking questions.

"Name?"

"Manfred Meyer."

"Date of birth?"

"8th of August 1905."

"Place of birth?"

"Leipzig."

Meyer watched as the columns were filled out in the register book.

"Profession?"

"Criminal lawyer."

"Religion?"

"Atheist."

The officer looked up at him and sighed.

"Religion at birth?"

"My father was Jewish."

The officer wrote 'Jude' in his book.

The officer then turned to an assistant and stated, "Prisoner number 414894, Jew."

The assistant dropped a folded set of striped clothes onto the table along with some wooden clogs. The officer pushed these towards Meyer and shouted, "Next!"

Meyer quickly picked up the clothes and turned away from the table. He could see others with their clothes going into a brick building that looked like a barracks, and decided to follow the crowd.

Once inside, Meyer watched the almost silent scramble to get dressed as quickly as possible. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the rustling of clothes and the sound of the wooden clogs as the men left the building.

He examined the bundle he had been given and began to get dressed. He had striped blue and grey trousers which he quickly put on, a grey-white vest, a blue and grey striped jacket which had a sewn patch with the serial number '414894' and a yellow triangle over a red triangle forming a Star of David, and a matching striped hat, all of which seemed to be clean and perhaps even new. All except the clogs, which had obviously already had more than one owner.

As soon as he was dressed, Meyer followed the crowd through the door at the rear of the building and back into the warm summer day.

He found himself in a square where a knot of SS officer's smoked cigarettes and laughed at each other's stories. Guards with rifles slung over their shoulders pushed and shouted at the prisoners as they arrived in the square, organising them into ranks.

Meyer found himself in the fifth rank from the front, sandwiched between two men also marked with the Star of David. They both had the haunted look that the wheelbarrow men had shown. Meyer wondered if his eyes betrayed the fear and uncertainty that he felt.

The seemingly never-ending line of prisoners kept coming, until finally, the last man left the building, the door was shut behind him, and he was ushered into his position in the rear rank. But instead of something happening, the SS officers walked from the square leaving the men standing in the sun again.

The man to his left whispered something that Meyer couldn't make out. He whispered again, this time loud enough for Meyer to hear.

"What is your name?"

Meyer whispered back his name.

"Itzhak Frank," came an unrequested reply.

"Do you know what they did with the women?" whispered Meyer.

"I'm not sure. All I need is a drink of water."

Meyer and the men stood for another thirty minutes before the SS officers returned, this time with clipboards, and started shouting out names which required a reply of 'present'. Every single name that was called received an answer.

Once that exercise was complete, the name-checking started again, this time by a different officer. All names called out this time were to leave the ranks and line up next to an existing prisoner that the officer called a 'kapo'.

Once a certain number of prisoners had left the ranks, the kapo led them away with the aid of a guard. Another kapo then took his place and the roll of names continued. Meyer was in the third group called out.

"Good luck," whispered Itzhak Frank.

"You too," replied Meyer.

He made his way quickly to the front and lined up with the others who had been called out. The kapo was a large man, thin but with obvious strength in his muscles, although he walked with a pronounced limp. His drawn cheeks betrayed a lack of teeth, while the scars on his face and a flat nose, broken at least once, were evidence of a violent past. Around his arm was a black band decorated with the word 'KAPO', while on his jacket, next to his prison number, he had an inverted green triangle.

There was a break in the calling of names and Meyer's kapo nodded to the officer, turned, and led Meyer and the other men away from the square.

They were led silently to outside another brick building and told to line up. The kapo then produced a folded piece of paper and started another roll call. An armed guard stood several metres behind the tall man, his rifle hung over his left shoulder. This time, Meyer counted the names. Twenty-seven, including his own name, were called out. The kapo seemed pleased that there was no-one missing from his list and nodded to himself.

"I am Kapo Langer. You call me 'kapo', 'sir', or 'Herr Langer'," he started. "You will be in my hut and I am your leader. You tell me everything that is happening. You do as I say. I am the law in the hut. I am God.

"You can see from my uniform that I wear the green triangle. This means that I am here because I have been through the court system. Not because I am a queer, a communist, or a Jew. It is because I killed a policeman in a robbery.

"Even though you are Jews, you have all been born in Germany. That gives you certain privileges. The first one is that you will not be tattooed with your prisoner number. But you will have your photograph taken.

"You are lucky enough to have survived the selection process and have been chosen to work in the labour camp. Although, some would say that the others are the lucky ones.

"Welcome to Auschwitz."

Berlin, 18th November 1929

KLARA Meyer kissed the back of her husband's neck as he slept. It was Monday, and today was Manfred's first day at his new job. She was so happy, a lovely new apartment, a new start for Manfred, and, best of all, two new babies.

She turned over and checked in the cot next to the bed. Both Anna and Greta were fast asleep, tucked up in a soft lamb's wool blanket with little crochet hats and gloves on to protect them from the cold.

Klara looked over at the fire where she could see the glowing coals from the night before still keeping the worst of the chill from the room. It was pitch black outside but Klara kept a nightlight so she could look after and feed the babies. She checked the clock; it was 5.15am. Another fifteen minutes before the babies would need to be fed again. She looked forward to feeding them so much that she had to stop herself waking them early.

She felt Manfred stir behind her.

"Good morning, darling," he whispered.

She smiled at him and stroked his face. She wished that he could spend more time with her and the twins, but if things went well at Bauer & Bauer for Manfred, it would give the family a fantastic start.

Her husband had been very considerate since the births on Thursday afternoon. She had hardly had to move as he fussed around her, making sure she had plenty to eat and drink or checking to see if she was comfortable. The previous night, he had even made sure that Klara had bread and cheese and an apple sitting ready for her breakfast on the table, covered with a cloth. The time that the four of them had spent together over the past few days had been very special.

He stayed in bed until the twins needed feeding again and then got up and added some kindling and more coal to the fire to warm the room for Klara and the girls. Then he washed, dressed, and had some bread, cheese, and coffee for breakfast. He kissed his wife and babies and, after protracted wishes of good luck, left the apartment for the journey to his new position, as an assistant lawyer in the office of a criminal law firm.

Manfred Meyer's journey to Bauer & Bauer took almost exactly an hour, leaving him thirty minutes early. It was a cold, dry morning, and the darkness was being chased away by the emerging sun, making Berlin look like a watercolour. Meyer attempted to assuage his nervousness by watching people pass by on the busy street.

At 8:15 exactly, the great Black Forest oak double doors that guarded the entrance to Bauer & Bauer were unlocked from the inside by an unseen hand, and one of the doors opened to allow entrance to employees. Within a few moments, men in expensive suits began to disappear into the building.

Meyer waited until 8:20, took a deep breath, and headed in after them, up the marble steps and through the internal glass doors. His hands slid easily over the bannister of the grand staircase as he climbed to the top floor, where the walnut hall and Muller's office was situated.

He expected to have to sit and wait for Muller to arrive as he hadn't seen him pass through the door in front of him. However, the secretary's office door was already open, and he was sitting behind his desk.

Meyer knocked on the door frame and bid him good morning. Muller checked his pocket watch and peered over his glasses at him before smiling.

"Good morning, Herr Meyer. Herr Bauer informs me that you will be working with Herr Deschler as his assistant. I am to take you to his office this morning. If you give me a moment to collect the mail which is to be posted, I will take you down to the first floor."

Muller collected several envelopes from his desk, checking each one in turn, and then instructed Meyer to follow him. As they walked briskly along the walnut hall, Muller gave Meyer a quick history of Deschler's time at the company.

"Herr Deschler started with us in 1920. He had been a practising lawyer for two years before volunteering for the front. He earned an Iron Cross before being badly wounded in the Somme, and then a British shell took his leg at Arras, after which he spent a year in hospital."

Muller stopped at an open office door and took some envelopes from a wire tray before continuing with Deschler's history.

"It took him another two years before Herr Bauer senior brought him into the firm.

"Herr Deschler is an excellent lawyer. He started, as all of our court lawyers do, with a relatively simple defence case, which he won. And then proved himself again and again. You will learn a lot from Herr Deschler. Only Herr Bauer has a successful defence record more impressive than Herr Deschler."

They had stopped outside an office door, and Muller gave a quick two knocks before entering. Inside was an ante-room, slightly smaller than, and not as ornate as Muller's. A young woman sat, working at a typewriter. She looked up and greeted Muller without missing a key. Muller nodded to her and proceeded to knock on what Meyer assumed was Deschler's office door.

A simple "Enter," came from inside.

Muller led Meyer into the office. Kurt Deschler had a glass of water in his right hand and a cigarette in the other. He had been standing, looking out of his window when the two men had entered his room. Meyer spotted a glass bottle, obviously medical in style, on his desk next to a jug of water. A walking stick was leaning against the desk not too far from the reach of the man. Deschler downed his glass of water and then, with a single limp towards his desk, opened a drawer and dropped the bottle out of sight without looking at it.

"Herr Deschler, this is Herr Meyer."

"Ah yes. My new assistant," said Deschler rather dryly as he held out his hand. Meyer stepped forward and shook it.

Deschler was around forty years old and slightly taller than Meyer's one metre seventy. He had a full head of hair which had obviously been jet black when he was younger but now had silver streaks running through it, especially at the temples. He sported a similar style of moustache to Muller's which contained a considerably higher proportion of grey than his head. Glasses sat on a thin nose, behind which an old scar ran over his left eye.

"Please sit down, Herr Meyer." The tone of Deschler's voice barely changed. Muller had already left the office as Meyer sat in a chair at the side of the room.

Deschler took a long drag on his cigarette and then put it out in a crystal ashtray on his desk, carefully folding over the end of the butt to ensure that the glowing tobacco embers were extinguished. The sunlight, now streaming in through the window, caught the long, slow plume of thin smoke that he blew across the room.

"So, Herr Meyer, have you assisted in a court of law before?" The question sounded more like a challenge.

"Yes Herr Deschler, I was an intern for..." but he was not allowed to finish.

"Good. You will know what to expect then," came the interruption, as Deschler reached for his stick, took his coat off the stand and hung it over his arm. "We are in court this morning at eleven am precisely, court number three. The final day of my defence of a Gypsy in a murder trial. I am sure you have read all about it in the papers?"

Meyer had indeed been reading about this case.

"Yes, Herr Deschler. This is the trial of Prala Weide, the suspect in the murder of an elderly couple for the sake of a few Reichsmarks."

"That is correct, Herr Meyer. And do you think he is guilty?" asked Deschler, as he pointed at two briefcases which he obviously meant Meyer to carry.

"I am not sure, Herr Deschler, but I would think that from what I have read, his innocence will be difficult to prove," replied Meyer, as he picked up the cases and began to follow Deschler out of the room. He immediately realised the naivety of his answer when Deschler came to a sudden halt and turned to him.

"The first two lessons you need to learn, Herr Meyer, are these; first of all, unless they wish you to view them otherwise, which is very uncommon, your client is always innocent in your eyes. As you are my assistant, he is also your client. Secondly, and more importantly, you do not need to prove a man's innocence, only his lack of guilt."

Meyer noticed that Deschler's eye, which carried the scar, was twitching. He wondered if this was a nervous twitch brought on by the final day of a trial, or caused by anger over Meyer's schoolboy response.

"Today, I have to secure the doubt about Herr Weide's guilt which I have been attempting to place in the minds of the jurors over the past week," continued Deschler.

"I have to make sure that the doubt I have sewn is enough to overcome human nature's requirement to find a reason for something happening. Each of the jurors we face today wants a guilty man to be provided to them to revenge the murders of that couple. As defence lawyers, this is the most difficult thing we have to overcome; not just to prove the lack of guilt of our client but to not then hand over a further suspect for them to inflict judgement upon. The perfect way to 'prove a man's innocence' is to provide a guilty man in his place."

Deschler turned, and, leaning heavily on his stick, led Meyer out of the office.

Meyer sat beside Deschler in the courtroom. Dark oak panels covered the room like a great wooden jacket, insulating it both from the cold and the sounds of the outside world. The room smelled of polish and reeked of institution and formality. Meyer loved courtrooms. They gave him the same feeling of warmth and contentment afforded by stepping in to a library.

The jury had not yet been led in and Deschler was looking through his notes in silence, formulating the arguments and points which he would be attempting to convince the jury with, as well as the final questions which he would be putting to the witnesses.

A door opened at the side of the courtroom and the jury were led in from an ante-room by a clerk, to take their positions. Deschler lifted his head momentarily from his papers and watched the men arrive and take their seats. His eyes then shifted to Meyer.

"All I require from you today is to pass me any of my papers if I require them. If I need a drink of water, you will pour me one and pass me the glass. Your job today is to make it possible for me to concentrate on this case without my thoughts being interrupted unnecessarily."

Deschler looked back at the jury and studied each face in turn before continuing.

"I will brief you on the papers I will need and what you should be doing while I am either questioning or presenting evidence."

He then started to move the papers around and place them into different piles. Once he was happy with how they were arranged he took off his spectacles and rubbed the scarred eye with a handkerchief. Then he placed a hand flat down on one of the piles of papers.

"You haven't spoken since we arrived. That is a good start," said Deschler. "These papers are notes that I have made which I will occasionally refer to. If I need them I will point to them and you will hand them to me."

Deschler moved his hand and placed it on another set of papers. Meyer noticed that the tip of Deschler's little finger was missing.

"These I may not need; however, they contain the names of all the witnesses as well as the individuals in this case. As I am cross-examining the defendant or making my statements to the court, you will constantly check the list and find the person I am discussing. If I need more information on them I will take this list from you and you will indicate on the page where that person's name and details are."

He now moved his hand to a third pile.

"These are questions I will be asking throughout today. I may ask additional questions. I may ask different questions. But these are the core for today. You will follow these and as they are asked you will indicate on the paper that they have been asked. If I need them I will point to them. You do not need to do anything more and I am sure you have assisted in this manner before."

Meyer was about to reply to Deschler when there was an announcement from the Clerk of the Court that Judge Koehler was entering. Everyone stood until the judge was seated.

Very soon after that, Deschler's client, Prala Weide, was brought into the courtroom by an officer and was taken to the dock, where he was seated. Meyer was familiar with this process, having witnessed it many times as a law student and as an intern, but this was the first time he had been part of the actual performance.

After some shuffling of papers and discussions with the Clerk of the Court and the stenographer, who showed the judge part of the transcript, the Clerk of the Court called for silence and the judge called the court to order.

Deschler pushed himself from his seat and made a short statement to the court regarding the case so far, how he had shown that the accused was innocent and could not have committed the crime, and that he would provide irrefutable proof to that effect. He then sat down again and waited for Prala Weide to be called to the witness box.

Prala Weide looked like a Gypsy. His long nose and swarthy skin was complemented by his greying black shiny hair and drooping moustache. His dark, almost black, eyes were sunk below thick, bushy eyebrows. His clothes were also dark, and slightly grubby in appearance. Although small in stature and with a withered left arm, he was obviously a strong, fit man.

After a few minutes, Prala Weide was called to the witness box, where he was seated and reminded of the fact that he was still sworn in. Deschler pushed himself up on his stick, which he then hung on the table. Meyer set the papers with the questions to one side, picked up the papers with the list of names on them, and waited for Deschler to speak.

"Your Honour, officials of the court, members of the jury, today I will finish my cross-examination of my client and be able to show that not only was he not able to have committed this crime, not only was he not present at the time of the crime, but that only one other person could, would, and did commit these terrible murders at the Färber family home."

Meyer swallowed hard. He felt nervous and excited. Bauer had known what he was doing, having him start his new job on the last day of a murder trial. And with such an orator as Deschler to provide his first real lesson in the dark art of criminal law.

Deschler continued with his opening statement of the day.

"Dieter Färber, the Färbers' youngest son and the only one still living at the same address, returned home to find his father and mother murdered in their living room. The room was in disarray, with ornaments scattered and broken on the floor, including a jar, which normally sat on the mantelpiece and contained a hundred or so Reichsmarks.

"In his state of shock and grief, Dieter Färber quickly checked the rest of the home, which had also been ransacked. On his return to the living room, Herr Färber saw a male Gypsy attempting to leave through the front door. Herr Färber then saw the Gypsy make off in a westerly direction towards the church.

"According to Herr Färber's report to the police, this Gypsy had dark features, wore dark clothing, may have had an earring, and wore a kerchief on his head. A description of a Gypsy which could have been taken from any story book.

"We have already discovered that although Herr Weide was in the area of Herr and Frau Färber's home at the time of the murders, Herr Weide was with another member of the Gypsy community. We have also discovered that Herr Weide was in possession of a large sum of money, from the sale of a horse."

Deschler then paused and pointed to the papers containing the notes he had made from the trial. Meyer quickly picked them up and handed them to Deschler, who then took a few moments to study them before turning to his client.

"Herr Weide, can you remind us of your movements on the day you were arrested?"

Prala Weide cleared his throat and, with a deep voice and thick Romany accent, replied, "In the morning, after leaving the family, I took a cart horse to sell to a family camping in the north of Berlin at Mauerpark. We had agreed to meet at the flour mill in Ritterstrasse. I walked with the horse, not riding, and took him to the flour mill and waited."

"And you were on your own on this journey?" asked Deschler, which Weide confirmed. "Where are you and your family camped, Herr Weide?" he asked.

"Sommerbad Kreuzberg. It is a small, wooded area, but very quiet. And the police leave us alone there as long as we don't stay for too long."

Deschler ran his fingers across his moustache before asking the next question.

"What time did you leave your caravan, Herr Weide?"

"It was four thirty in the afternoon. I am certain of this as I wanted to leave plenty of time to reach the mill, and I also spoke with my wife about my time of return."

"And what time did you meet at the flour mill?"

"We were to meet at five o'clock at the mill. I was there ten minutes early."

"So it took you twenty minutes to walk with a horse about a kilometre? That is a reasonably slow pace."

"I had plenty of time; there was no need to rush the horse. I wanted him to look his best and strongest so I could get the best price."

"Which route did you take Herr Weide? Did you pass Mariannenstrasse?"

Prala Weide shook his head.

"It is nearby but in the wrong direction. It would have added another, maybe, ten minutes to my journey."

"So you took the most direct route to your meeting?"

"Of course. Why would I take a longer one?"

Deschler smiled.

"Why indeed, Herr Weide? The prosecution has already tried to establish that you were in the general area. The fact that you were within ten minutes of Mariannenstrasse means that you were in the locality. Could you be mistaken? Could you have passed Mariannenstrasse?"

Prala Weide shook his head once more.

"No. I am not mistaken. I was not near Mariannenstrasse. There was no reason for me to be there."

Deschler nodded and took the piece of paper he was holding, turned it over and placed it on the table before picking up another from his pile.

"Herr Weide, what was the name of the man you were meeting?" he asked.

"Josef Jauner," replied Weide.

"Were you meeting him alone?"

"Yes."

"And did he buy your horse?"

"Yes. For seven hundred and forty-eight Reichsmarks."

"That is a very precise number."

For the first time Meyer saw Weide smile.

"It was how the negotiations progressed," he replied, with a shrug.

Deschler stroked his moustache before continuing.

"Were you happy with that price, Herr Weide?"

"It was a reasonable price for the horse, yes."

"Remember you are not on trial for illegal horse trading Herr Weide, please be frank with the court about the price you were paid and the quality of the animal."

The smile had left Weide's face now and his deep Romany voice was much quieter as he gave his answer.

"I was very happy with the price. The horse was worth it mind you, but yes, I was very happy with the price."

"Josef Jauner paid you in full? And in cash? No promissory note?"

Weide looked aghast.

"In full. In cash. Nobody Romany does business on a promise!"

Deschler made a mark with a pencil on the paper he was holding before continuing with the questions.

"How long did these negotiations over the price for the horse take?"

"I couldn't be entirely certain but around twenty minutes, including the usual pleasantries."

"Pleasantries?" asked Deschler.

"You know, asking about family health and so on. Passing on stories and news from the road."

Deschler nodded.

"And after Herr Jauner had paid you and bid you farewell, did you go directly home?"

It was Weide's turn to stroke his moustache.

"No, I didn't go home directly. There are a few bars on the route and I thought that I would quench my thirst with a beer or two."

"How many bars did you frequent on your journey home?"

"One."

"Only one, Herr Weide?"

"Yes. Only one."

"And why only one, Herr Weide?"

"I was arrested coming out of the bar next to the mill."

Deschler turned over his paper and placed it face down on the desk.

"Thank you, Herr Weide. No further questions."

Deschler sat down and Judge Koehler asked Fuhrmann, the prosecutor, if he had any further questions.

Fuhrmann stood and ran his fingers through his white hair, while reading notes through spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose. Without looking up from the paper he held, he asked, "Where is this Josef Jauner?"

Weide looked over at Deschler and then back to Fuhrmann.

"I don't know."

Fuhrmann blinked and finally peered over his glasses at Weide.

"The police also do not know where he is. Or where this," Fuhrmann cleared his throat, "horse is."

He was then silent for a few moments before starting his next question.

"I suspect that Josef Jauner does not exist and the money which was found on your person was from several crimes, some of which may not yet have been reported! Is this not the case, Herr Weide?"

Weide looked slightly shaken, before replying that Jauner did exist and that he did sell him a horse.

"No more questions," sneered Fuhrmann as he sat down.

Deschler immediately stood up and indicated that he wished to call his next witness, Dieter Färber, the victim's son, before taking his seat again and turning to Meyer.

"Have you been following the questions?" asked Deschler in a low voice.

Meyer thought that he meant the questions written on the papers he had shown him at the beginning.

"Yes, Herr Deschler, and these have been marked as you requested."

Deschler's eyes narrowed.

"Herr Meyer, if you think I am going to pat you on the back for being able to tick off questions as they have been asked then perhaps you would be better off working in a kitchen."

Meyer felt his face flush.

"Herr Deschler, my apologies. I have misunderstood you."

Deschler rubbed the scar on his eye and Meyer could see a vein in his forehead pulse with his heartbeat.

"Herr Meyer, you may be here as my 'assistant' but I am sure I could have found a prettier assistant if I had requested one directly from Herr Bauer. I don't need you to do these menial tasks such as ticking off lists of questions or pointing out addresses and names of witnesses. It is mildly helpful but not a requirement."

Deschler's voice lowered even further and Meyer strained to hear every word, although the meaning was clear.

"You are here to learn, Herr Meyer. To learn. Anyone can memorise the rules of law. Anyone can ask questions. You might even be able to ask the right questions. But working as a defence lawyer is not about what you ask. It is about how you ask it."

Deschler took a deep breath and looked directly into Meyer's eyes. He must have seen the disappointment that Meyer felt in himself. Deschler was right. It didn't really matter if he managed to keep up with ticking off lists of names and attributed questions. That was a clerk's job, and a stenographer was in the court making a full transcript of everything that was said. Meyer was a lawyer, and he should be learning the techniques, especially from a man such as Deschler.

Deschler's voice softened.

"Ask some questions that you would expect the prosecution to ask but in a way which allows your client to give an answer you would like. I asked Herr Weide several times about his journey that day, finishing with asking him if he was mistaken. Of course he wasn't mistaken and would never admit to being mistaken but this allows the jury to see you as pushing the point to its foremost conclusion. Juries expect lawyers to be confrontational, even with their own clients. You must not be seen to be giving your client an easy time in the witness box. In fact, if you can appear to be harder on your client than the prosecutor, the jury will accept the answers you have provided for them and may take the prosecutor's apparently softer questions as an indication of innocence."

Meyer nodded and managed a small smile. Of course, it seemed so obvious when Deschler pointed it out. It was all technique. Like Bauer being able to take Meyer's train of thought down his own tracks to a dead end, Deschler was showing Meyer how questions were asked. It was as if he was being given the secrets to life itself.

"Did you notice anything about the papers I used during my questioning?" asked Deschler.

Meyer ran through the last few questions in his mind, like the re-running of a cinema film. What did Deschler do when asking the questions? Where were the papers? In his hand. In his left hand. He held them tight in his left hand and looked down at them occasionally. Then they were discarded. Face down. He turned them over at the end of a series of questions and placed them face down on the table.

"You discarded the pages face down on the table when you finished each area of questioning, Herr Deschler."

Deschler leaned closer to Meyer, his eyes betraying a smile that did not sit on his lips.

"Turning over a page and placing it face down puts a full stop on a series of questions. The jury will naturally see that gesture as the end of something. It helps them to understand that you have made your point. That there is nothing else that could possibly be understood from any further questions on that particular subject," explained Deschler in a whisper.

"Use this technique when you can. If you are lucky, and this is luck, the prosecutor may also unconsciously see this as an end to questioning and be unable to formulate any further questions of his own," he continued.

"Unfortunately, in this case, Herr Fuhrmann does not allow such things to trouble him."

The clerk of the court brought Dieter Färber to the witness box and reminded him that he was still under oath.

Deschler stood and smiled at Dieter Färber. This time his eyes showed no smile. The smile that sat on Deschler's face was a lie.

Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

AFTER being photographed and catalogued, Meyer followed Kapo Langer to his hut and stood outside, along with the other men. The Kapo turned and stood with his arms folded, barring the way in through the door.

"This is hut number seventy-two," he said as he pointed to a faded number '7' and an almost imperceptible '2', both painted in what would once have been blood red but was now a rusty brown, flaked and nearly impossible to read.

"This is my hut. It was built for a hundred men. It holds four times that number and is now your home." He turned and pushed open the door, beckoning the men to follow him inside. The air was stifling in the summer heat. The smell of sweat and urine was oppressive and spilled from the wooden building to cover the waiting disinfected men with its putrid stench, making Meyer turn his head to try to get a lungful of cooler air.

He took a deep breath and forced himself inside with the others. Sweat began to form on his forehead immediately, and he let out the spent air from his lungs and tentatively took a short breath. He could taste the filth.

The wooden walls inside the hut had faded to grey, and mould and dirt covered the glass panes that remained in the windows, most of which were boarded up or cracked. The floorboards were filthy with dried mud and dust, and dirt lay in piles against the skirting. The ceiling was the direct underside of the roof and was stained from rainwater; white clouds from salts which had leached from the wood, and with fingers of black mould. Filling the room were stacked sets of wooden bunks. Most were three bunks high but some had four.

Langer held out his arms, and with them outstretched and his index fingers pointing, he slowly turned, as if proud of the dirty, decrepit building.

"This is my hut. Where you sleep and where you will probably die. I will outlive all of you. But, I will try to keep those who help me and, how can I put this, 'work with me', alive as long as possible."

He dropped his arms and looked at the men before him.

"You get up at four am. You go outside no matter the weather and line up. This is for my roll call. Once I have a list of all those present I check the hut for those not there. I mark the sick and the dead.

"You stay standing in line until the SS do their roll call. They have the dead and the sick removed from the hut. We don't see them again. Ever.

"You then get water to drink and are split into working parties by me. You go and do your work and return at a time determined by the guards. You go to the mess hut. Eat, drink. Come back to the hut and sleep.

"Then the same the next day. And the next day. There is no day off. There is no Sabbath."

Langer looked from one face to another. This was a little speech that he liked giving. There was something powerful in telling men that they would live in misery and that this is where they would die. It was the most power he had ever enjoyed.

"You go now to the mess hut and pick up a bowl and a cup. Wait in the queue with these. No cup, no water. No bowl, no food."

One of the other men spoke up.

"Which of these are our bunks?"

Langer's brow deepened and his eyes darkened.

"You call me 'sir' when you speak to me."

The man who had spoken stepped forward, and for a moment Meyer thought that he was going to challenge Langer's authority. But instead he apologised for his disrespect and asked his question once more, this time adding 'sir' to the end of the sentence. This placated the Kapo and he laughed as he answered.

"Where are your bunks?" repeated Langer, and pointed around him, laughing.

"You can sleep where you want but you might need to do a bit of negotiation with the man who feels that you are sleeping in his bunk."

Still laughing, he walked out of the hut in to the relatively cool air outside. "Come with me," he commanded, "I will take you to the mess hut."

His band of new inmates followed him.

"The first of the work parties will be back now. Let them eat first. Then you get your cups, bowls and meal. If I see any of you jumping the queue..." and Langer drew his finger across his throat.

"That is the latrines," said Langer, as they passed a brick building from the days when this had been a Polish barracks. "Working there is a punishment. Being in this camp is a death sentence, but the only thing that will kill you faster than working in the latrines is an SS bullet."

Langer took them across the dusty compound to the location of the mess hut. A line of grey-striped men stood waiting for their food. There was an eagerness behind the sunken eyes and dirty faces as they all stared at the queue in front of them as it slowly moved forward. Those at the front scurried off like rats to corners of the yard to eat their only meal of the day.

The new men were ignored with only a cursory glance as they were led to the back of the queue by Langer, who then walked off to the brick buildings near the entrance gate.

None of the men talked. There was no chatting. No jokes. No laughing. Only the occasional cough or sneeze broke the silence of the men. And forward they slowly but surely moved, one eager step after another as they got one place closer to the front of the queue and food.

Meyer moved forward one step, sometimes two or three steps at a time, until he reached the table with the piles of tin bowls and cups. Each man picked up one each and resumed their slow march to their edible reward for a hard day's work.

Slowly, they shuffled forward and the dust from the camp settled on Meyer's prison uniform. With every speck of grey he lost some colour. He could see it happening before his eyes. He wondered how long before he looked like the rest of the prisoners.

Meyer finally made it to the front of the queue and held out his tin bowl. The prisoner behind the counter poured a ladle full of thin soup into it, and a piece of black bread was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the bowl, splashing some of the soup onto Mayer's wrist. He then copied the man in front and filled his cup from the top of an open water barrel.

Meyer then found a corner to sit in before quenching his thirst with the cool water. He then devoured the thin soup and black bread. It was insubstantial, but he hadn't eaten for so long that to Meyer it tasted like food at the best restaurant in Berlin. It did not take long before it was finished. He looked into his empty bowl and ran his finger around the edge to pick up any of the watery soup which had stuck to the metal. He sucked his finger, enjoying the faint taste of salt and perhaps chicken. He surprised himself, feeling his heart fill with joy as he spotted a reasonable size crumb of black bread which had stuck to the underside of the lip of his bowl.

Once he was certain that every single morsel of food had been consumed, he then made his way to the back of the mess hut and dropped his empty plate and cup into a pile of dirty crockery as he had seen the other prisoners do and started to make his way back to the only place he could imagine going in this hot dismal place, hut seventy-two.

Berlin, 18th November 1929

KURT Deschler took his time before asking Dieter Färber his first question. "Herr Färber, it must have been a terrible shock finding your parents in their home in that manner."

Färber agreed that it had been terrible, and that it was something which would stay with him for the rest of his life. Deschler declared his deepest sympathy for him and continued with his questions.

"You lived with your parents, Herr Färber?"

"Yes."

Deschler frowned and pointed to one of Meyer's piles of papers, which Meyer diligently handed to Deschler.

"But I have it here," said Deschler, pointing to the top paper, "that you were married two and a half years ago. Is this not the case?"

Färber looked confused and, in an embarrassed voice, admitted that he was married but that his wife had left him.

"What is your profession, Herr Färber?"

"I work in the meat factory, bringing in the carcasses from the wagons."

Deschler nodded.

"That would explain your powerful frame, Herr Färber."

"You need to be strong to carry in that meat."

"Your father was also of a strong build, was he not? Being in the same trade," asked Deschler.

"That is correct," replied Färber. "Even though he was twenty years my senior, he was a very fit and strong man."

"So it would have taken a particularly strong man to have been able to..." Deschler made a show of searching for the correct words. "Disable him?"

"Yes, of course."

"Perhaps not someone with a withered arm?"

"We have already heard from you about that dreadful moment in your parents' house, and I do not wish for you to have to relive it, but can you explain to me when you saw the defendant?"

Färber looked up to the vaulted ceiling and closed his eyes in thought.

"It was as I was about to leave the house. He was at the front door, opening it to escape. I tried to shout but I am ashamed to say that nothing came out."

"Did the defendant see you?"

"I don't think so, but he left very quickly."

Deschler pointed to one of Meyer's piles of papers. Meyer handed it over. Deschler picked one paper out and handed the rest back to Meyer.

"I have here the description of the defendant that you gave the police. Let me read this to you. 'A Gypsy with black hair, pulled back into a ponytail. A black moustache, bushy eyebrows above brown eyes, a long nose, pierced ears and swarthy skin. He wore a black leather waistcoat, a patterned kerchief around his neck, a red shirt and black trousers'."

Deschler handed the paper back to Meyer.

"That is a very convincing description of Herr Weide, don't you think, Herr Färber?"

"Yes, it is. It is what I saw."

"But you didn't mention Herr Weide's withered arm."

"I didn't notice it at the time. He was escaping through the door. It was all so fast."

"Can I ask you, how did you know he was a Gypsy?"

Färber looked over at the jury and back to Deschler again.

"Well, I suppose I just guessed. He looked like a Gypsy."

"Yes Herr Färber, your description is an excellent one of a Gypsy. Actually, a very typical description of a very typical Gypsy. How did you know he had a moustache and brown eyes?"

Färber looked puzzled.

"I am sorry, I don't understand what you mean."

Deschler's smile had entirely gone now.

"How did you know what Herr Weide's facial features were when you were not even certain if he had seen you? Herr Weide would have to be facing you for you to have seen the colour of his eyes."

"Perhaps he did see me, it doesn't really matter, does it? He was hurrying to get out of the house," replied Färber.

"Oh yes, Herr Färber. It does matter. In fact, this whole case rests not on whether you saw someone running from your house, but whether they saw you. For you to be able to determine the colour of someone's eyes, or the type of eyebrows, or the length of nose, then that person needs to be facing you, with their eyes open. You said that you were 'unsure' if he had seen you, but to be able to give such a detailed description you must have been staring into each other's faces. Would you not agree, Herr Färber?"

Färber began to stumble over his words as he said that he did not know.

"In fact, Herr Färber, I suggest to you that you did not see Herr Weide in your parents' home. I suggest that there was no break-in on that day. I suggest, Herr Färber, that in fact it was you that required the money from your parents to cover gambling debts. The very same gambling debts which had only recently meant the loss of your home and, subsequently the loss of your wife. You chose a Gypsy to blame this crime on, but unfortunately for you, the police found a man fitting your schoolboy description of one; Herr Weide, thereby requiring a trial and full investigation..."

Fuhrmann the prosecutor jumped to his feet and exclaimed, "Your Honour, Herr Färber is not on trial, he is as much a victim as his poor departed parents."

Deschler continued to talk through the interruption, his voice rising above both Furhmann's and the judge's.

"It would have been much better that this go as an unsolved crime, especially at this time of uncertainty while the police have much more on their plates with communists and fascists fighting in the streets!"

Finally, Judge Koehler's voice rose above the melee.

"Herr Deschler! You will desist! Herr Färber is not on trial; this is conjecture on your part!"

Deschler apologised and sat down, while Judge Koehler indicated to the jury that they should ignore the last few statements from Deschler and asked the stenographer to strike them from the record. But the damage was done. Meyer was in awe of Deschler's ability to manipulate the witness and the jury, twisting the story to fit his needs. He had given the jury everything that he had told Meyer they required, even an alternative suspect.

Once everything had calmed down again in the courtroom, Judge Koehler asked Deschler if he had any more questions. Deschler pushed himself back up on his stick.

"No more questions, your Honour, and no more witnesses. The defence rests."

Fuhrmann did not follow with any questions. Meyer looked over at the prosecution bench to see Fuhrmann sitting back in his chair, flicking through the contents of a cardboard folder. Meyer was sure that Deschler had won the case and had expected to see the prosecutor furious, especially with that final ambush at the very end of the trial, but he seemed serene, possibly even resigned to the loss of the case.

Meyer sat back in his chair as if winded by a blow to the stomach. He turned his head to see Deschler's reaction and was surprised to see calm placidity across his face. Meyer could not understand how Deschler was able to accept the verdict.

The jury had been out for two hours before returning with a majority verdict which found Prala Weide guilty of the murder of Herr and Frau Färber but not guilty of theft. The judge read out the verdict of the jury and then dismissed the court to be reconvened in four weeks' time, at which point he would give sentence.

Prala Weide's face had not changed when the verdict was read out. It was as if he was not in the least surprised to be found guilty. Even with Herr Deschler's defence, which Meyer had thought was masterful, even though Herr Deschler had shown that there was no real evidence against him and had provided the jury with a possible alternative suspect, he did not seem surprised.

"I don't understand," said Meyer, quietly, as the court rose and Judge Koehler left the courtroom.

"What don't you understand?" It was Deschler. Meyer had not realised that he had spoken out loud.

"I thought we were certain of winning," he replied.

Deschler's normally stern look softened. He had noted Meyer's use of the word 'we' when talking about the loss of the case. Not 'you' but 'we'.

"Help me pack up and carry these papers back to the office," said Deschler. "You say you don't understand the verdict? It is quite simple. We didn't have much of a chance of winning this case, right from the beginning."

Meyer started collecting the piles of papers and returning them to their cardboard boxes.

"What do you mean, Herr Deschler? How is it possible that we didn't have a chance from the very beginning?"

"It is very simple, Herr Meyer. Our client is a Gypsy. The victims were from an old Berlin family as, of course, is their son. Our jury is made up of middle class Berliners. Who should they find guilty? Even if they suspect that Dieter Färber may actually have killed his parents, they would never find him guilty if the alternative is a Gypsy. Unfortunately for Prala Weide, he is a ready-made suspect, a ready-made scapegoat."

Meyer piled two boxes on top of one another. "Then what is the point, Herr Deschler? If we can't make a difference to the outcome of a case because of the inherent prejudice of a jury, then why do we even try?"

Deschler placed another box on top of the two that Meyer was already holding. "Because, Herr Meyer, without all of this," he said, gesturing at the courtroom around him. "There would only be the mob. The mob dragging the first person to be accused to the nearest lamp-post and hanging them there, without any recourse, any investigation, or any attempt at justice. In Germany, we don't hang people from lamp posts, we don't arrest and send people to prison without first having evidence and a trial. When that happens in any civilised society, then that society has become corrupt.

"So, Herr Meyer, even with the prejudices of a German jury to contend with, we are in a much fairer society than most. And we do win. This was always going to be a difficult case, but do not lose heart, I have won such cases before and Prala Weide will be able to appeal. He may be going to prison today, but at least he will not be losing his life."

Meyer nodded, but he felt that he had so many questions to ask Deschler, so much to learn about this career that he had chosen. He had not expected to be on the losing side that day, and he was surprised by Deschler's attitude to the loss. For a man whose temper was never far from the surface, Deschler had been incredibly calm at the result.

Meyer followed Deschler out of the courtroom, being careful not to drop or spill the contents of his boxes.

Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

MEYER made his way back to Hut 72 with the others in the evening sunshine. Langer was nowhere to be seen.

As they walked, Meyer tried to take in more of his surroundings. Behind them was the _'Arbeit Macht Frei'_ gate and the buildings used for the processing of the new prisoners, where only a few hours ago he had given up the last of his personal possessions for his striped uniform. Beyond were trees and blue sky.

Across the compound, to the east, Meyer could see the tops of large brick chimneys from some industrial complex which looked to be based within the camp. White smoke bellowed from them, blowing north, creating new clouds in the blue sky. Perhaps this was one of the places where the working parties were sent to each day.

Around him were a mix of wooden huts and brick barracks. The huts wore faded paint like the faded jackets of the inmates, and rust-red numbers identified each building. The long brick buildings had slate roofs, and small windows peppered the walls. Some were attached by adjoining walls, restricting his view and creating courtyards and dead ends. Both types of buildings were drab and gloom-laden, even in the sunshine.

There were very few SS guards to be seen. Most of them were at the processing centre or patrolling the giant perimeter fence, although Meyer saw a group of four entering one of the brick buildings adjacent to Hut 72.

He pulled open the wooden door to his new home and felt the smothering heat of the day and the stench of human life crammed into such a space overwhelm him. Meyer pushed through the heat and stepped back into the hut, walking down to the far end, followed by the rest of the group, who took seats on the empty bunks of the still empty hut.

He turned and surveyed the interior of the building once again. If he was going to be here for any length of time he wanted to pick a spot which would be as safe and as comfortable as possible. If he was still here in the cold of the Polish winter then he needed to stay away from the walls and not be directly under a window. At the same time, the idea of being in the centre of the hut, especially if it was to become, and stay, as crowded as Langer had suggested, made him feel slightly claustrophobic and even more trapped than he already felt. The black mould on the ceiling was emanating from the easterly corner, and the two patches of white where the salts from the wood had been deposited gave Meyer a map of accumulated and sudden water leaks. He checked the bunks under these stains. They looked slightly darker than the rest of the beds. Meyer found a bunk which got light from the window but would not get a direct draught, relatively far away from the darker-coloured bunks and not at the end of the row, and sat down on it.

It wasn't long before the door opened again and thin, weary men began to pour into the hut. There was very little talking from them as they passed up the rows of bunks to their regular resting places. The new inmates stood to one side as these colourless men passed by them without even a glance. Meyer kept his seat.

One of the first men through the door made his way towards Meyer, sat down two bunks away, removed one of his clogs, which Meyer noticed had a cloth sock inserted into it, and rubbed his toes.

As the hum of voices began to build, the man turned to Meyer and said, "You can't sleep in that bunk. The man who sleeps there is a friend of Kapo Langer. Langer will have you killed if you start any trouble with his friends." He then pointed to a dark-coloured broken bunk not too far away.

"That one is empty and probably the only empty bed today. The man who slept in that bunk last night did not wake up this morning."

The hut was now rapidly filling with men. With the exception of Meyer, the new inmates were now all standing against the wall. He wondered how long it would be before they realised that there were not enough beds to go around. Meyer nodded to the man, who was still rubbing his toes and thanked him for the advice before moving down a few spaces to the broken bunk.

The wood on the bed was soft but dry, although a large crack ran the length of the bunk. This would do for the time being; at least he knew he had somewhere to sleep tonight and he could always see if there was a better bed over the next few days.

A few moments later, a man sat down on the bunk next to Meyer. As all the beds were connected together, Meyer felt his arrival as his bed dropped to one side, opening the split down the middle slightly.

At first, Meyer thought that his neighbour was almost indistinguishable from any of the other inmates; he was thin and wore the striped colourless uniform, identical to everyone else's, except for the less faded ones of the newcomers. He was doing what almost every other man was doing, removing his clogs and rubbing his feet.

He turned and stared at Meyer, looking him up and down as he separated every toe and rubbed his fingers over them.

"It is a long walk back from the forest. An even longer walk in wooden clogs," he explained.

Meyer smiled as he realised that his own feet were sitting uncomfortably in wooden clogs. He had an urge to remove his own clogs and rub his feet as well, but he thought that this would have looked ridiculous.

"What work do you do in the forest?" he asked instead.

There was a long pause while the man returned his feet to his clogs before he replied.

"At the moment, we are digging long drainage ditches. I don't know what for, but some think it is for a factory they are going to build. It doesn't really matter, does it?"

Meyer agreed that it didn't matter by nodding. He wanted to start getting as much information about this place as he could, so he could try and find his family. The best way to do that was to make friends with an inmate who had been here for a while.

"Would it be a factory like the one whose chimneys I can see?" he asked, pointing roughly in the chimney's direction. The man's face fell, and his eyes dropped to the floor.

"Has no one told you yet?" he asked, "I thought Kapo Langer would have told you all. He relishes spreading terror."

Meyer had a feeling of foreboding. He shook his head and explained that nothing had been said to them except that they would be working every day and that life would be very hard.

The man held out his hand. "Anton Geller. I was a butcher in Salzburg."

Meyer took the man's hand, noticing the skin was like leather, and replied, "Manfred Meyer. Lawyer in Berlin."

"You need to understand what kind of place this is, Herr Meyer," started Geller.

Meyer interrupted him, "Please. Call me Manfred."

Geller smiled, revealing missing teeth from one side of his mouth. As with most of the prisoners, in their dirty, unshaven, colourless guise, it was difficult to determine how old Anton Geller was, but he looked like he was in his late forties, perhaps even in his fifties. He took a deep breath before continuing.

"Okay, Manfred. I think first of all I should explain that the chimneys you see within the camp are not part of a factory, although, as a lawyer I am sure you could argue that they are part of a factory - a factory of death."

Meyer's brow furrowed. What did he mean by 'a factory of death'? What was that place if not a work camp? Geller continued his explanation.

"They are the chimneys of crematoria."

"Crematoria? But there are four of them!" exclaimed Meyer.

"Yes," agreed Geller, "and they work every day."

"Every day? But how is that possible?"

Geller stared at the floor of the hut.

"It is possible," he whispered.

"What are they burning? Is it bodies from the Eastern Front?" asked Meyer.

"No. You were brought here by train?" Geller phrased it as a question, but he already knew the answer. Everyone arrived by train. Meyer nodded.

"And then they split you up, men from women, old from young."

Again, Meyer nodded.

"They split me up from my wife and children," he said.

Geller rubbed his face with his hands.

"Manfred, how old are your children?"

Meyer felt his skin go cold. What was Geller going to tell him? His stomach ached and he thought he was about to vomit back up the thin gruel from earlier.

"They are thirteen. Twin girls," he replied.

Geller could see the fear in Meyer's eyes and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Were they well? I mean, were they fit? And your wife?"

Meyer felt a bead of cold sweat run down the length of his spine.

"Yes, all of them were very well. They are rarely ill. Anton, please tell me. What is this place?" he pleaded.

"Manfred," replied Geller, pausing to prepare himself for telling Meyer the truth about where he was, what his fate and the fate of his family was. Meyer's eyes pleaded Geller for an answer to his question.

"This is a death camp."

Berlin, 24th December 1929

LAWYERS did not work Christmas Day or Boxing Day in Germany, and the office was open only until lunchtime on Christmas Eve.

Meyer looked forward to his time with his family over the next few days. He would be able to look after Anna and Greta while Klara made preparations for Christmas lunch. But tonight was what he was most looking forward to. For the first time since arriving in Berlin, Manfred and Klara Meyer were going dancing.

A thin layer of snow lay as a sheet across the city, and Meyer could not help himself from scraping some up and forming it into a snowball before realising that he had no-one to throw it at. The cold from the snowball was beginning to penetrate his leather gloves, so he tossed it carefully into a wastepaper bin several metres away, hearing silent applause as it successfully toppled over the edge of the bin to rest amongst the day's discarded items. A woman herding two young boys along the street towards him saw this small triumph and smiled at Meyer, knowingly. Meyer smiled back and wished her a merry Christmas.

Meyer had taken to using the tram each day to get home, but today he wanted to stop by Wertheim department store on Leipziger Platz. He would get the tram home from there.

Meyer could see the sign above the door of the famous store across the street. There were some women looking in the windows, which were full of expensive dresses, hats, and shoes, pointing at the clothes which they were admiring. However, the windows which housed the toys had small crowds of children pressing up against the glass, dreaming of owning the toy trains, wooden boats, and tin soldiers, or the immaculately decorated dolls' house, miniature pram, and rocking horse.

Meyer crossed the road, making his way between the cars and trams. He only just made it across the street when an open-backed truck sped past, spraying the bottom of Meyer's trousers with dirty slush. Meyer cursed and watched as the truck with the red flag of the Communist Party held proudly high by one of the men in the back rounded the corner, heading out of sight. Meyer looked down at his feet and trousers and brushed off what he could from his clothes, realising that it would be easier to clean once it had dried.

His temper didn't last. He shrugged and smiled at the women who had watched him being sprayed by the truck. They laughed when he wished them a merry Christmas and suggested that communists would be missing out on getting Christmas gifts from him this year.

It was warm and friendly inside the department store. Ribbons and pine branches decorated the entrances of each department, and a Christmas tree dominated the elegant atrium, sitting just in front of a statue of Caesar. A huge, sun-faced clock shone down on Meyer from the second floor balcony. It was nearly two o'clock. He wanted to be home by four to give himself time to change before taking Klara out for a meal and dance. First, though, he was going to buy her a Christmas present.

The store was busy. The stock market crash didn't seem to have affected the fortunes of Wertheim's. He made his way through the Christmas shoppers to the mahogany stairs at the rear of the atrium, where a brass-framed board indicated the location of each department. He checked the list and found that the jewellery department was on the first floor. Meyer skipped up the stairs until he was faced with a choice of direction; ahead hung various colourful women's hats, and to the left, past the wood-panelled wall, lay scarves and gloves. He wandered slowly around the side of the atrium until he managed to pick out the glass cases which held the jewellery, near the huge windows on the side of the building.

It took him twenty minutes to find something that he thought would be perfect for Klara and which was in his price range. He asked one of the assistants behind the desk to see the silver oval locket, which hung on a delicate silver chain. A slim, rather stern-looking older woman, the assistant opened the locket with her thin fingers to let Meyer see that there were two holders within, which would be perfect for tiny photographs of Anna and Greta.

"Is this for your wife, sir?" she asked.

"Yes, we have two young twin girls and I am certain she would like something which would remind her of their first Christmas," he replied, taking the necklace in his hands. It was perfect.

"It is made here in Germany, from German silver," the assistant announced proudly.

Meyer wasn't sure if this was a marketing tactic she was employing to encourage him to purchase the item but he liked the simple design, which caught the light and made it sparkle. He nodded, agreed that it was good that the necklace was of German manufacture, and told the assistant that he would take it. Her sternness dissipated immediately.

"What a lovely choice, sir. I am sure your wife will enjoy it for many years to come. Would you like me to wrap this for you?"

"Yes please," said Meyer, "I am sure you will do a much better job than I would be able to."

"Of course, sir," she replied, as she returned the necklace to its box and began to fold brown wrapping paper around the present. As she wrapped, carefully folding the edges of the paper and securing the package with a crimson ribbon, she extolled the qualities of German design.

"The French, of course, think that they are the masters of jewellery design. While the English, well, what can I say..."

Meyer's eye was caught by movement outside the window. It was snowing again, but this time it was large flakes that were gently floating from the sky, frolicking in gusts of gentle wind. It was beautiful, but he hoped it would not last too long or his night of dancing may be jeopardised.

He noticed that the assistant had nearly finished wrapping the box, so he reached into his breast pocket to retrieve his wallet.

"...the quality of the German silver is very high. And we know who made a profit from all of this during the war. Thank you, sir. Please come over to the cash register."

Meyer paid for the necklace and carefully placed the wrapped package into his coat pocket before heading back towards the grand mahogany staircase. He was sure that Klara would love it. It would be the first piece of jewellery he had bought her apart from her wedding ring.

He made his way back through the atrium until he stood at the doorway. He watched as the large flakes meandered through the air to rest gently on the pavement outside. He decided he would be taking Klara dancing that night, even if he had to carry her through the snow. Meyer tightened his scarf, buttoned up his coat, and pulled on his gloves before exiting out into an almost silent street.

Despite the traffic and the people making their way along outside the store, there was very little sound. The snow was muffling everything. The near-silence seemed magical to Meyer.

He checked the road before crossing, not wanting a repeat of his close shave with the communist truck, and headed for the tram stop. As he waited for the next tram, he noticed how the snow seemed to steal the colour from the city, leaving a beautifully accurate pen and ink drawing of the buildings.

It was not long before he was seated on the top deck of a tram slowly making its way across Berlin. He had to wipe the condensation from the windows to see out, although there was not much to see through the heavy snow. He thought about that evening instead.

Meyer and his wife had first met at the Eden dancehall in Leipzig and had continued to meet up there almost every weekend. They had both been surprised by just how much they had in common with each other. They had both grown up in middle-class homes on the outskirts of the city, albeit, almost at opposite sides of Leipzig from each other. As with all German children, their childhoods had been dominated by the war, and both Meyer and Klara had lost their fathers in the trenches, Meyer's father on the western front and Klara's in the east. Both had brothers who had fought in the war. Klara's had only been at the front for a few months before the Armistice.

There had been some resistance to the relationship at first from Klara's mother and her older brother Karl, although this became much less when they found that Manfred Meyer also had a Jewish father. Even though they were not orthodox Jews, Klara's mother wanted her daughter to marry into the faith, saying that was what her father would have wanted, even though Klara could never remember her father being very Jewish at all. It was her mother who took her to the synagogue and Karl who accompanied her to the evening dances, although this was an excuse to allow him to meet friends in the city's beer cellars. This allowed Klara a certain amount of freedom. As long as she didn't leave the dance hall until her brother arrived, she was free to dance with Meyer all evening, every week. After the dance, Meyer would wait with her outside the hall until Karl arrived, when he would dutifully hand her over to her brother's care without even a kiss. Klara always glanced back at the last moment before turning the corner, and Meyer would wink at her which would always make her laugh.

This continued for several months, until one night, when Karl did not turn up to take Klara home. It was mid-summer, and Meyer waited with Klara in the balmy evening, relishing every extra second he got to spend with her as they waited for her usually punctual brother to appear around the corner. Klara began to get worried after only ten minutes since Karl was always on time and was even sometimes early, waiting for her at the bottom of the steps of the hall.

After half an hour, Klara was frantic. Meyer tried to calm her by suggesting all sorts of scenarios where Karl may have been held up, but his powers of persuasion were not yet that of a lawyer. After an hour of waiting, Meyer told Klara that he would need to take her home. He told her that he was sure that Karl was alright but something had stopped him from coming to meet her. It was more likely that her brother was already at home and, if not, if he did come to get her this late from the dance hall, Karl would realise that she would have been taken home by him. Klara agreed, and Meyer had her take him by the arm as they headed for the tram stop.

Klara's mother greeted Klara with surprise and Meyer with suspicion when they arrived at her home. She peppered them with questions. Where was Karl? Why were they so late? Who was this boy bringing her daughter home?

Meyer had assured her that he had only brought her home because Karl had failed to turn up, and they were so late because they had wanted to give Karl a reasonable amount of time to arrive. But as with Klara, Meyer could not persuade her mother that something dreadful had not happened to Karl.

While they waited, Klara's mother had spent the time asking Meyer all about himself and his family. He told her all about his father and his brother being lost in the war and all about his mother and her delicious cakes. Meyer had noticed a spark of hope in her worried eyes as he mentioned his Jewish roots.

It was just as he was being asked about his plans for a career that there was a knock at the door. Klara and her mother had rushed to the door to find Karl outside, covered in blood but not badly hurt. Meyer had helped clean him up as he told them what had happened.

He and his friends had been in a beer cellar that they frequented each week, when some rabble from a Freikorps had come in. Although Karl and his friends had found a corner away from the main bar, one of the Freikorps men had spotted him.

Karl was a handsome young man, very tall, with dark hair and eyes. Along with these features, his olive skin and long nose betrayed his heritage, and insults began to be thrown his way. It didn't matter to them that Karl had fought on the western front and his father had died fighting the Russians, all that mattered was that Karl looked like a Jew. Just as his friends had convinced Karl to leave with them and find another bar, more men arrived, this time from a different Freikorps. Karl was soon forgotten as insults were traded between the two groups of men.

Before long, a fist fight broke out between them. Karl and his friends tried to leave through the brawl but then someone produced a pistol and shots were fired. Karl's friend, Werner, was shot in the arm, but Karl picked him up and, holding his good arm over his shoulder, had managed to get him out of the beer cellar and into a taxi and took him to hospital. This was where he had been and it was Werner's blood that covered him.

However, Meyer had noted that Karl had a scrape on his chin and bruising around his ribs. His knuckles were also swollen on his right hand.

For a few minutes, Meyer had been left alone with Karl. He mentioned, quietly, what he had noticed. Not the sort of marks you would get escaping from a fight, more like ones which one would get from being actively involved in it.

Karl had nodded and asked Meyer not to mention this to either his mother or his sister as he did not want them to worry. It was a few months before Meyer found out what had actually happened that night.

Meyer had bid them all a good night now that everyone was safely home. He was heartily thanked by all of them, especially Karl, for bringing Klara home that evening. After that, Meyer was welcomed with open arms at the Steinmann household.

Meyer's eyes flicked open. He had dozed off. He rubbed the misted window with his hand, making his black leather glove shine with condensation. At first, he thought he had missed his stop, as he didn't recognise the street. Then he saw the fire station and relaxed. There were still a few minutes before he was at his stop.

His hand felt for the present in his pocket. He just wished that he had pictures to put in the locket for her, but no matter, they could get portraits of the babies in the new year.

Meyer carefully made his way down the stairs of the tram, wet from melting snow, and waited for the tram to stop. When it did, he jumped from the tram and started the short walk to his apartment building. The snow was still falling in huge flakes, and he listened to the crump of his feet as he plodded through the snow. The muffled rattle of the tram had gone, and the street was almost soundless except for the call of the newspaper-seller outside his door.

"Chancellor Muller announces budgetary constraints!"

"Merry Christmas, Paul," greeted Meyer to the paper-seller.

"Ah, Herr Meyer, merry Christmas to you."

Meyer took one of his papers and dropped a few coins into the seller's hand.

"More good news?" Meyer joked, as he scanned the front page. "Keep the change Paul."

The newspaper-seller thanked him as Meyer disappeared into his apartment building.

He ran up the steps, pulling his key from his pocket and opened the door to his apartment. It was warm inside, and the smell of baking awakened his hunger. He realised he had not had anything to eat since breakfast.

"Klara?" shouted Meyer.

His wife appeared suddenly from the bedroom, with her finger held against her lips, closing the door behind her.

"Hello, darling, the twins have only just gone to sleep," she whispered, then took his hand and led him through to the livingroom.

"Frau Fischer will be over at six. I'll feed the girls before we go out, and we should be okay for at least three hours." she continued, with a wide smile on her face. "I have looked out a dress for dancing. Where are we going?"

"Ah, well I thought we could go to Clärchens Ballhaus. It is on Auguststrasse and the tram takes us straight to the door. It has great music and a restaurant attached," he replied.

"Manfred, that sounds delightful. I am a bit worried about the snow, though."

"Klara, if I have to carry you there through snowdrifts, I will make sure that we go dancing tonight." Meyer then fished out the box from his pocket.

"I have a Christmas present for you," he said, holding up the wrapped box for her to see.

Klara made an excited gasp. "What is it?"

"You will have to wait until morning, no opening until then!"

"I have something for you, too," she said. Klara then scurried away before returning with an equally beautifully wrapped box.

"You have to wait too," she teased, before her laugh infected them both.

Christmas was an unusual time for Manfred and Klara Meyer. Both were from Jewish backgrounds, but Meyer had celebrated Christmas to a certain degree since neither of his parents were practising Jews and it helped him fit in with his gentile neighbours and school friends. His family decorated their house, had a Christmas tree, and exchanged presents with each other.

Klara, on the other hand, had not celebrated Christmas before. She was from a much stricter Jewish household, and the idea of celebrating a Christian festival was seen as ridiculous, although her father always gave her and her brother a small gift each on Christmas day as a reward for being 'good Jewish children'.

Klara and Manfred shared another belief though. They were both atheists. Klara's scientific background and Meyer's father's belief in socialism had removed any faith in the Jewish, or any other religion. So it was a surprise to Klara when, on their first Christmas since having met, Meyer had bought her a Christmas gift. When she questioned Meyer jokingly on whether he had secretly converted to Catholicism or whether it was a purely capitalist Christmas he celebrated, he gave her a letter to read.

She had opened the envelope, which was dirty from fingerprints and slightly torn at the corner due to the letter inside being taken out so often over the years. There was no stamp, but the franking on the letter showed the Imperial German crown and was dated 1915. The letter inside was addressed to Manfred, who would have been ten years old at the time, and his brother Nils, who would go to France the following year. It read:

' _My dear boys,_

_I have had a letter from Mummy telling me what good boys you have been and what a help you are to both your mother and your grandmother. Thank you very much for your own letters, they are a constant comfort to me and I read them over and over again when I am missing you all._

_Manfred, to answer your question, the food is very nice, lovely black bread and bratwurst with potatoes and gravy. It is always lovely and hot as the weather has been particularly cold recently._

_Nils, it is difficult as a soldier on the front line to determine which way the war is going, but I can tell you that we have been making good advances along the line. If you can, talk to Herr Koch about machine gun training. I think that this would be the best position to try to get when you join next year, but hopefully the war will be well and truly over by then._

_But I am writing to tell you of a wonderful thing which has happened here on the front line. In case you did not know, the Kaiser had Christmas trees sent out to all the troops at the front so we could have a little bit of home comfort._

_We decorated the trees and put them up above the parapet. I fully expected the enemy to shoot them down, but instead, when we sang Christmas songs, they joined in the singing! I could hear them clearly across no-man's-land. It was wonderful. Then some of our boys, who had worked in England as waiters before the war, got up out of the trench and walked over to them, hoping to swap cigarettes and wine for chocolate and whisky._

_When I could hear them talking I couldn't stop myself from laying down my rifle and joining them. I ended up talking to a Scotsman from a place called Glenfinnan. We managed with a little bit of English and a little bit of French to have a great conversation. He also has a wife and two boys at home waiting for him. I also found out that he did not much trust the French or like the English any more than I did! We had a good laugh about that!_

_I even heard a rumour of a football match being played between German and British soldiers further up the line. Can you imagine that boys? Enemies putting down their guns and playing a game instead! But the next morning the big guns started shelling again and the war was resumed._

_The whole experience has heartened my confidence in the human race and shown that the proletariat are capable of working together in peace, as I have always known._

_If Christmas can stop a war, then everyone should celebrate! It was the best Christmas present I could have ever wanted._

_With all of my love,_

_Papa'_

After she had read the letter, Meyer had asked her to open the present. It was a book by Erich Maria Remarque, ' _All quiet on the Western Front_.'

Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

DEATH camp. Meyer tried to take in what Geller was telling him. How could this be? He had heard about the concentration camps. He knew about the deportations to the east and had never believed it was for resettlement. He had always thought that they would be labour camps. In fact, Klara and he had discussed this many times over the years. If you were arresting all of the people from a large ethnic community during a time of war then it made economic sense to put that population to work. Otherwise, not only would they be a drain on resources, but you would be removing a percentage of your skilled workforce from wartime production.

But to kill them? He could never have known. Never have guessed.

Meyer thought back to when he first got off the train. The old people were guided away. It seemed kind at the time. They had been on the train for a very long time and would need to be processed first, fed and given water.

The separation of the men from the women. At the time, Meyer thought it would be temporary. After all, they were in the same camp, which could not be so big that he would not be able to see his wife and girls. He knew that life would be hard in a concentration camp, but he thought that families would be allowed to stay together. Now Geller was telling him that he would never see his wife or children again. He pushed the images of Klara and the girls being led away from his mind.

When Meyer had begged Geller to tell him everything he knew about the camp, so that he might work out where his wife and children were, Geller had explained that there was a women's camp and the children who had not been sent to the gas chambers were allowed to stay with their mothers. He also said that the men and women rarely saw each other. However, depending on the work group Meyer was put into, he might be able to get a message to his wife.

Meyer had had to ask Geller to repeat what he had said about what happened to those who had been selected for extermination, as he could not believe how organised the facilities were for the killing and disposal of such huge numbers of people.

Geller had nodded when Meyer had asked him to tell him again about the selection process and the fate of the prisoners, as determined by which group they belonged to. Geller knew it was difficult to take in, especially if you were German. Meyer had been shocked that such things could be done to anyone, but especially your own countrymen. Anton Geller ran through what he knew of the processes used on those arriving in Auschwitz.

First of all, the prisoners were split into those who would be capable of working and those who would not. The old, the infirm, the sick, and the very young were sent one way. As with the processing that Meyer had experienced, they were stripped and their possessions taken from them before being taken to large chambers which were filled with gas. The bodies were then taken to the crematoria and burned en mass. This work was carried out by the Sonderkommando; prisoners picked to work in the death machine.

Those who were fit enough to work were then split. The women were led off one way, the men the other way. Both groups would be worked until they died. It was all very simple, all very mechanical, all very industrial.

Meyer was exhausted. He wasn't sure what time it was when he curled up on the hard board of the broken bunk, but he felt that his eyes had only just closed when he was being shaken awake. Geller was the one waking him.

"Come on, Manfred, we need to go outside for roll call," he instructed.

Kapo Langer was making his way down the aisles between the bunks, shouting at everyone to get up and get out. He worked his way around to the wall where most of the new arrivals had spent the night, kicking those still on the floor of the hut, forcing them to their feet.

"Get outside and line up with the rest. This is roll call!" he shouted.

Anton Geller took Meyer and guided him out, through the door, into the yard outside, where the dark of the night was being chased away by a slowly emerging summer sun. They lined up with the other men from the hut and waited as the stream of inmates continued to line up in rows behind them.

"Thank you, Anton," said Meyer.

"What for?" came the reply.

"For being kind in this place of unkindness."

Anton Geller put his hand on Meyer's back.

"Manfred, I was brought here in January and have survived the snow and the bitter cold while others died. I have survived the hard labour, the food, and the beatings, and I plan to survive the camp. If you feel the same way then we should survive together."

Langer stood in front of the assembled men with a clipboard and started shouting out names. Beside him stood two men, both of whom carried the green triangle indicating the wearer as a criminal.

"Who are the other two?" asked Meyer in a whisper.

"That is Braun and Klein. They are Langer's muscle," replied Geller. He didn't need to explain any further.

The names came slowly from Langer, with a 'yes' or 'present' coming in reply. Meyer waited for his name and replied with 'present'. Two names shortly after Meyer's did not come back with a reply. Both times Langer shouted the names a bit louder and again when there was no reply. Each time, Langer chatted to Braun and Klein and there was a nodding of heads. At the end of the roll call, Langer and his two deputies returned to the hut.

"They will be checking the hut to see if the two missing men are either dead or ill," explained Geller, "Then they will do the roll call again."

"What if the two missing men are not in the hut?" asked Meyer.

"You know, I have no idea. It has never happened," laughed Geller, "I am not sure it is possible. Langer gets a fresh list of names each morning, with any new inmates included and anyone who has died the previous day removed."

"Has no-one ever escaped from here?" asked Meyer.

"Not from the camp, although I have heard rumours of some people escaping during the confusion at the gas chambers but I am not sure if these stories are true. Some have made it away from the working parties into the forest, but if you are caught, you are shot on sight."

Langer and his two men re-appeared from the hut and the roll call of names started again, this time missing out the names of the two men who had not responded earlier. Once the list of names had been completed successfully, Langer left Braun and Klein in front of the assembled prisoners.

"What happens now?" whispered Meyer.

"Kapo Langer goes to the registration office and hands in his sheet. I suppose that they then take account of any missing prisoners. When he comes back he will be followed by a couple of SS guards. We then wait for the SS officers, the Blockführers, to arrive and we go through the same thing all over again. Until then we just wait here."

The morning was cold but Meyer imagined how cold it must be in the snows of a Polish winter. As he was wondering about preparing himself for the coming winter, a white flake floated past his face. He thought he was imagining things until he saw another. His eyes turned to the sky above him. There were clouds tinged blood red and gold by the rising sun, but these could not be snow clouds, could they? Had all the death and misery of this place created its own weather? That just was not possible. Was it? He turned to Geller.

"Anton, snow in July? Am I imagining things?"

Geller shook his head.

"You are not seeing things Manfred, but it isn't snow," he whispered back.

"What is it?" asked Meyer, as he watched another flake float over the heads of the men in front.

"It's from the crematorium chimneys," came the answer, "The wind has changed and it is blowing the smoke and ash this way."

Meyer swiped away a flake which had landed on his cheek and thought about the crowd of old people that he had watched being taken away, hundreds of them. It was hard to digest the fact that they were now all dead and their remains were being cremated at that very moment. At least they were free from this place of torture. Perhaps it was a blessing that they did not have to suffer this place. How long would they have survived for, anyway?

"I am not a religious man, Anton, but if there is a hell, then we are in it."

After what seemed to Meyer like an hour, two SS Blockführers appeared with clipboards. They were immaculately dressed in field grey uniforms, peaked caps and shining black boots. Kapo Langer approached them and handed over some paperwork, but the two men barely acknowledged his presence and took their time smoking cigarettes until they started the roll call over again. Once again, the two names which had not had a reply were called out and once again at the end of the list of names, the Blockführers and Langer entered the hut.

"Why are they going through this again?" asked Meyer.

"It is the same every day. The Nazis are sticklers for paperwork and if they can repeat an administrative process to create even more paperwork then they will," replied Geller.

The SS officers returned from the hut with Langer limping after them. There was some discussion between him and the officers, and then Langer went back into the hut. Once again, the roll call was made, this time with the two missing prisoners' names left out. This seemed to satisfy the Blockführers, and Braun was despatched with the clipboard to the registration office.

Before long, two inmates with a wheelbarrow appeared and also went into the hut. To Meyer, they looked like the same men he had seen the day before, who had been sent out to pick up the bodies of the two men who had died outside the gates of the camp.

The bodies that belonged to the two missing names were carried out one at a time and placed unceremoniously in the barrow. They had been stripped naked, and Klein had the uniforms hung over his arm and the clogs held against his chest. Klein and the two body removal men left together in the direction of the chimneys.

Langer had reappeared from the hut and, along with the Blockführers, started organising everyone into working parties. Using yet another list of names, he ordered the men to form up in groups.

Meyer hoped that he would be in the same working party as Geller.

"What group are you in?" he whispered.

"Forest group D. We are always the last to be called," Geller replied.

It seemed that everyone from the previous day's working parties were staying together. Langer called out the names of the groups, 'Factory group A' or 'Road group B' and had them move off one group at a time. An SS guard was given a list of the names of those in that group and yet another roll call was made. Only once everyone was accounted for on the list were any new names added. Considering the efforts made to account for everyone during the roll calls, this part of the process seemed a bit ad hoc to Meyer. Langer just called out a few names from a list he had of the new prisoners and they were added to the bottom of the list of the working party. This was repeated with each group until Langer called out, "Forest group D".

Anton Geller made his way, with the last group, to the side of the hut, where the roll call for that group was taken by the guard. Only Meyer and three other men were left. Langer called out their names and indicated that they should join this last group. Meyer's name, along with those of the other new prisoners, was added in pencil to the bottom of the list, and they were ordered to follow the guard in ranks of two.

Meyer fell in beside Geller. He wasn't sure what time they had been sent into the courtyard at, but it had taken around three hours before they had been able to march off after the SS guard. It was a relief to be moving again.

The guard took them to the registration office at the gate and heads were counted by another officer, who then checked his number count against the number of prisoners on the list.

"Where are the new prisoners?" he asked.

Meyer slowly put up his hand, turning to see that the other three men were also holding a hand up. The registration officer then counted the hands and checked that there were four new names in pencil at the bottom of his list. Then he announced, "You are in Forest group D. Your work will be the clearing of woodland. You are guarded at all times. You will be shot if you make any attempt to escape. In any case, there is nowhere for you to go." Then, looking back at his list he waved them away as if swatting a fly.

They had now been joined by more armed SS guards and were led out of the camp towards that day's work.

Meyer thought back over the last twenty-four hours. What had happened on his arrival, the separation from his family, and the truth of what this place actually was from Geller. The family had feared arrest in Berlin but only because they did not want to be relocated to the east; they did not want the danger of the family being split up and feared for the safety of the girls. But they had not known about the existence of death camps or gas chambers or massive crematoriums. Did anyone know the truth of this in Berlin? Did the people know about the lies?

He looked at the sign above the entrance gate as they trudged underneath. 'Work makes you free'. Another lie.

Berlin, 24th December 1929

ANNA and Greta had been fed and set down for the night, with Frau Fischer sitting in front of the fire with her knitting. Before they left, she had made a fuss of Klara, making sure she was warm enough.

The snow had stopped by the time they had left the apartment building. There was a crisp crust to the snow on the pavements, and Meyer had Klara hold his arm to steady her as they walked to the tram stop.

"I have heard that the Bierwurst is excellent in the restaurant next to Clärchens Ballhaus," said Meyer as they stood hand-in-hand at the tram stop, waiting for the Number 7 to Auguststrasse.

"Ah, but will it be as garlicky as the Bierwurst at Eden's dancehall?" replied Klara, with a giggle.

"It didn't matter how garlicky it was when I kissed you, because you ate much more Bierwurst than I did!" teased Meyer.

"It was a particular favourite there. The whole dancehall must have smelled of garlic," she replied, and they both laughed at how the doors of the hall would open at the end of the night, and the dancers and the garlic smell would spill on to the street.

Soon there was the sound of the tram bell and the rattling of the tracks as the Number 7 made its way through the snow-covered streets. Meyer helped Klara aboard, and they took a seat at the back, on the bottom floor.

"It is a pity Karl couldn't make it to Berlin for Christmas," said Klara, "I haven't seen him since we left Leipzig."

"I am sure he is very busy, either with the electric company or busy trying to save us all from ourselves," joked Meyer. Klara smiled but then looked out of the tram window, her gaze miles away, in Leipzig.

It had been on a tram to work in Leipzig that Meyer had met Klara's brother Karl in his working clothes for the first time. He had been an apprentice electrician and wore blue overalls with big leather boots. He carried a box for his lunch and a toolbox.

"Hello, Karl, what are you doing on this tram?" asked Meyer, as he sat down next to him.

"Good morning, Manfred," replied Karl, "I am working on Konigstrasse this week with the company. Is that near your office?"

"Not too far. I can show you what stop to get off at."

Karl thanked him and they sat for a few moments without talking.

"I never really got a chance to thank you properly for looking after Klara that night," said Karl.

Meyer smiled. He had not seen much of Klara since the night Karl had come home late. It had been three weeks before Klara's mother had let either of them out at night. Then Meyer had had legal exams to study for, and, although they missed each other dreadfully, Klara had insisted that he spent the time studying. It was only if he passed these exams that his future as a lawyer would be certain and they could start making plans to be married.

"I wasn't sure what to make of you at first," continued Karl, "with you being a lawyer, I mean."

Meyer raised his eyebrows and was about to ask if Karl had something particular against lawyers, but he did not need to, as Karl continued his explanation.

"It's a very bourgeois occupation. Your aspiration to join the bourgeoisie does not fit your background. Unless you are going to be defending the working man against the threats to his livelihood?"

Meyer stared at Karl Steinmann.

"I wasn't aware that you were a communist, Karl," he said.

Karl became very animated and leaned in closer to Meyer, as if he was about to tell him a great secret.

"It is the only way forward," he said in a whisper. "The workers of Germany must unite and create a socialist state. You have seen the anarchy on the streets with the Freikorps. These are disillusioned workers being caught up in the flames of revolution."

"And were you caught up in these flames the night I took Klara home?"

Karl turned and looked out of the tram window for a long time before answering, so long that Meyer was wondering if he had insulted him in some way and if the conversation was now over.

"You guessed that night that I hadn't been an innocent bystander. But you must promise not to say anything to Klara, she will only worry."

Meyer promised, and Karl began to tell him what had really happened that night.

"I am a member of the Communist Party of Leipzig. We were having a meeting in the beer cellar when those Brownshirt thugs from the National Socialist Party came in. I don't think they knew we were going to be there, it was just coincidence. National Socialist Worker's Party? Their name is a joke. There is not a decent socialist value in any of their policies. All they want to do is create chaos.

"Anyway, there were ten of us sitting in our usual corner. Not all are members; one of us, Uwe Schaefer, is a member of the DDP, or rather, was a member. He is now a paid-up member of the Communist Party. Anyway, if they weren't members, they were sympathisers with socialism.

"As usual, we were debating the state that the Weimar was in and how democracy would flourish under a single party socialist state, rather than drift like a ship with a broken mast as it does at the moment.

"So the Brownshirts arrive and are swanning around the bar as if they own the place. Then, before we know it, they have managed to intimidate the customers from one end of the cellar to move while more of them arrive."

Meyer interrupted Karl by holding up his finger, "Didn't the bar owner do anything?"

"No, the beer was flowing. He would have made a fortune that night. And there you see the problem with capitalism, Manfred. It is a whore and it will get into bed with anyone.

"We were being pretty much ignored by the Brownshirts, so we stayed in our corner and resumed our political chatter. But I kept an eye on what was going on at the other end of the cellar, where all available chairs and tables were being lined up.

"Then, suddenly, there was a roar of cheering and applause and some men came down the steps into the cellar, all smiles. I didn't recognise them, but at first I thought one of them was that little man with the limp, what's his name?"

"Goebbels," said Meyer.

"Yes, Goebbels. He has been elected to the Reichstag now. Can you believe it? He is such an anti-Semite, with a name like 'Goebbels' too? You are not telling me that his family does not have a rich Jewish history?"

Meyer laughed. He liked Karl Steinmann's turn of phrase. Karl reminded him of his own brother, Nils, in the way he could take something serious like the war with France and Britain and manage to make a joke out of it. Perhaps if Nils had survived the war he might have become a politician, although, hopefully, not a communist.

"Anyway, it wasn't Goebbels. The little man was taken to the very back of the cellar by a couple of guys who I assume were bodyguards. Then the political crap started to be spouted.

"We sat in the corner, watching and listening to a never-ending stream of clichés, bombast, and half-truths. Have you heard them, the Nazis?"

Meyer shook his head. He was interested in politics but was not a follower of any party. He managed to follow what was happening in the on-going rounds of elections in the country through reading the newspaper and discussions with the other law students. He had not heard any of the leaders of the parties speak, except, of course, the president, Hindenburg.

"So the little man with the limp finishes his speech with some crap about the Jews profiteering during the war; you know the rubbish that the Freikorps are spouting."

Meyer nodded in agreement. There had been growing anti-Semitism after the war. Not that it had affected Meyer directly, as he didn't really consider himself Jewish but he had seen it, especially when the Freikorps were roaming the streets.

"Werner Beyer stands up and shouts that it was the Kaiser's fault that the Armistice was signed, not the Jews', and especially not the Jews who were fighting in the trenches alongside the Protestants and the Catholics, the communists and the monarchists. And Werner is not even Jewish, or a communist, or a monarchist!

"But this is when all hell broke loose. The Brownshirts didn't like being heckled like that, especially about the Jews. That was when the fight started. The Brownshirt cowards came for us, shouting and calling us Jew-lovers and communists, which to be fair, I certainly was," continued Karl, laughing.

"Anyway, I got my hands on one of them and gave him a good couple of punches to the face. You know, you don't ever forget your military training. I made my way through a couple of the Brownshirts who had probably never worn a military uniform before, and then I saw it. One of these thugs had a pistol and was pulling it from his belt. I tried to get my hands on his wrist but was pulled back. Werner was beside me and he must have also seen it. He was heading for the Brownshirt and managed to wrestle him to the floor, but the gun went off. I saw the spray of blood come from Werner and then saw him roll over, holding his arm.

"It was really strange, there was suddenly no noise and everyone stopped moving. I was lying on the floor and had seen the little man with the limp being ushered towards the cellar stair, but they too had stopped and were staring in my direction. And then the pistol was lying in front of me. I picked it up and was going to empty out the bullets to make it safe, but, and I don't know why, I pointed the gun right at him. He was looking right at me, absolutely terrified! I don't know if I was going to squeeze the trigger or not, but in the end I didn't get the chance."

Meyer was entranced by Karl's story. This was like another world to him. How boring his life was compared to Karl and his friends who were fighting their political enemies for the future of their country. Karl continued his tale.

"I was mobbed by Brownshirts and the pistol was knocked from my hand. I managed to pull myself out of the fight and get a hold of Werner. With the help of someone we didn't know, I managed to get him out of the cellar and into the street. The rest of my friends were soon outside with us, just before the police arrived. God knows what happened down there when they went into the beer cellar. I would have thought that the Brownshirts got a pretty hard time from the police.

"Anyway, I helped Werner into a taxi and we took him to hospital. He was okay, thank goodness. The bullet had passed straight through his arm and the bleeding had all but stopped. It was then that I realised that I was late for Klara and started to head home."

Meyer pointed out that Karl should be getting off at the next stop, and the building he was looking for was right around the corner. Karl thanked him and got his toolbox and lunchbox together, ready to leave the seat.

"Remember," he said, as he got to his feet, "not a word to Klara."

"I promise," replied Meyer.

Klara was smiling again as they got off the tram. There were knots of people around the entrance to Clärchens Ballhaus, groups of friends waiting for others to arrive and swell their numbers and young couples making their way into the building.

Meyer took Klara's hand and guided her towards the steamed-up glass door of Cafe Wien, the restaurant next to the dance hall. Someone from the dance hall or restaurant had cleared the street outside of snow and the hard ice that collects in city streets from the constant pounding of feet.

The air was full of laughter and the aroma of hot gluhwein as Meyer pushed open the cafe door. A bell above the door tinkled but was almost totally drowned out by the voices inside. With his hand still around Klara's arm, Meyer pushed through the crowd and made his way to the bar, where a waiter was pouring another cup of steaming hot gluhwein.

"Good evening, sir," he said over the noise, "Can I help you?"

Meyer shouted back, "We were looking for something to eat before we went next door." Then, looking around, he added, "but I don't think you have any tables."

The waiter smiled, handing the cups of gluhwein over to a waitress.

"We have more tables upstairs, come with me."

Meyer and Klara were taken to a little steep stairway and followed the waiter to the first floor. The sound of the crowd below faded slightly, and they were met by a sight of busy tables and waitresses bustling amongst them, delivering beer, wine, and food.

"Take this table here," suggested the waiter, pulling out a chair for Klara to sit at. Meyer thanked him and helped Klara off with her coat. He hung his over hers on the spare chair at the table. A few moments later, they were greeted by a waitress and handed a menu each. Meyer took the opportunity to order a beer for himself and a glass of gluhwein for Klara.

"What a place," said Klara, when the waitress disappeared to get their drinks, "It is so busy."

"Herr Deschler recommended it to me," said Meyer.

"Herr Deschler? Really? I thought you said he didn't like you," she replied.

"I know. That was what I thought. But then yesterday he asked me what I was doing for Christmas and if I was visiting my family in Leipzig. When I said that we would be spending our Christmas in Berlin and that I was going to take you dancing, he said I should bring you to Clärchens. He said it was very popular and had good bands playing."

Klara looked surprised. Her husband had been sure that Deschler thought of him as a nuisance and that his abilities as a criminal lawyer were subject to conjecture. Furthermore, that perhaps a career as a baker would be more suitable for him. Deschler was particularly scathing of the bakery trade and seemed to attribute an extraordinary amount of negative proceedings to them. Meyer had jokingly promised Klara that he would find out the reason why Deschler hated bakers so much, although he wasn't entirely sure how he would go about this.

The waitress came back with the drinks, and they both ordered the Bierwurst, which came with potatoes covered in a thick, stew-like gravy, and a pot of mustard.

"I didn't realise how hungry I was," exclaimed Klara, giggling as she chewed on a large piece of sausage. Meyer laughed as a blob of mustard dribbled down her chin. She was so beautiful and looked no different from the day he had first seen her at the dance hall in Leipzig.

Meyer had gone to Eden's dancehall with his friend Alex, who had been badgering him as he wanted to see bands playing jazz. Meyer had not been very keen on the idea at first but had been persuaded when Alex said that not only would he pay him in to the dance hall, he would also buy the beer all evening.

They had only been in Eden's for a short while when Meyer had spotted Klara. She was with two friends and was sitting at a table across the dance floor from where he and Alex sat. Her dark hair and shining smile entranced him, and he could not stop himself from looking over at her. A few times, she caught him staring and he quickly looked away. He had not noticed, but he had drained his beer glass while looking over at her.

"You finished already?" asked Alex, in a slightly alarmed voice, "I know I said I would pay for the beer tonight but slow down, I am not made of money."

"Sorry, I didn't really notice," Meyer replied.

"I will get you another one after this tune. What do you think of the music, Manny?"

"Yes, it's good," he replied but his attention was still on the dark eyed girl across the dance floor.

Alex followed Meyer's gaze, saw the dark-haired girl, smiled and shook his head, then turned back to watch the band. Meyer slapped Alex on the arm, held up his empty glass, and peered through it like a telescope.

"I detect a lack of beer in this glass," he said.

"For goodness sake, Manny," replied Alex, "Can't you at least wait until the end of this tune?"

Almost on cue, the music stopped and everyone clapped.

"I don't know if I can wait that long," laughed Meyer.

As Alex headed back to the bar to have the glasses refilled, Meyer tried to keep an eye on the beautiful girl. But she had disappeared. His eyes were still searching the room when Alex returned.

"Manny..." started Alex, but Meyer interrupted him.

"She has gone, Alex. I can't see her. Do you think she has gone home?"

"No Manny, I think she is standing behind you."

Meyer turned to see the dark-haired girl standing behind him, smiling at him. He jumped out of his seat, nearly spilling the beer that Alex had placed before him.

"Manny, this is Klara. Klara, this is Manfred. Manny is one of my oldest friends," Alex said by way of introduction, as Meyer nearly fell over his chair trying to turn and shake Klara's hand, while she giggled. "And Klara is in my chemistry class. She is going to be a pharmacist."

Meyer took Klara's hand and felt himself fall into her eyes. They were so dark that they were almost black, and they shone like jewels. Her wide smile showed snow-white teeth, and she had tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth. She was so beautiful he felt that his breath had been taken from him. Then he heard Alex clear his throat and say his name, and he realised that he had been holding her hand and staring at her without talking.

"I am very pleased to meet you," he finally managed to say.

Klara giggled again and replied that it was also very nice to meet him. Then she made her way back to her friends, while Meyer and Alex took their seats once more.

"You know her!" Meyer exclaimed.

"Yes, like I said, she's in my chemistry class."

"So what did you do? Go over to her and tell her that your friend couldn't stop staring at her?"

"I didn't have to. She came over to me and asked who my handsome friend was that kept staring at her."

Meyer's stomach turned over. "Really?"

"Yes, really. And she also wanted to know when you were going to ask her to dance."

Meyer's stomach did another turn. "I can't dance though."

After eating in Cafe Wien, they made their way into Clärchens Ballhaus. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and jazz. There were pictures of jazz musicians all over the walls, with many of the pictures sporting signatures of their subjects.

Meyer put their jackets and hats into the cloak room before they headed into the main hall. An enormous Christmas tree, sparkling with lights, was in one corner of the hall, while the stage where the next band was setting up was directly opposite.

Meyer took Klara by the hand and wove through the crowd with her, to where most of the tables were situated. He looked around, but there were no free seats available.

"It doesn't matter, Manfred," said Klara, "listen!" Both Meyer and Klara started to laugh.

The band had started to play and it was the tune to which Meyer had first danced with Klara. Manfred led Klara on to the dance floor, and they danced. And danced.

Auschwitz, 25th July 1943

IT took them over an hour of marching before they reached the edge of the forest where they would be working that day, and Meyer's feet hurt in the wooden clogs. The group was ordered through the trees until they reached a clearing where there were stacks of wood of various sizes and the beginnings of ditches dug at one end.

The men were instructed to line up in single file, and one of the guards unlocked and removed a padlock from a wooden crate where tools were stored. They were then handed tools and sent to do various jobs around the clearing. Some had saws for the tree trunks which lay there, some spades for continuing the ditches. Meyer and Geller were given no tools but were told to gather any wood lying on the ground and place it in the various piles according to size. It soon proved to be back-breaking work.

Meyer could only speculate on the uses of the wood which was being collected. The smaller pieces were almost certainly firewood for the stoves on the camp, the larger logs could possibly be for fencing. The very big pieces which were still tree trunks were probably gobbled up in the factories of war back in Germany. But then it occurred to him that crematoriums required fuel to burn. Is this what he was doing? Was he helping find fuel for the disposal of thousands of poor murdered souls?

As he worked, Meyer wondered how many had died here already. Death seemed to stalk each and every prisoner, just waiting for that moment, that illness, that mistake when death could step in and take away their life. How quick and easy it was to die here. And there was no mourning, no tears. It did not matter whether it was those who passed away in their sleep or those who were killed by the violence of the guards, there was no-one there to lament their passing, or to celebrate their life. No rabbi or priest prayed for their departed soul, no lifelong friend said any words. When life left you in this place you were alone. Your name was noted so that the next day, when roll call was taken, it did not appear as if you had escaped. You became a clerical notation. A tick or a cross against your name. Most likely with the date of your departure to keep the records straight. Then you were bundled into a wheelbarrow and your remains burned. There would be no burial or headstone. It was quicker, easier, and more efficient to dispose of your body by cremating it along with hundreds more. And then you were ash. Scattered to the wind through the huge chimneys.

"How long has the camp been open?" Meyer asked Geller.

"Hey! No talking!" came an order from a guard.

Meyer looked up from his bent stance. He felt sick as he saw an SS guard pointing straight at him and quickly returned to picking up the sticks and taking them to the piles in the centre of the clearing.

The forest carried the same strange, loud silence that the camp suffered from. There was very little talking. The guards chatted in between shouts at the prisoners. The prisoners were only allowed to converse when it was required for their work.

The guards permitted occasional stretches by those picking the wood from the clearing floor as they attempted to ease their backs, but anything more than that was met with a shout and sometimes a pointed rifle. There were no breaks or rests allowed, and Meyer wondered how long they could expect anyone to work like this without a respite from the constant bending and carrying.

It was mid-morning when Meyer first heard the distant sound of metal clanging. A shout came from one of the officers that work should stop and all but two of the guards made their way to the dirt track which led to the clearing. From between the branches of the trees, Meyer could see a horse, which was pulling an old wooden cart with an old cast-iron water tank on board, and being led by a soldier. As the horse came to a standstill, the cups and ladles which hung from the tank stopped their mechanical song.

Geller made his way over to Meyer, put his hand on his shoulder and, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, said, "Sit down Manfred. Take this chance to rest while you can."

Meyer and Geller sat on the same cut log and watched as the guards drank from the cups, which had heralded the arrival of the water cart.

"You know, we used to call them 'dead soldiers' when I was in the army," said Geller, before qualifying his statement. "The water tank. On the western front we called them 'dead soldiers' for some reason."

"Do we get to drink?" asked Meyer.

"Yes, but only once they have quenched their thirsts. Then it will be our turn. They sometimes bring bread too, but don't get your hopes up. The SS feel that one meal a day for Jews is enough."

Meyer was thirsty but he had no appetite at all. He felt that his metabolism had slowed right down. He hadn't really felt hunger since he had arrived, and he certainly had not needed to pass a stool. But he was thirsty and could not keep his eyes off of the soldiers drinking deeply from the tin cups.

He wondered about Klara and the girls. Where were they at that moment? Geller had explained that they would be barracked in the women's camp near the crematoria in what was known as Birkenau. The men rarely saw the women, except occasionally, when they passed while being marched to their work details.

"I had been here for only a couple of weeks," Geller had told him. "As we were walking back from digging drainage ditches along the road outside the town, there was a column from the women's camp being taken in the opposite direction. Well, one of the men saw his wife and broke from our party to try to embrace her. You can imagine how the SS dealt with that. It was tragic. He never got to even hold her before they shot him. And then they shot her, too."

Meyer winced as he remembered Geller's story and wondered if he could stop himself from suffering the same fate if he saw his wife or children. Would he be able to stop himself from running to them?

"What work do the women do?" he asked Geller.

"The same as us," he replied, "they don't make any allowances for sex or age."

"I was wondering what my wife was doing just now."

"I often wonder where my wife, Magda is," said Geller, "and my boy Franz. I hope they are safe somewhere. I always imagine them both in a little village somewhere high in the mountains."

It was the first time that Geller had mentioned family. He saw that Meyer was seeking more information from him but did not want to ask too much.

"We were trying to get out of Austria, to Switzerland. We were from Salzburg and had managed to save up quite a bit of money and provisions. We left on the train for Innsbruck, and from there we were going to travel by bus and on foot. There were only the three of us; our parents were no longer with us, so apart from friends we didn't have anyone to leave behind. We only carried one small case. It was big enough for us to look like we were perhaps visiting friends for a weekend but small enough so that it didn't look like we were fleeing the country with all of our belongings, and so arousing any suspicion. Franz had his canvas school bag. We carried our money sewn into our clothes, and I had painted two gold watches that I owned with black lacquer to make them look like cheap models from Romania. I wore one and kept the other in the case. Otherwise, we wore most of our clothes. It was winter, and no-one would question us being all bundled up with jackets and coats.

"Anyway, we made it to Innsbruck took the bus to the border with Liechtenstein. We were planning to cross into Liechtenstein by foot and then, from there, into Switzerland.

"It's funny, you know, you think everyone is watching you. You think that they all know what you are doing and where you are going. I think perhaps this in itself makes you look guilty, and then people really do start to look at you.

"We had a real close shave in Innsbruck as we were getting ready to take the bus. We managed to buy tickets even though our travel permit was only from Salzburg to Innsbruck. Maybe the teller informed the police, as after we got on the bus there were three policemen who came over and were talking to one of the drivers. Just when I thought that they would be getting on the bus to check permits, the air raid sirens sounded. The bus driver started the bus and headed as fast as he could out of the station and away from the centre of town. About ten minutes later, I could hear the explosions behind us. Everything was okay on the bus ride. We even managed to laugh a little.

"Then, maybe it was because we were so close to the border, maybe it was just bad luck, but we had just got off the bus. Magda and Franz had gone to the bathroom when this policeman started to follow me around the bus station. I don't know what had made him suspicious. I don't even know if he had seen us get off the bus. But he was definitely interested in me. I was waiting by a kiosk when he started to approach.

"Magda was just coming out of the bathroom and she saw the policeman heading my way so she hung back and acted as if she was waiting on someone. She managed to catch Franz as he came out too, and she held on to him.

"We only had travel permits for travel to Innsbruck, so when the policeman asked for my papers I made a big show of looking for all of my papers and then 'finding' them one by one. I was hoping that it would take so long that he would forget to ask for my travel permit. It was a forlorn hope though. Of course, when I handed it over, it only said travel from Salzburg to Innsbruck was allowed. I knew that when I showed him it that it was all over for me. But then I thought, there is nothing to say that I am travelling with someone except the suitcase, which had some of my wife's clothes in. My arrest would leave my wife and son free to get away from the bus station and start walking to the border. The only problem was that I had the case at my feet.

"I could see out of the corner of my eye Magda and Franz watching. She was looking at the case and knew that if the policeman noticed it and looked inside then he would also be looking for a woman. She leaned over and said something to Franz, before heading my way with Franz being pulled along behind her.

"The policeman was now telling me that I would have to be put under arrest and all I could see was Magda getting closer. I didn't know what she was going to do but I was certain she was about to make a terrible mistake and have herself and Franz arrested too.

"But then she did the most extraordinary thing. And it showed her to be...I don't know, the strongest out of the both of us. With Franz in tow and not really knowing what was going on, she pushed past the policeman and me, excused herself and then picked up the case, giving Franz an ear-bashing about not leaving it alone in case someone stole it, then smiled and marched off.

"It was the last I saw of them as they rounded the corner out of the station. Magda managed a look back and I could see her face streaked with tears."

Meyer patted Geller on the leg and said that he was sure that they would have made it. Geller wiped his nose on his sleeve and agreed that she would have definitely made it over the border.

Their talk was interrupted by shouts from the guards. They had finished with the water and it was now the prisoners' turn.

As much as Meyer missed his wife, on the march back to the camp in the late afternoon he walked in absolute terror of seeing her. What if he couldn't stop himself from running to her? What if she didn't know the dangers and ran to him? What if his girls ran to him? Would he be able to hide himself from them? Would he want to? He felt a strange feeling of relief as he walked under the gate of lies and back into the death camp.

Berlin, 17th July 1930

MANFRED Meyer sat outside Friedrich Bauer's office in the walnut hall. It seemed like it was such a long time ago when he had last sat here, desperately hoping for a job with the firm. He had only seen Friedrich Bauer in passing three or four times since starting in November of the previous year, but each time, Herr Bauer had nodded and, on one occasion, had asked him how he was getting on, to which Meyer had said that he was doing very well and very much enjoying his work.

This was true, up to a point. He did indeed feel that he was doing well, but Herr Deschler had never told him so. In fact, he often seemed very angry with him, although Meyer could not really fathom why. Yet, Deschler also gave Meyer a great deal of responsibility, especially in the research of documents and background checks on clients and witnesses. This is what Meyer enjoyed the most in his work, although he also itched to be up there in the courtroom running his own defence.

Deschler also had moments of great kindness, which seemed to be entirely uncharacteristic. Only a month ago, Deschler had sent Meyer home for a few days when he found out that Anna and Greta were both ill. And then when he returned, apart from an initial query on his children's well-being, Deschler resumed his impatience and underlying anger with Meyer.

The door to Herr Bauer's office opened, and Herr Muller beckoned him in. He indicated the hidden chair behind the door and asked him to take a seat while he took his own chair behind his desk. Muller resumed the tasks he had been performing before asking Meyer in to the office; signing papers which would then be placed in one tray, stamping others which would be placed in another tray, and occasionally stopping to ponder some secretarial or filing procedure, at which points he would stroke his moustache.

After a short while, the large oak door on the back wall opened and Friedrich Bauer's large frame filled the doorway. He had his broad grin across his face and that twinkle in his eye which Meyer always thought made him look like a mischievous child.

"Come in, Herr Meyer. Have you had breakfast? Would you like a coffee?" he asked, but did not wait for an answer, nodding to Muller who immediately picked up his telephone to ring down to the kitchen. "Come now, sit down."

Meyer was surprised to see that someone else was also in the room as Bauer made his way back to his capacious desk. Bauer continued talking as he took his seat, "I have asked Herr Deschler to join us today. I hope you don't mind, but I thought it was important that we were all aware of what was going on and how things would be progressing, as far as your career is concerned."

"Of course not. Good morning, Herr Deschler," Meyer said as he sat in the empty chair next to Deschler. Deschler nodded and sat with his left hand balanced on his walking stick and a cigarette in his right.

"Herr Meyer, it has been eight months since we were lucky to have you join the company," beamed Bauer.

"Yes, Herr Bauer, eight months to the day."

"I have been discussing your progress with Herr Deschler and, you will be pleased to know, he has been very impressed with your abilities. He feels that you have an excellent memory with an attention to detail which has shown a capacity to extract relevant facts and discard extraneous information. This has aided him considerably with his cases, and in fact, on two occasions you have found a peculiarity which has changed the way he has built his case."

Meyer did not know what to say. He glanced at Deschler, who was taking a long drag on his cigarette, then back to Herr Bauer who had begun a search of his jacket pockets.

"Needless to say, Herr Meyer, that Herr Deschler does not suffer fools gladly. In fact, let me tell you a story, I am sure Herr Deschler will not mind." Then, with a sudden look of satisfaction, he retrieved his pipe tobacco from his inside jacket pocket. Pulling an ashtray towards him, he began the pipe smoker's routine of banging the bowl of the pipe on the hand and blowing and sucking on the stem to ensure a clear draught through the bore, before stuffing a new mass of tobacco into the bowl. He then performed a further search of his desk for some means of lighting his carefully prepared pipe. Deschler fished around in his own pocket and then handed over a box of matches.

"A few years ago," Bauer started, while striking a match and sucking the flame into his pipe, "we had a young man start with us. He was from a very good family and had an impeccable reputation from both his university here in Berlin and his employer where he interned. In fact, upon meeting the young man for the first time, I myself was most impressed by both his demeanour and his intelligence.

"Now, at that time, Herr Deschler did not have an assistant, the previous having decided to continue his career in law with a company which dealt, in the most part, with property purchases. I think it would be fair to say that Herr Deschler was also delighted with the employ of this charming young man."

Deschler shrugged at this comment, but Bauer continued between puffs on his pipe and checks that the tobacco was fully alight.

"So, this young man, let's call him Schmidt, performed the same tasks as you have been performing for Herr Deschler. He assisted him in court, ran background checks on witnesses, and collected statements and the like. You know the kind of thing, probably better than I do. I was planning on asking him to commit to his first case but..."

Bauer was interrupted by a knock on the door, and a young girl carrying a tray of coffee entered. She had a broad face, childlike eyes, and a button nose.

"Ah, Marie, thank you. Just place the tray on the table. We shall help ourselves to the cream and sugar." Marie did as she was asked, giving Bauer an enormous smile, and, without a word left the room.

"Lovely girl," commented Bauer, as he poured a spot of cream into one of the cups and dropped in a lump of sugar. "She had an Italian mother. She's entirely mute and, how can I put this, a bit simple of mind, but very reliable, and really just a wonderful girl."

Deschler and Meyer helped themselves to cups of coffee. Meyer rarely drank coffee as he found it rather bitter but did not wish to offend Bauer, so filled his cup with as much cream as he could and dropped in three of the irregular shaped sugar lumps. Herr Bauer returned to his story.

"Where was I? Ah yes, it was all going very well with our young star until a particular case. Herr Deschler was defending a client, Walter Baumann. A name neither myself or Herr Deschler will ever forget, isn't that right?"

"Walter Baumann," replied Deschler. "A very interesting case indeed."

"Yes, a remarkable case of theft. Herr Baumann was accused of stealing from a bank. Nothing particularly unusual in that, you may think except Herr Baumann worked there as a bank teller.

"Now, you would think that if you were a bank teller and you wished to steal some money from the bank, you would do so with the money which is kept in the drawer at your desk. With transactions happening all day, and every day there would surely be an opportunity that someone with a criminal bent who worked in that environment would spot and digest and mull over until they had formulated a plan for stealing money with a reduced risk of being caught.

"But not our client, Walter. He had come up with a much riskier but essentially more lucrative plan for defrauding his employer.

"At the end of every day, a bank counts the money that it has and compares this to the amount given out and received by customers. So, once a week, the bank manager and Walter arrived early at the bank to open the safe, and several armed guards would either remove an already agreed-upon amount to the central bank, or replace currency when funds dropped below a certain amount due to customer withdrawals.

"Over the period of a week, Walter dealt with customers as he normally did. By all accounts, including Herr Deschler's, he was a quietly polite man, perfectly suited in his role as senior bank clerk. Yet over this week, every time he had a customer deposit cash into their account, or move money from one account to another, Walter made a small adjustment to that total; he added a certain amount to each transaction, marking the correct amount in the customer's book, to his eternal credit, he made sure that none of the customers lost out due to his crime, but having a smaller amount in the banking record. And as he was head bank clerk, he was the one who tallied up the amounts from each desk at the end of the day.

"He also had the responsibility of going to the safe every morning and distributing the regular amount of cash to each of the tellers' desks. For that week, he carefully removed the amount of Reichsmarks which he had fraudulently misrepresented in the banking record the day before. This he put into a safety deposit box which was kept in the safe room next to the bank's main cash safe.

"By the end of the week, on the day before the addition or removal of money from the safe, Walter had managed to increase the amount of funds that the bank was in error of holding by an exact number. One hundred thousand Reichsmarks. And this is where the genius of his plan was. As senior clerk, he also did the weekly tally which he then passed to the bank manager. The bank manager then checked the amount of money in the safe and as long it was within tolerance, then all was well.

"Of course, the removal of the one hundred thousand Reichsmarks had been covered in the discrepancy in the banks records and Walter fully expected the two to tally and the bank manager to put in the regular request for either more cash or to have cash removed."

Bauer drained the last of his coffee from the cup and stared into the glowing bowl of his pipe. "Now, Walter was near retirement and, as we found out later, this was the main reason that he decided to alleviate the bank from some of its money. However, up to that point, he had been a diligent and conscientious servant of the Berlin Bank. No money had ever gone missing and the banking accounts had always been faultlessly accurate.

"Perhaps it was because Walter was so engrossed in his own crime that he had taken his eye off the ball, or perhaps it was just a case of misfortune that such a thing would happen in the same week, but Walter was not the only person stealing from the bank.

"A young teller with a secret mistress who had become pregnant needed some cash to pay for her silence, so, in desperation, he simply took cash from his desk at the end of the day. Walter didn't notice this as he was certain that he was the only person stealing money from the bank and so all of his effort went into covering his own crime, rather than his actual responsibility of detecting any anomalies in the books at the end of the day.

"So this young teller, emboldened by not being caught on the first day, removed yet more cash the next day. And the next. And so on until the end of the week. So that poor Walter, when he handed over the final total which he had doctored by an amount of exactly one hundred thousand, was actually inaccurate by several hundred; the amount that the young teller had stolen.

"When the bank manager came running up the stairs to Walter and declared that there had been money stolen from the bank, Walter made his gravest error; he assumed that for some reason he had been found out and confessed all there and then. In fact, the manager had only discovered the few hundred Reichsmarks that were missing and who knows, if Walter had kept his nerve, perhaps he could have walked away with the money.

"In any event, the police were called and Walter was arrested. His sister asked us to represent him in court and we had advised him to plead guilty and take a reduced sentence. But this is where our bright young star comes in.

"He was a very intelligent and charming young man, but he had a few major flaws. He was greedy and he lived a champagne lifestyle which he could ill-afford. And here was someone he felt he could influence and exploit, since although Walter had confessed to the crime, he had not told anyone how it was carried out or where the money he had stolen was.

"In secret, our young lawyer convinced Walter not to plead guilty, which was against what Herr Deschler had advised, and promised him all sorts when he was released. He also put a huge amount of pressure on Walter to disclose the whereabouts of the money, telling him that if found guilty, giving up such information would mean his sentence would be lessened. Now, Walter may have led a somewhat sheltered life in the bank but he could determine when someone was attempting to relieve him of his ill-gotten gains.

"He gave Schmidt false information on where the money was. Once he had this information, unbeknownst to either Walter or Herr Deschler, Schmidt also began attempting to falsify evidence to have Walter convicted. Our young lawyer did not want to share any of this money with the man who had stolen it.

"Herr Deschler began to become suspicious of this young man's ability to supply evidence, and once he had investigated further and found the full extent of his abuse of his position and attempts to find the location of the money, then the judge was informed and, in a turn of luck for Walter, a mistrial was adjudged and Walter was free to go.

"Perhaps Herr Deshler would like to finish this little tale."

Deschler took a deep drag from cigarette and rubbed the scar on his face. "Walter Baumann shook my hand at the judge's decision and handed me an envelope which he asked me to promise not to open until I returned to the office. He quickly disappeared from the courtroom and that was the last I saw of him.

"Of course, our young lawyer, Schmidt, had not turned up for that day's court appearance, and a warrant was issued for his arrest. He was quite easy to find since, as I had promised Walter Baumann, I read the letter on my return to the office. It described his crime in detail but also that he had told Schmidt that the money was buried in the Friedrichsfelde Central Cemetery. He also explained further in the letter where the money had actually been kept; in the safety deposit box. Additionally, he explained that he had sent someone to remove the money from that location and, by the time I had read the letter, it would be gone.

"The police picked up a filthy and disappointed young lawyer with his career in tatters and nothing to show for his hard night's digging except a handful of old bones."

Bauer puffed on his pipe and, in a great cloud of tobacco smoke, added, "So, since then, Herr Deschler has been very suspicious of any new assistants we have given him, no matter what their pedigree may be. However, it seems that you may have won him over.

"He has also intimated to me that apart from a few errors which will be remedied by experience, you are ready to front your own case."

Meyer's eyes flicked to Deschler and then back to Bauer before he managed to ask, "My own case? You mean run it entirely? And represent a client in court?"

Bauer gave one of his wide, friendly grins. Pipe smoke wreathed his head and a small chortle escaped from his throat. He looked genuinely pleased for Meyer.

"Yes, Herr Meyer. In fact, you will have your own assistant," said Herr Bauer, and indicated with his eyes towards Deschler.

Meyer could hardly believe it. He would be given his first case and Deschler would be his assistant. He wanted to run straight home and tell Klara the great news.

Deschler placed his empty coffee cup on Herr Bauer's desk. "I will find you a suitable case which will be appropriate as your first. It won't be one which would be in danger of overwhelming you or putting a client at risk, but it will be challenging enough to require guidance and assistance from myself."

Herr Bauer stood up, placed his thumb over the bowl of his pipe and, with the tobacco still smoking, slipped it into his pocket. Smiling, he gestured with his hand towards the door.

"Thank you for your time this morning Herr Meyer," he said.

Meyer placed his empty coffee cup on the edge of Bauer's desk and stood to leave. "Thank you, Herr Deschler, Herr Bauer. I won't let either of you down."

Herr Bauer put his great paw on Meyer's shoulder. "Please, er, Manfred isn't it? Call me Friedrich. I think we can heartily greet you into the firm, wouldn't you agree, Kurt?" he asked, looking to Deschler.

Deschler pushed himself up on his stick and gave Meyer a rare smile, while holding out his hand, which Meyer took. It was only then that Meyer noticed the silver pin which Deschler wore on his lapel. It was a small eagle with its wings spread wide.

"Yes, Friedrich. Manfred, welcome to the company."

The men shook hands and, guided by Bauer's hand, Meyer headed for the door. As he left, Meyer realised what had been held in the eagle's claws on Deschler's lapel pin. It was a swastika.

Auschwitz, 30th July 1943

MEYER was woken by banging on the door and pushed himself up from the bunk. The hut was dark, but enough light from the full moon outside flooded into the building through the broken windows that he could see that everyone was asleep except him.

There was another banging on the door. Then he saw Langer in the moonlight, limping towards the doorway. Langer's limp was always worse in the morning. This was the result of a broken ankle from his  
bank-robbing days. He was lucky that he could walk at all, as it was a break which had never healed properly, but then, Langer had never had it set by a doctor.

Meyer saw him open the door and speak to someone outside. Then Langer's hand went out and brought in the person who had been banging on the door. It was Klara.

Meyer couldn't believe his eyes. His breath left him as he watched Langer bring her over to him. Both Langer and Klara were smiling.

Meyer reached out his hands, waiting for her to take them.

Langer was the first to speak.

"Your wife has some wonderful news, Herr Meyer."

Meyer stretched his arms forward. He couldn't wait to hold her in his arms and he felt tears prick his eyes.

Her kind face was an open smile as she started to explain her presence. Her beautiful brown eyes and those lovely creases at the corners from years of laughing and joyful life.

Klara was wearing the blue summer dress with little white flowers that he had given her for her birthday, and he was pleased that she didn't wear the harsh cloth of a prison uniform. Her hair was held in place with her favourite large, black clasp, and around her neck was her silver locket. She even had makeup on. And then he heard her voice. It felt like he had not heard it for years.

"It was a mistake, darling. We shouldn't be here, and we will be leaving in the morning."

Meyer couldn't speak. He was so happy. He couldn't remember the last time that he had felt this happy. Then he managed to get out the words that he longed to say, "I love you, Klara."

Then he asked where the girls were.

"They are already at home with my mother, darling, waiting for us."

Meyer was happy that the girls were not in the camp. They were with Klara's mother. As long as they were safe.

Klara kept smiling and walking towards him. His arms were still outstretched and he tried to reach her, hold her hands, touch her face. But even though she was walking towards him, she wasn't getting any closer.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder. It was Geller. His mouth was moving but no noise was coming out.

There was silence and everything became very slow. Then suddenly there was noise. And cold.

"Manfred!" Geller said, "We have to get up."

Meyer's eyes sprung open, allowing a well of tears to escape down his face.

"Are you alright, Manfred?" asked Geller.

All around them, prisoners were being bustled out of their bunks, while Langer shouted insults as he limped around the hut.

Meyer turned to Geller, the pain and sorrow biting into his soul.

"Anton, I dreamt she was here."

"Who?" asked Geller, pulling on his clogs.

Meyer wiped away the tears from his cheeks, struggling not to allow his face to crumple. The stifled sob forced him to suck in air.

"Klara. I dreamt she was here. Oh God, I love her. Anton, what will I do?"

Geller put his arm around his friend's shoulder and led him out into the cold of the night.

Berlin, 30th July 1930

IT was a relatively simple case of theft. The case has started on the Monday with the preamble from both sides, and then the prosecution had stated their case against the defendant; Meyer's first client, Peter Vogel.

Vogel had been accused of stealing a pocket watch from Kristian Amsel, an official of the Deutsche Reichsbahn-Gesellschaft, the German state railway. The alleged offence took place during the disembarking of passengers on the Munich to Berlin express in the Anhalter Bahnhof on Askanischer Platz.

The prosecution had made their case against Peter Vogel in three main arguments. The first was that Peter Vogel had a criminal record from his youth which had included petty theft amongst some other misdemeanours. The second was the circumstantial evidence of Vogel being in the crowd that left the train and was pushing past Kristian Amsel as he was checking his watch. But the third and most damning of the arguments was the incontrovertible truth that when Vogel was apprehended at the station, in his pocket was part of the watch chain from Amsel's watch.

Meyer had arrived in high spirits each day at the Bauer & Bauer office on Potsdamer Platz as he and Deschler, now working as Meyer's assistant as promised, prepared themselves for his first case. Although Deschler did run some of the checks and background work that an assistant would be expected to do, in fact most of this work was passed to clerks and assistants borrowed from other lawyers. Instead, Deschler helped Meyer formulate the strategies for the defence, guided Meyer through the interview with Peter Vogel, and made sure that the case that the defence would be presenting was as clear as possible to both the lawyers and their client, and was designed in such a way as to be as easy as possible for the jury to understand.

The prosecution had been very clear in their arguments and stated their case as if the verdict was a forgone conclusion. Meyer's usually high spirits had dropped as the prosecution summed up their case against Vogel.

"You don't play cards do you?" Deschler whispered to Meyer.

Meyer thought that Deschler was going to berate him for showing his disappointment in the way the case was going in his facial expression. "No, Herr Deschler."

"I can see you are becoming downhearted. You are familiar with the concept that one person holds a hand of cards which you cannot see and you hold a hand which they cannot see?"

"Of course."

"Then do not forget that as the prosecution lays their cards on the table one by one, we can see in our hand that we have a higher card which will trump theirs. As the defence, we have the added advantage of seeing their cards before they see ours, and, if required, we have a couple of aces hidden up our sleeves."

Meyer forced a smile. He knew that they had built an excellent case for Vogel, and that in all but the very first case where Meyer had been assisting, they had always won. But the Prala Weide case still preyed on Meyer's mind.

Deschler had provided the jury with the best arguments possible in Weide's defence. Meyer had been in awe of the way he had torn the prosecution's arguments apart and dropped in that special trick of his; the alternative suspect. And yet, the jury had still found Weide guilty. Not because of the evidence, in fact they had found him not guilty of theft, which to Meyer's mind should have precluded him from the guilty verdict for murder, but because of who he was. Because he was a Gypsy. Because the Färbers were a respectable middle-class German family. When Meyer had discussed this with Deschler during the preparation for the Vogel case, Deschler had provided Meyer with one of the aces to be kept up his sleeve.

When they arrived on the Wednesday, Meyer's nerves were obvious. Throughout the officiousness of the Clerk of the Court getting the court ready and the arrival of the Judge, Meyer's hands trembled visibly, as he checked his opening statement again and again.

Deschler sat quietly, allowing Meyer to read over his notes and prepare himself for the first time he would need to speak in court. Yet he was concerned about Meyer's apparent anxiety.

The Clerk of the Court announced the start of the defence case and looked towards Meyer. Meyer took a deep breath and readied himself to stand. He feared stumbling as he stood; he thought that he might spill his papers on the floor or be unable to speak once he was standing there. What if he lost his train of thought, what if his mind went entirely blank?

The Clerk of the Court looked over in Meyer's direction and widened his eyes in a motion which unmistakably indicated that he felt that Meyer was taking too long to get to his feet. The judge looked up from the papers on his desk and peered over his pince-nez glasses. For the first time, Meyer felt the eyes of court on him and found the strength to take to his feet.

Deschler thought that he could see the Clerk of the Court join him in breathing a sigh of relief. Deschler watched Meyer stand with the notes to his opening statement in his hand. It seemed an eternity passed as he watched him scan over the papers without saying anything. The silence of the court was oppressive and bore down on Deschler. He was about to lean forward and ask Meyer if he wanted him to make the opening statement when he saw Meyer lick his lips and heard his voice break the silence.

As Meyer and Deschler had already discussed that morning, Meyer opened with a rebuttal of Peter Vogel's early criminal record. This was at a time, he argued, when circumstances had been very different for Herr Vogel than how they stood now. It was a time before the war, when, as a young man, he had made an error of judgement which had attached a label to him for the rest of his life. Who could say that in their youth they had not also made errors of judgement? Whether it was the justice system which had amended Peter Vogel's behaviour, or whether it was the maturity that going to war brings, between that time and now, Peter Vogel had not had any dealings with the police. This was a youthful mistake which had no bearing on the current case at all.

As Meyer laid out this argument, he kept a close watch on the faces of the jurors. He was certain that he could see that this line was making an impression. He was almost certainly sure that he could even see one of the men nodding his head in agreement. Meyer suddenly felt himself fill with self-confidence, and realised that at that particular moment the court was his; everyone would be waiting for his next word, his next sentence, his next argument. And he felt himself relax. His nerves left him and for the first time that day, he felt that he was the one who was controlling this session.

Deschler had asked Meyer to open with the argument against the earlier criminal convictions for three reasons. The first was that this was something that had to be done and removed from the minds of the jurors as quickly as possible. More importantly, Vogel's war record had not been mentioned yet, and this was one of the aces which Deschler had placed up Meyer's sleeve. But most importantly of all, this fairly straightforward and simple argument could be given in the opening statement without intervention by any of the other members of the court and Meyer would be able to gain the confidence he required in speaking on the floor of the court for the first time. Deschler watched anxiously as Meyer spoke, and as the seconds went by and the sentences were communicated, he could feel and hear Meyer's confidence grow. When Meyer had finished his opening statement and called for his first witness, Deschler could hear the voice of a lawyer in the court.

Meyer's first witness was Frau Engel, a plump, middle-aged woman with a ruddy complexion and greying hair scraped back into a bun on the top of her head. Frau Engel took her seat in the witness box and made her oath, before blowing her nose on a cotton handkerchief.

"Frau Engel, I see you have a dreadful case of the cold. I will keep this as short as possible," began Meyer. Frau Engel smiled and finished wiping her nose, which was a painful red around her nostrils.

"Frau Engel, can you tell me, were you on the Munich to Berlin express on the second of May this year?"

"Yes, it was a Friday. I had been in Munich visiting my sister," replied the woman, her voice thick with the cold.

"Can you tell me what time the train arrived at Anhalter Bahnhof?"

"It was sixteen minutes past four exactly when the train pulled into the station," she said, confidently.

"You seem very sure about that, it was several months ago. Can you be certain?"

"Absolutely. The train is supposed to take six hours and forty minutes to make the journey. I checked the time just as we were arriving to ascertain if the estimate had been accurate."

"And had it been, Frau Engel?"

"Yes. As accurate as you would expect. Not that it mattered that much anyway," came the reply.

"And why was that?"

"Well, although the train had left Munich on time and had arrived in Berlin on time, the passengers were not allowed to leave the train straight away. In fact, we all had to sit for a further twenty minutes." Frau Engel's voice was full of the indignity born of being trapped on a train which had been on time.

"Do you know the reason why you were being restricted from leaving the train?"

"It was something to do with the work which was being done on the platform. When we got out, finally, there was a large section which was cordoned off."

"Can you describe the feelings of your fellow passengers as they waited to be let off the train?"

"Well, some seemed to take it very well and sat and read the paper, but most were anxious to get off the train. Some were furious that the doors to the carriages had remained locked."

"And which carriage were you in?"

Frau Engel produced a train ticket from her handbag and held it out for the Clerk of the Court to examine. "It was carriage four, section B," she said confidently.

"This was the same carriage and section as the defendant. Did you notice him during the train journey?" asked Meyer.

"Yes, of course. He sat opposite me in the compartment, although we didn't really talk to each other until we found we were unable to leave the train."

"And once it was indicated that you were able to leave the carriage, since you were sitting near each other, did you leave together?"

"I found myself standing behind Herr Vogel in the corridor, along with the other passengers that were in my compartment, once we were told we could leave."

"And did you stay behind Herr Vogel as you disembarked from the train?"

Frau Engel blew her nose and apologised before confirming that she had been behind him as they left the carriage.

"And did you follow him along the platform away from the train?"

"Yes, I had no choice. We were packed together like cattle. It was outrageous."

Frau Engel was about to start veering off on a rant about the experience, but to Deschler's delight Meyer noticed this and brought her straight back under the control of his questions.

"Frau Engel, can you describe what was happening as you stepped off the carriage please, right at the point of you leaving the train?"

"Well, half of the platform was cordoned off, and there was only enough space for about three people abreast. It was difficult to get off the train, as the passengers from the other carriages were already pushing past ours. Herr Vogel got off the carriage and held the people from the rest of the train back so that I had time to get off. So initially, he was behind me, but in the crush I was held back and he was pushed forward, so I was directly behind him again."

"Directly behind him?"

"Directly."

Meyer used Deschler's technique of turning over a piece of paper to reinforce the finishing of that stage of questioning. He hoped that this would help the jury keep in mind how close Frau Engel had been to Peter Vogel as they exited the train and made their way along the crowded platform.

"Can you describe the way the crowd of passengers were behaving as they left the platform?"

"Everyone was very polite, and thankfully no-one was pushing or attempting to get out faster than anyone else or there may have been a terrible accident. It was awful. People should never be treated this way."

Meyer hemmed Frau Engel back in again. "As you neared the end of the train and the opening out of the platform into the main concourse, did you notice anything or anyone in particular?"

"Yes, I certainly did. One of the guards from the train was watching as we were funnelled like rats along a pipe. I was going to make a complaint to him about the state of the platform and..."

"Frau Engel, where was this guard standing?"

"He was leaning out of the guard's door at the very front of the first carriage, looking across the heads of the passengers. Then, and I mean with great difficulty because of the flow of people, he managed to get down onto the platform."

"Was he being jostled as he was standing there?"

"Absolutely. He had a hold of one of the handles of the carriage with one hand and he was checking his pocket watch with the other." Frau Engel gave her nose another wipe.

Meyer waited as she returned her handkerchief to her handbag.

"Did this guard have the watch in his hand all the time?"

"Well, I couldn't always see him, but it looked like he was checking his watch and then returning it to his pocket only to take it out again a few seconds later."

"And how long do you estimate it took you to travel from your carriage, past the guard, to a more open area?"

Frau Engel thought for a moment. "A good five minutes, maybe slightly longer."

"Did you see anyone bump into this guard?"

Frau Engel let out a small laugh. "Yes, everyone that was next to the carriages did. He was jostled the whole time I was there. I bumped into him myself."

"Did you notice if he had his watch in his hand as you bumped into him?"

"He didn't, but he was checking his inside pocket at that moment. Shortly afterwards I heard a shout, and he pushed through the crowd and called to two policemen on duty there."

"What happened next?"

"He indicated that Herr Vogel should be stopped by the police, which he was, very quickly."

"Was this because they were near to Herr Vogel?"

"No. It was because Herr Vogel stopped walking and waited for them."

Meyer left a long pause after that answer. He wanted it to sink in.

"One final question, Frau Engel. Did you see Peter Vogel steal the guard, Kristian Amsel's, watch?"

Frau Engel cleared her throat and she turned her head to the jury. "No," was her reply.

Auschwitz, 17th August 1943

ALONG with Geller, Meyer stood in line with his tin plate and cup clutched tightly to his body. With the rest of the working party groups which had now returned to the main camp, he waited for the single meal of the day. But the doors to the mess hut remained stubbornly shut.

There was very little noise from the several hundred men who stood waiting. There was no hum of conversation. No laughs from shared jokes.

Meyer turned and looked down the line, which snaked back and around a guard hut and out of sight. At the corner of the hut, a kapo was talking to an inmate, too far for the sound to travel. It struck Meyer that it was like watching an old movie, like the ones he used to see with Klara; there was no sound and very little colour. Auschwitz had drained the colour from the people, the land, and the buildings. Only the distant trees outside the camp shone with colour and life. If he listened carefully enough, Meyer could hear faint birdsong from the distant trees. There was no birdsong in the camp though. No birds ever ventured near to this place of misery.

He loved to watch their tiny black shapes flying in the blue sky. They were free to go where they pleased. There were no borders or fences or cages which could hold them. They gave him hope and reminded him of an earlier life.

The eeriness of the silence which filled the camp was what disturbed Meyer the most. Strangely though, the silence wasn't alone, it had a companion; the Whisper. There was the sound of the guards' work; orders given, their chatting, the sound of their boots. The buildings whispered too. Occasionally though, even the Whisper was suddenly disturbed. Doors slammed, window shutters battered against the walls in the wind. And the wind itself. Sometimes, even the slightest of breezes could be caught in your ear, adding a whistle to a cacophony of silence.

But the inmates made very little sound. With so many people in one place, the noise of them just living should be deafening. But it was as if they were all dead, in a land of the dead. There was very little talk. Very little noise. Almost total silence. Except at night.

That was when the screaming began, shattering the silence of the day.

But now, waiting in line, something else shattered it. Meyer heard a laugh.

Sitting on the ground, with his back leaning against a barrack hut, was a prisoner. He sat with his knees tucked up under his chin, his striped trousers halfway up his calves, revealing emaciated legs. Sores covered his skin, especially around his wrists and where his clogs bit at his ankles.

He was smiling.

It was difficult for Meyer to work out how old the man was. Deeply lined from a vacant smile on a face which held no fat, he could have been twenty years old or he could have been fifty. If the man had been standing, Meyer thought that he might be quite tall, perhaps one metre eighty, but he was folded against the hut wall in such a way that it was difficult to tell.

What was this man doing there? Was there anything Meyer should do? He turned and looked at Anton Geller, the silent question in his eyes.

Geller leaned close to Meyer.

"He has become absent," he said, in a low voice.

"What?" questioned Meyer.

"After a while, with not enough food, with the gruelling work and the fear, it becomes too much for some people. Any hope that they had leaves them and they become absent. Their mind switches off their fear but also switches off their understanding."

The man's arms were hanging loose by his sides, and Meyer could see the tattoo of his prison number on his thin forearm. His tin cup lay nearby, although his bowl was missing, and he gazed into the middle distance with a smile so serene that Meyer almost envied him. He wondered what he was seeing. Maybe his family? Maybe his own childhood. Meyer wondered what memories your mind would give you to shield you from your daily terror.

A guard from the other side of the mess queue spotted the absent man and, pushing past Meyer and Geller as if they were not even there, made his way over to him, the eyes of every prisoner in the line now on his back.

He stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the smiling inmate.

"What are you smiling at, Jew?"

The question broke whatever day-dream filled the man's eyes, and he looked up at the guard. His smile left him and his mouth now hung open.

"Get up and back in line," came the command from the guard.

The lines from the man's face had gone, and he looked like a child. His dark eyes stared uncomprehendingly at the soldier, and a thin line of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth.

"Last chance, Jew. Get up and get back in line," repeated the guard, pointing at the queue of men.

He didn't understand. Meyer was not sure if the man understood German, or if he was Polish or Hungarian or Russian or French, but whatever language he spoke, even if he didn't understand the guard's German language, he should have understood the meaning. But he didn't.

The guard made this meaning clearer when he unhitched his rifle from his shoulder. For a moment, he stood, holding the rifle with his right hand on the bolt action, looking at the prisoner, waiting for a response. But the man just sat, his face blank, not comprehending what was happening.

The guard removed his cap and ran his right hand across his brow, wiping away a thin sheen of sweat which was building from the late afternoon sun. He replaced his cap, and his hand rested once more on the bolt action of the Mauser rifle.

The absent man's attention had drifted, and he was staring ahead once more, a smile beginning to form on his face.

The guard pulled back on the bolt, loading a cartridge into the breach of the gun, then pushed it forward, locking it in place. The mechanical noise brought the absent man's head around again to look up at the guard.

Meyer watched as the guard lifted the rifle to sit against his shoulder, with his right eye looking down the sights of the gun, directly into the absent man's gaze.

For a moment, Meyer thought that the guard wouldn't shoot him like that. He must be looking directly into the dark eyes of a lost child. He must see that there was nothing there to hate.

The absent man smiled again, but this time he was smiling at the guard. It was a beautiful, kind smile. The smile a boy would have, unable to contain his love for a parent. Is that what he could see? Could he see his father? Or did he see the guard and smile purely because he recognised him?

Meyer thought that the guard was going to lower his rifle. That he would walk away from this kind, helpless, lost soul. Who could kill a smiling child who showed such love? Surely he couldn't pull the trigger; he would lower his rifle and help the man to his feet. That was all that he needed to do. Let someone else deal with the absent man and come back and guard the mess hut queue.

And for a moment Meyer thought he wouldn't shoot him. He thought he wouldn't kill him like that.

He noticed a sparkle in the absent man's eye. Was that a tear?

Then the gunshot filled the silence.

Berlin, 30th July 1930

KRISTIAN Amsel sat in the witness box, wearing the uniform of the Deutsche Reichsbahn-Gesellschaft. The blue peaked cap sat perfectly straight on his head, and the matching double-breasted jacket had its twin lines of brass buttons polished. Amsel was a stocky man with a thick, dark grey moustache which sat proudly across his top lip and pince-nez glasses perched half way down the bridge of his nose.

Deschler had warned Meyer that Amsel may be a difficult character to deal with. He would be immediately hostile to the questioning and defensive to any suggestion that Peter Vogel was not guilty of stealing his watch.

"You will need to approach the questioning of Kristian Amsel from a different perspective," said Deschler, as Meyer checked through the notes he would be following.

"In what way, Herr Deschler? I have to get Amsel to admit that he didn't see Peter Vogel take his watch or even notice that it was gone until Herr Vogel was past him."

"Herr Meyer, you have managed to paint a perfect picture of the situation at the train station with your questioning of Frau Engel. You don't need to push this point again until the end of your cross-examination. Treat Amsel as if he was your witness to the events, not as if he was the victim of theft, then, as you come to your conclusion, you need to turn your questioning around."

Meyer's eyes betrayed his misgivings about the way he would be able to change direction on the questions.

"Do you know where the word 'orientation' originates?" asked Deschler. Meyer shook his head.

"Maps used to be drawn with east to the top rather than north. North was to the left, west to the bottom, and south to the right. But east was at the top. The orient was the most important direction, and you would 'orientate' the map so that east sat at the top. Then at some point this was suddenly changed and north became the dominant compass point and was drawn at the top of the maps. Everything changed in the way people saw the world, and yet, they still use the word orientation to mean aligning something.

"This is how you must approach this cross-examination. You question him in the same manner as you did Frau Engel. You must try to get him to forget that you are the defendant's lawyer. Then, near the end, you change the direction of your questioning. Bring out your ace, his war record, and then hit him with our trump card, the reason the watch chain was in Vogel's pocket. He will still be seeing east at the top of the map but we will have changed everyone's direction to see north instead. When he walks away from the witness stand today he should still be thinking of you as a friendly young man. He won't realise what has happened until he has left the courtroom."

A small laugh escaped Meyer's lips. "You have a great deal of faith in my abilities, Herr Deschler."

"And so should you," replied Deschler.

Meyer smiled at Kristian Amsel. It was a smile that he had learned from Deschler and had practised at home in front of the mirror, much to Klara's amusement. It was a direct copy of Deschler's smile of lies.

"Thank you, Herr Amsel, for returning to the stand. I am only going to ask you a few questions to clear up some of the finer details about this case. I know you are a very busy man and can see from your uniform that you are very proud of your position as an inspector with Deutsche  
Reichsbahn-Gesellschaft."

Amsel returned an uncertain smile and nodded in approval of Meyer's summation of his position. Amsel was certain that there could only be one verdict; after all, the thief had been found with the chain from his watch in his pocket. The lawyer's client would have protested his innocence and despite his lawyer's advice to plead guilty, he would have refused. Typical of that type.

"Herr Amsel, we have heard from others about the state of the platform as the train arrived in the station. Can you give us a brief account of what you found once the train had come to a stop and your professional opinion on this situation?"

Amsel relaxed. The thief's lawyer and he were not that different. Both were professional men and had jobs to carry out. This young man could see it and he was sure that the jury would too.

"Yes of course," started Amsel. "As the train approached I could see that the platform we had been allocated was half in length to what I was expecting due to works which were being carried out."

"This was unexpected?"

"Yes, very much so. An outrageous turn of events. To have a  
fully-laden train arrive at a platform which was unsuitable, I have never known such a thing."

"Not even during the war?" asked Meyer.

"The war?" Amsel stumbled over his words.

"Yes, Herr Amsel. I have it here that you won the Iron Cross First Class. I assume that this was while working on the railway at the front?" replied Meyer, looking down at the piece of paper in his hand. Amsel sat in silence, slowly shaking his head. Meyer looked confused and picked up another piece of paper from his desk and smiled.

"My apologies, Herr Amsel. I was looking at Peter Vogel's war record. I seem to have misplaced yours. Were you with the railway during the war?"

Deschler hid a smile behind his hand. He was impressed with Meyer. He had managed to do what he had asked him to. Amsel's war record would prejudice the jury against him and Meyer had introduced it in such a way as to make it look like an error on his behalf.

Amsel visibly swallowed. "No, I was in the navy."

"Ah yes, Herr Amsel, I remember my notes now. You are from  
Alsace-Lorraine and, because of the French influence there, the Kaiser sent Alsatians either to the eastern front or to the navy. You must have been involved in the Battle of Jutland when we gave the Royal Navy a bloody nose?"

Once more, Amsel shook his head slowly. "No, I..." he trailed off before quickly stating, "Times were different then, the war was already lost and the Kaiser..."

Meyer interrupted. "You mean the mutiny, Herr Amsel? My apologies again, I was not aware that you were involved." Then, before Amsel could say anything further, Meyer continued with another question.

"Herr Amsel, once the train had come to a stop and you realised that the platform was blocked can you tell me, as the most senior member of staff aboard that train, what your actions were?"

Amsel felt relief that the questions had shifted back to the issue at hand. This young lawyer had made a mistake and had done everything he could to reverse it and stop any further embarrassment for him. He did indeed see a fellow professional sitting in front of him. Amsel sat up straighter in his seat and started his explanation of the various steps he had taken to keep his passengers safe and ensure that the train's next departure happened on time.

"First of all, I inspected the works on the platform, which were cordoned off all the way up to the doors of the train. This, of course, was unacceptable, and I fetched the station master. Together, we moved the cordon so that a reasonable amount of space was available for the passengers to safely disembark from the train."

"Can you tell me how long this took?"

"It was twenty-two minutes before we could allow the doors to be opened," replied Amsel.

"That is very precise, Herr Amsel. Did you keep a check on the time with your now-missing watch?" asked Meyer, carefully making sure he did not use the word stolen.

"Yes, that is correct."

"Once the doors were opened and the passengers left the train, how would you describe their behaviour?"

"Most left the train and made their way along the platform in an orderly manner. However, there were some who were pushing through. Typical, of course. There are always some who think that they are more important than others and everyone should get out of the way for them."

"And can you tell the court where you positioned yourself to oversee the disembarkation of the passengers?" asked Meyer, allowing Amsel to champion his standing in his capacity as inspector.

"Yes, I stood at the far end of the train on the footplate of the end carriage. From there I could see the passengers as they left the train. Safety, in my mind, is paramount, and I wanted to be able to spot any difficulties as soon as they occurred."

"That is very commendable, Herr Amsel. And was the train due to leave again for a further destination?"

"Yes, the train continues on from Berlin to Hamburg, although the back three carriages are attached to the Dresden train and head south," replied Amsel, confidently.

"You had already spent over twenty minutes clearing the platform for the passengers, and it must have taken longer than usual for them to leave the train. Was the train running short of time? Was it going to be late in leaving?"

"I was confident that the train would leave on time. Trains under my authority never run late."

"But the train was late in leaving that day, Herr Amsel."

"Ah, but that was because of the watch..." Amsel was interrupted by Meyer, carefully trying to keep the word 'crime' or 'theft' from being spoken.

"You kept an eye on your watch of course, to attempt to keep the train's departure on time?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you were on the footplate of the carriage the whole time?"

"No. I stepped off when I could see the last of the passengers leaving the carriages."

Meyer nodded and flicked through his papers. "You must have been in the direct path of those passengers still walking along the platform."

"Well, yes. But I kept my hand against the train to keep me steady."

"You were facing up the train?" Amsel nodded. "So that would have been your right hand?"

"Yes, I suppose it was."

"Are you left-handed, Herr Amsel?"

"No, I am right-handed."

"So you keep your pocket watch in your right-hand waistcoat pocket?"

"Yes, that is correct."

Meyer paused. He wanted the jury to take this information all in. It was going to be the crux of his case.

"So, Herr Amsel, you wear your pocket watch in the right-hand pocket of your waistcoat, which is connected by its chain through a buttonhole, and the fob sits in your left-hand pocket?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And this is under your blue uniform jacket?"

"Yes, of course."

"I am sorry Herr Amsel, I am trying to understand how, if you are  
right-handed but you were steadying yourself against the carriage with that hand, how you managed to use your watch?"

"Well, I can quite easily reach my right-hand pocket with my left hand," replied Amsel, smiling.

"Yes, I do understand that, but you would need to keep your jacket unbuttoned and tucked around your side so you could retrieve your watch, is this not the case?"

"Yes, that is exactly how I did it."

"And you were steadying yourself against the train because...?"

"As the passengers were passing me I was being buffeted to a certain extent."

"You were being inadvertently pushed by passengers as they passed you, so you had to steady yourself against the train with your right hand, only leaving your left hand free to use your watch, but you had to keep your uniform jacket open to access your watch?"

"That is correct."

"Did you have your watch in your hand the whole time?"

"No, of course not."

"So you would check your watch and then return it to your pocket?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember seeing Herr Vogel in the crowd that was passing?"

"No, but..."

Again, Meyer cut him off.

"That is okay, Herr Amsel, we have had an excellent witness statement which places Herr Vogel right next to you on the platform."

Amsel smiled. He had been beginning to wonder if this lawyer had forgotten that they shared a professionalism. Now, even though at the time he had not noticed the thief, this lawyer had put him right next to him.

"That witness has also confirmed the police report on what Herr Vogel was wearing that day. It had been cold that morning and Herr Vogel had chosen to wear his service greatcoat," explained Meyer. Then he turned to the jury, while keeping his eyes on Amsel. "This greatcoat is of a  
double-breasted style and sports large brass buttons in a twin line down the front. Frau Engel explained that Herr Vogel had to push past Herr Amsel, who was standing next to the train carriage with his jacket open, revealing his waistcoat and leaving his watch chain clearly on display."

Meyer then asked the judge if he may approach the bench.

"I would like to demonstrate something to the court, which will require the aid of my assistant, Herr Deschler."

The judge took a moment and then agreed, warning Meyer that any prolonged theatrics would be frowned upon. Meyer assured him that it would only take a moment but would demonstrate to the court what he believed had taken place that day.

Meyer hurriedly pulled on an old German Imperial Army greatcoat, while Deschler pushed himself up on his stick, limped over, and stood in front of the jury bench. He pulled his jacket to one side, revealing the chain of a pocket watch strung through his waistcoat buttonhole.

"If it would please the court, I would like to demonstrate what happened at the moment Herr Vogel passed Herr Amsel," announced Meyer. Meyer slowly walked towards Deschler, who had removed his watch from his right-hand pocket with his left hand.

"Herr Vogel was pushed along with the crowd towards Herr Amsel. Directly behind Herr Vogel was Frau Engel. She states that the closer the crowd got to the end of the platform, the closer the crush became."

Meyer stood directly in front of Deschler, who had replaced the watch in his pocket. He gave the jury a second to take in and understand what he had shown them so far before explaining further.

"Herr Vogel was pushed up against Herr Amsel, and to get past him, he turned."

Meyer stepped right up to Deschler, so that his greatcoat and the waistcoat met, and then turned on his axis. He looked down between the two items of clothing.

"As you can see, the buttons on my greatcoat have now caught the watch chain."

The members of the jury peered between the two lawyers, and once  
the majority of them had nodded and sat down again, Meyer continued the demonstration.

"When Herr Vogel turned, if you would care to observe, the watch chain was pulled by the coat button, which in turn pulled the watch from the pocket."

Meyer turned round further. The men on the jury peered carefully at the watch chain as it was pulled by the coat button and, as Meyer had stated, pulled the watch from the pocket.

"Now, I would like the members of the jury to be extra vigilant while I recreate the final move which Herr Vogel was forced to take with the sheer weight of the crowd behind him." The jury visibly sat forward, and some stood up to follow Meyer's instruction.

"Herr Vogel, with Frau Engel behind him, was forced past Herr Amsel. This broke the watch chain and, if you witness what happens when the watch chain pulls the watch up to the buttonhole..." Meyer left the sentence unfinished. He pushed all the way past Deschler, the chain pulling the watch against the buttonhole until the chain snapped and the watch fell to the floor.

"I suspect that Herr Amsel's watch fell onto the platform and then may have rolled onto the track, or was perhaps picked up by someone else, not stolen by Herr Vogel," explained Meyer.

"But the chain, it was found in his pocket!" declared Amsel from the witness stand.

"Herr Amsel, please, I will not tolerate any outbursts in this court," reprimanded the judge.

Meyer had not finished. He still had the final explanation of how the chain arrived in Vogel's pocket. Either it would work or it would fail. Either the jury would believe it, or it would seem too unbelievable. It was a chance that he and Deschler had discussed, and it was a chance that they had decided they would have to take. After all, the only other explanation was that Vogel had stolen or attempted to steal Amsel's watch.

Meyer and Deschler had not moved since the demonstration of how the watch was pulled from Amsel's waistcoat. Now, Meyer slowly walked away from Deschler, causing the chain and the fob to be pulled from the pocket to hang on the button.

"Herr Amsel is correct. How did the watch chain end up in Herr Vogel's pocket? As Herr Vogel pushed past Herr Amsel and the watch chain was broken, the majority of the chain was hooked around the button on the coat. As he walked away, the full chain, including the fob, went with Herr Vogel. Now, on these army greatcoats you can see that there is a deep seam around the cuff, to give it a turned over appearance. Herr Vogel had his arm held at chest height above this button to buffer himself against the man in front, and when he passed Herr Amsel and was out into a relatively open space he brought this arm down and..." Once again, Meyer stopped the explanation and focussed the jury on the demonstration. Meyer moved his arm down, catching the fob on the cuff seam and placed his hand in his pocket.

The chain slipped into his pocket like quicksilver.

It took the jury less than thirty minutes to return their verdict; not guilty.

Auschwitz, 29th October 1943

THERE were new arrivals at the camp almost every day. Sometimes there would be a number of them allocated to Hut 72. They would be sitting against the wall of the hut, or on the wooden bunks as Meyer and the others arrived back from eating their thin soup and black bread after their day in the work group.

Occasionally, scuffles would break out between those who had just arrived and had claimed someone's bunk and the original occupant, but more often than not the new arrivals were so shocked by their experience that they sat dumbly on the floor.

Meyer wanted to help them, warn them about what this place was. But he knew it would not be long before they knew the truth, if they did not know already. He wanted to tell them not to worry about not having a bunk, there would be some free by tomorrow morning. He wanted to tell them about the hunger that they would feel and how it would subside. He wanted to tell them about the tiredness and the fear and how these were the enemies here, not the men wearing the death's-head insignia. But he did not tell them any of these things. He did not want to share what humanity and feelings and love he had any further than they were already stretched, as if by giving his care and attention to them as they sat there bewildered these things would be stretched to breaking point, until the inevitable happened and they died, and his love would snap like an elastic band.

Meyer walked past the newcomers and sat on his bunk. He had a middle bunk in a stack of three. The cracked wood of the bed acted like a spring, and Meyer kept that extra comfort of his bed secret, even from Geller.

He removed his clogs and rubbed his feet. This was a ritual which many of those in work groups who had to march long distances each day performed. He had noticed it in others on his very first evening in the camp, and by the next day he was doing exactly the same.

The man who slept on the opposite side of Meyer from Geller was a German Jew from Hamburg, Jan Sollner, a piano teacher by trade; his long, thin fingers struggled with the long hard work in the forest. His musician's body struggled to cope with the daily toil they all faced. When Meyer had first arrived, he had noticed Sollner had a cough which bothered him. Now though, it barely stopped. Sollner was often bent double, coughing up phlegm, and yesterday he had started to cough up blood.

Sollner lay on his side, facing Meyer. His lips were blue and his eyes were closed tight as another wave of coughing engulfed him. Once it had passed, he opened his eyes again.

"I am sorry, Manfred. I must keep you awake at night," he croaked.

Meyer smiled kindly at him. "You are joking with me, Jan," he said. "Your coughing is nothing to the screaming and shouting that goes on through the night in here. Anyway, you know me, as soon as I close my eyes, I am out for the count."

Sollner started to laugh, but this was commandeered by a coughing fit. He turned away from Meyer to save him from yet another bout of barked coughs. As he turned, Meyer noticed a thin line of blood running from Sollner's mouth.

"It's the stomach that hurts the most, Manfred," said Sollner when it had subsided. "The stomach muscles hurt so much from all of the coughing. I am sorry."

"Hey Jan, I told you. Don't be silly. You have nothing to be sorry about," replied Meyer.

"I have tried everything, you know. To try and stop it. I have tried coughing in musical time. I thought if I could master the timing of the coughs, I could control them and get them to stop."

Meyer laid a hand on Sollner's back as he began another fit of wheezing coughs. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, but Sollner shook his head through the coughing.

Meyer lay back on his bunk, beaten from the day's work. He turned to see Geller watching Sollner. His face betrayed his concern for the piano teacher. Meyer bid Geller and Sollner good night and felt his eyelids drooping, heavy with the day's drudgery.

Unusually, Meyer woke in the middle of the night. The air was full of snoring, but the insidious silence which haunted the camp during the day and filled every waking moment when orders were not being barked at you had gone. A kinder, warmer silence now filled the spaces between the snores and mumbled dreams of the exhausted. He looked at where he thought the back of Sollner's head would be. His cough had stopped, and an easy peace engulfed him for the first time in the short while that Meyer had known him. Meyer felt a fatherly smile cross his face and closed his eyes, allowing sleep to swim over him once more.

"Get up! Get up!" Langer limped around the hut, shouting at the inmates. "What are you doing? Get up and out! Come on, hey you! Yes, you! Leave him and get outside!"

Meyer and Geller looked at each other. They both made it their first task for the day to be outside before Langer had made it to their part of the hut. Meyer reached out his hand and shook Sollner to wake him.

"You won't be able to wake him this morning." It was Ziegler; the Pole from Sollner's other side. "He won't be coughing any more I am afraid. He's gone."

Meyer felt a dreadful sadness overcome him. He had not known Sollner very well. He had not even been in the same working party, although Sollner had also worked in the forest. But after weeks of him being tortured as his lungs slowly gave up, he had been given a last night of peace from the torment. For some reason, it had reminded Meyer of watching his children sleep at night, that unqualified sleep of the innocent.

"Come on Manfred," came Geller's voice. "Let's go. He is in a better place now."

Meyer's hand lingered on Sollner's still-warm shoulder, and then he followed Geller out into the cold of the early morning.

After a day in the forest, Meyer and Geller returned to the hut with the rest of their work party to find that Sollner's bunk had been claimed, not by one of the newcomers as Meyer had expected, but by one of the inmates from the other side of the hut. His faded prison uniform looked even greyer than Meyer's own, and he wore the Star of David badge and a patch showing him to be a Sonderkommando, one of those who worked at the gas chambers and the crematoria. The smell of death sat on him like a mantle of demise.

Meyer nodded a greeting to him as he stretched his toes after releasing them from the clogs. The man held out his hand, which Meyer took. "Rosenmann. Saul Rosenmann."

Meyer introduced himself and Geller to Rosenmann, and Geller reached over and shook his hand. Rosenmann noticed Geller looking at the Sonderkommando patch.

"I was a flower seller. In Bonn. I sold flowers," he said, almost as an excuse for what he had to do now. But then he felt the need to qualify his past with what his life had been filled with. "Now I..."

Meyer and Geller both nodded in understanding. Rosenmann gave a broken smile and lay back on the bunk. Meyer had never spoken with a Sonderkommando before. He had imagined them all to be like Langer; brutish, criminals, filled with antipathy and loathing. Rosenmann was not like that at all; he was a Jew and appeared to be gentle and amiable.

It seemed to Meyer that it would be impossible to work at the crematoria and unbearable at the gas chambers. How long could a man survive for, when each day consisted of being so close to those about to die and those who had already been murdered? Maybe it was his lawyer background, or perhaps it was a need to understand this place, but before he knew it, the question had fallen from his lips like a whisper.

"What is it like?"

Rosenmann's eyes flicked between Meyer and Geller. He did not know who had asked the question, both men were still facing him, but he knew why they had asked it. He had been asked this before, and he had either ignored the question or had given a very brief outline of his duties; move these people over here, move those people in there, take the bodies from there and cremate them. But there was something in the way this was asked, it sounded like they had to know, and it made it feel like he had to tell them. He motioned Meyer and Geller closer to him.

"It is terrible," he sighed. "Terrible. Everyone asks why. They want to know why I do it, why I am a Sonderkommando and they want to know why it happens.

"The first question is easy. I do it because I am told to. If I were to object? If I were to say 'no, I won't do it,' then I would be next in the gas chamber. So I do it because that is where I am sent every day, just like others are sent to the mines, or the munitions factories, or the forest."

"We work in the forest," volunteered Meyer.

"And does anyone question you on why you chop trees and provide wood for the planes, or rifle butts, or fences of your enemy? No, and  
no-one questions the munitions workers making bombs and bullets for their enemy, or the miners who dig Polish coal to fuel Nazi concentration camps."

"No," replied Meyer. "They don't. I know that there is nothing you can do. You are in the working groups that service the death machine here. I am not sure if there is anything that one man can do."

Rosenmann nodded. "Yes, that is right. What could I do on my own?"

The three men sat in silence for a moment as the noise of men returning from the working parties continued. Meyer broke the silence.

"If you can't talk about it, Saul, then that is okay. It must be very difficult."

Rosenmann nodded his head in agreement again. "Yes, but it's strange. You can switch off from the horror, to a certain extent, anyway."

Once more, Rosenmann fell silent and sat staring at his hands. Geller lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. He had mentioned to Meyer how tired he had been over the past couple of weeks. Everyone was tired. The men in the camp shuffled rather than walked due to their malnutrition. The constant work, the lack of food, and the absence of a rest day took its toll. Sometimes, prisoners would collapse while working, or on the march to or from their daily toil. Mostly, they had fainted, and if it was on the way back to the camp, the guards would order two of the other prisoners to carry them back to their hut. If it was on the way out, they were shot as they lay on the ground. But Geller had seen more than one man drop dead instead. Geller had been tired since the day he arrived there, but now he felt the fatigue attack his body like a cancer. He felt it in every bone, in every muscle and in every nerve. It even seemed to flow around his body with his blood, poisoning him slowly.

Meyer heard the snore behind him. Geller was fast asleep. A few seconds before, he had been sitting next to him. The exhaustion was etched onto Geller's slumbering face.

"Your friend falls asleep quickly. I think he has been working too hard in the forest," said Rosenmann.

"I think he needs a holiday," replied Meyer, and smiled. Rosenmann laughed a throaty chortle.

Meyer lay back on his bunk, enjoying the comforting feeling of his secretly sprung bed taking his weight and bending beneath it. He stretched his legs and arms as far as he could and then relaxed, enjoying the feeling of his muscles starting to unwind and decompress. He had closed his eyes and was preparing to let sleep overwhelm him when Rosenmann whispered, close to his ear, the answer to his question.

"It is terrible. But I try to give those who die there as much dignity as I can. Given the circumstances."

Meyer opened his eyes and turned away from Geller's snoring to listen to Rosenmann's account of the gas chambers and the crematoria.

"When the trains arrive, they have decided who will die, they take them past Doctor Mengele first. He picks out anyone he thinks will be interesting subjects for his experiments. They call him the 'Angel of Death', you know.

"The rest are passed up the line to the Sonderkommando. We are guarded all the time but it is us who get them to undress, to run to the gas chambers. They think they are going for a shower to disinfect them in case they have lice, and they run because they are naked. But they are running to their deaths."

Meyer remembered his arrival and the removal of his clothes and the shower. How he had been made to run to the shower block. How he had tried to hide his modesty.

"So they go into the first gas chamber and, once it is full we close the door. They then run to the next gas chamber. Once that is full, we close the doors. Then the guards drop in the pellets that turn to gas when they get wet. It's called Zyklon B. I don't really want to tell you what it is like in the twenty minutes it takes for the gas to kill everyone. Afterwards, we take out the bodies and they go to the crematoria. We each have a station there and we cremate the dead.

"I was a flower seller in Bonn. It was a gentle life. I got up early and went to the flower market and bought my stock for the day. I would always have a provision of good quality lilies, for funeral wreaths. There are not enough lilies in the world to..." Rosenmann trailed off as the memories of a past life slipped away.

"And there are no survivors?" asked Meyer.

"No," was Rosenmann's emphatic reply. He turned away from Meyer and stared at the underside of the bunk above him. Meyer could not imagine what it must be like, having to live that horror every day. He looked at Rosenmann, the lines which creased his hollow cheeks and narrow forehead were an illustration of torment drawn across his face.

Rosenmann pursed his lips and turned back to Meyer, indicating with his hand that Meyer should come closer. Rosenmann's eyes betrayed a secret that he held. He wanted to tell Meyer, but he was obviously struggling with his conscience. After a few moments, he had made his decision. He spoke in a low voice so that Meyer could only just hear him.

"Only the Sonderkommando know this. It happened just at the start of summer. You must promise me that you tell no-one. Not even your friend. If they ever found out..." his voice faded again.

Meyer explained that he had been a lawyer and reassured him that whatever he told him would be in the strictest confidence, that he would do nothing which could jeopardise Rosenmann or his comrades' safety.

Rosenmann cast around to make sure no-one was listening nearby, then cleared his throat and leaned in so close to Meyer that their noses were nearly touching, before divulging his secret.

"It was a beautiful, clear day, right at the beginning of summer. It had been a cold night but the sun was out and its warmth chased away the chill. We waited, the Sonderkommando I mean, waited at the entrance to the muster area in front of the gas chambers. No-one ever talks as we wait for them to come from the train.

"On that day, there were two trains which had arrived at the same time. That never happens. And they were long trains, from Hungary I think, but you know, it's terrible, but I can't really remember. Sometimes I think I should remember everything. All the faces, where they come from, what train they have travelled in. I have a good memory, I was always told by my customers that I never forgot a name or a face or their favourite flowers. My memory fails me here. But I will always remember this, for the rest of my life.

"Anyway, they came from the trains and we get them to undress. We tell them about the showers and that it will be nice warm water. There were so many of them that day that we sent them to both chambers at the same time.

"I was at the door of chamber one that morning. It was my job, along with another two men, to close the iron doors once it was full. We could see that with the huge number that day we would need to make sure that the chamber was filled with as many as we could cram in. Once we had people standing right up to the line where the doors shut we started to close them. But there was a girl; about fifteen years old, standing right where the holes in the concrete are for the bolts to go in. She couldn't go in any further and we couldn't close the doors. So I pulled her out and left the others to get the doors closed while I took her to chamber two."

"How big are the chambers, Saul?" asked Meyer, matching Rosenmann's low voice.

"Chamber one holds about eight hundred. Chamber two is much bigger, over a thousand, maybe twelve hundred."

Meyer shook his head. Two thousand people being murdered at the same time. He knew that sometimes there was another train later in the day as well. How many were being killed here? Rosenmann's words interrupted Meyer's thoughts.

"I held her by the arm and we walked to chamber two, but they were already closing the doors there. The men on the doors told me it was full and there was no way they would be able to fit her in.

"The girl looked at me and asked if she would get into trouble because she couldn't have a shower. She was a lovely girl; she looked like my niece. And then, I am not sure what happened. The doors were closed on the gas chambers and it was as if God had said, 'not this girl'. I took her by the arm and marched her back to where all the clothes were lying. I told her quickly about this place. These weren't showers, they were gas chambers, and she had been sent here to die because she was a Jew. One of the other Sonderkommando ran to me and asked me what I was doing and I told him. I was going to save her.

"The guards had moved off, back to the train, and the others were getting ready to drop in the gas pellets. I got her a long jacket from the piles of clothes and a pair of boots which she quickly pulled on. The other Sonderkommando picked up a suitcase, not too big that she couldn't carry it, and pushed it into her arms. It was a woman's bag, you could tell from the design. I don't know what was in it but there would be clothes and maybe even something she could sell.

"Then we walked her down the embankment, the two of us, and turned her away from the train tracks. The guards were too busy with the processing of those going to the work camp.

"There, you are outside the fence. Often, I have thought that maybe I could escape from there, but there are always so many soldiers and you have the guards in the towers as well, always watching.

"But on that day, I don't know why, maybe it was God saving a soul, but there were no guards in the towers and the track was obscured by the second train. Beyond that is the forest, where you and your friend work.

"I held her by the shoulders and whispered in her ear. Walk towards the forest, don't run. Don't turn round or look back. Once she was there she should try to get as far away from this place as possible. Trust no-one. And then I pushed her away towards the trees.

"It was such a long way for her to walk. She went with the case clutched to her chest. We watched and I waited for the shout from a guard or a rifle shot. But it never came and she got smaller and smaller and then she disappeared. I couldn't see her, her dark hair and jacket and boots against the darkness of the trees. And then I maybe saw a little white spot in the trees which I thought might be her face and I wanted to wave. I nearly did, you know, lift my arm and wave. How stupid would that have been? And then she was gone. And I missed her, Manfred, it's strange but I felt that I missed her and I wanted to hold her again and tell her that she was special and had escaped something terrible that the world may never know about."

A smile had filled Rosenmann's face, and the lines which scarred it were even deeper than before. Meyer realised that he was also smiling.

"Then, for a second, I thought that I could maybe make that walk to the trees too. Maybe I could escape as well and find her in the forest and we could go somewhere safe and I could look after her. But, you know, when I looked up at the guard towers, the guards were back and my dreams of following her to freedom were broken by one of the sergeants shouting at us that there were no more for the chambers and to get back to work."

Rosenmann's smile had gone and he looked melancholy again. "You know, Manfred, for the first time in such a long time, that night I didn't dream of the dead. I dreamt of flowers. It was such a strong dream, I could even smell them." His smile returned, fleetingly.

"Thank you, Saul. Thank you for trusting me and telling me about the girl." Meyer could feel sleep tugging at him. "Good night, Saul. I hope you dream of flowers again tonight."

"Good night, Manfred," replied Rosenmann. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the girl's face but he could not. Instead, he remembered her walking away and fading into the trees. And then he could smell lilies, and he was in the flower market, and standing next to him, holding his hand, was the girl. He looked into her face and she smiled.

Berlin, 10th February 1931

MEYER shook the snow from his hat and brushed the flakes from the shoulders of his winter coat at the entrance to Bauer & Bauer on Potsdamer Platz. It was bitterly cold outside, and he blew into his hands, then rubbed them together. He ran up the steps to the first floor where he now shared a small office with another junior lawyer, Otto Weber.

Before heading to his own office, he went to see if Deschler required assistance with any new cases. He had noticed that Deschler had almost managed to clear his desk of cases in the run up to Christmas, and he had not needed Meyer as much.

Deschler's office door was open, and his secretary, Fraulein Hauser, sat typing at her desk. However, the door to Deschler's room was closed.

"Herr Meyer, I am very sorry but I am afraid that Herr Deschler is not at work today," she said with a smile. Meyer thanked her and headed for his own office. Since the beginning of the year he had been working partly as Deschler's assistant but had also been able to complete two further cases of his own with Weber acting as his assistant, both of which he had won. In return, Meyer had assisted Weber in his first case the previous week, which Weber had also won.

"Good morning, Otto," Meyer called, as he pulled off his scarf and hung up his coat.

Weber was already sitting at his desk, leafing through some papers. "Morning Manfred," he replied.

Meyer was about to take his seat at his own desk, which sat  
back-to-back with Weber's, when there was a single knock on the still-open door and Friedrich Bauer's booming voice filled the room.

"Good morning, Manfred. You look frightfully cold. Pop up to my office at nine for a nice hot cup of coffee." Bauer did not attempt to fit his enormous frame into the tiny office and instead leaned in through the doorway. As he was about to continue on his way down the corridor he added, "Otto, I would like you to join us, if that is okay?"

"Yes, of course, Herr Bauer," replied Weber, jumping to his feet. Bauer smiled his wide, toothy grin and then was gone.

Meyer looked at Weber. "You are not in the Imperial Army, Otto. You don't need to jump to attention when he talks to you."

Weber laughed. "I know. I think it may be because he looks a bit like Hindenburg."

Meyer and Weber took their seats in the walnut hall outside Herr Bauer's office at five minutes to nine, just as Herr Muller arrived back from his morning round of checking on each of the offices and the secretarial staff under his supervision, while distributing and picking up mail and other paperwork. He appeared outside his office with a clutch of newspapers under one arm and a handful of envelopes in his left hand, bid Meyer and Weber a good morning, then disappeared into his office.

A few moments later, his well-coiffured head appeared at the door. "Gentlemen, if you please," he said, and disappeared again. Weber glanced at Meyer and then followed him into Muller's office.

Muller was standing at Bauer's door with his hand raised and ready to knock. He waited until both men were standing next to him before tapping the oak panel with his knuckles. He did not wait for an answer from the other side of the door but turned the handle and stood back to allow Meyer and Weber space to enter the office.

Herr Bauer was sitting behind his enormous desk, reading through a newspaper while puffing on his pipe. The weather had broken, and blue sky shone through the large sash and case windows, highlighting the tobacco angels which filled the room. Bauer looked up from his paper and beckoned them over to the desk. "Manfred, Otto. Do sit down."

Meyer and Weber took their seats in the marvellously comfortable brown leather chairs facing him. Bauer leaned back in his own chair and removed the pipe from his mouth.

"Manfred, I really wanted to chat to you about a development here at Bauer & Bauer," started the large man, before taking another large puff on his pipe. Before he could continue, there was a knock at the door and Marie, the silent coffee girl, entered, pushing a jangling trolley.

"Thank you, Marie," boomed Bauer as she decanted coffee into three cups on his desk. She carefully placed a jug of cream, a jug of hot water, and a bowl of sugar on the desk next to the cups and turned to leave.

"Thank you, Marie," said Meyer, as she pushed her noisy trolley towards the door. She stopped momentarily, and the tiniest of smiles crossed her face before she continued on her way out of the office.

Bauer puffed on his pipe as Meyer and Weber helped themselves to cream and sugar and started sipping their coffee. "As I was saying, Manfred, we need to discuss a development in the company. Otto, this will affect you as well."

Bauer leaned forward, poured cream into his coffee and dropped in a single lump of brown sugar, which created a satisfying 'plop' sound. Then, without stirring, he took a drink which left behind cream evidence on his moustache. This, in turn was sucked away almost imperceptibly before another puff on his pipe was enjoyed.

"Manfred, sometimes becoming a lawyer is a bit like joining the clergy. It is a calling. This company, which I formed with my brother, has always had the highest standards in its abilities to defend those in need. Sometimes, those who could not pay a large fee would still be represented by the best lawyers we had. Sometimes, those who were guilty of the most terrible crimes and had difficulty obtaining representation would receive help and support from us. Bauer & Bauer was started in this vein and we have managed to continue, even through the most difficult and darkest of times.

"To me, being a defence lawyer is one of the greatest professions that exist. To help the frightened and the shamed, the bewildered and the unwary, against the might of a criminal justice system which to the layman can seem like a dragon from antiquity, surely must put us amongst the priests and doctors of this world.

"And to find a lawyer such as Herr Deschler with his ability to deconstruct a case, his turn of phrase and use of language in the courtroom was, for Bauer & Bauer, fortuitous in the extreme; so many young lawyers did not return from the front. In spite of Herr Deschler's often harsh exterior, mostly brought about by the pain which he has endured since the war, he has in fact shown the compassion and humanity that we require in this firm.

"Unfortunately, sometimes opportunities arise which one cannot allow to pass. And one such opportunity has presented itself to Herr Deschler. He will be leaving us to take the position of prosecutor."

Meyer could hardly believe what he was saying. Deschler was sometimes a difficult character to work with; his temper was legendary, although Meyer felt that he had never actually been subject to his full wrath. He respected him deeply, both as a lawyer and as a man.

All he could say was, "When?"

Bauer took a deep puff on his pipe and another sip of his coffee. "It is effective immediately, I am afraid, Manfred. His case load will be distributed among the other senior lawyers.

"But, Manfred, this is very important, I can see a very bright future for you here at Bauer & Bauer. I know that Herr Deschler has prepared you well for the courtroom and I can see you growing as a lawyer. I want you to take on a murder case. I will find one that will suit you."

He then turned to Weber. "Otto, I am going to ask you to support Herr Meyer. You have been working together now on certain cases for..." Bauer lifted his head in request for an answer.

"Two months now, Herr Bauer," said Weber.

"Yes, two months. And I am assuming that this is a working partnership which you are both happy to continue?" asked Bauer.

"Yes of course Herr Bauer," replied Weber.

Bauer gave a laugh. "Excellent. You already sound like a lawyer firm, Meyer & Weber. Now, Otto, I am going to ask, and I don't want you to think that I don't believe you are commensurate in your abilities with Manfred, because he will need the support of an assistant with a keen legal mind. Will you do this for him?"

Weber nodded. "Of course, Herr Bauer."

The news that Deschler had left to become a prosecutor filled Meyer's mind. Having seen Deschler at his most vociferous in the courtroom, Meyer could certainly imagine him in the role. Then it suddenly struck him that there was a possibility that they would be on opposite sides of the courtroom, and the thought of facing Deschler in that situation was terrifying.

"Manfred," said Bauer, as his attention shifted to him. "I have been following the cases you have been involved in over the past six months or so, and I am suitably impressed by your resourcefulness, skill, and raw talent that I think that you are more than ready to lead a murder case. All new cases have to come through my desk, so I will keep an eye out for one which I think will be of interest to both yourself and Otto."

Bauer winked at Meyer and gave both men a wide, toothy grin, which suddenly disappeared when he noticed that his pipe had stopped producing smoke. Staring forlornly into the bowl of his pipe, he said, "See! I can always tell when I have been talking too much when my pipe goes out. So gentlemen, I won't keep you any longer. I will be in touch when a case comes my way which I want you to lead."

Meyer and Weber both rose from their seats and left Bauer in his search for a method of lighting his pipe.

Auschwitz, 1st December 1943

THE ground was hard with frost, and ice made the walk to the forest treacherously difficult. The snow muffled any sound from the men as they walked. The silence now had an accomplice.

The previous week, when the prisoners' uniforms had been returned after being disinfected, as they were every six weeks or so, all the prisoners had also received warmer clothing, including, for some of the lucky ones, woollen jumpers to be worn under their striped prison jackets.

Geller told Meyer that these would have been taken from 'Canada', the warehouse where all of the new arrivals' personal belongings were stored before being sorted and sent back to Germany. When Meyer had asked why it was called Canada, Geller had laughed and said that he had only found out when a Pole had explained that in Poland, Canada was considered a land of great riches, so it seemed appropriate to call this warehouse of riches after such an affluent place.

Forest group D arrived at the clearing, which had expanded west. One of the men had suggested that they were clearing a route through the forest for another rail track for the camp. It had not been the cold which had sent a shiver down Meyer's spine, but the thought of more victims arriving to be exterminated.

The clearing was strangely beautiful in the snow, which hung from the branches of the pine trees and across the forest tracks. The guards took up their usual positions, and the prisoners started their work.

The SS had also been issued with warmer clothing. The guards had new greatcoats, scarves, and gloves, and they now wore balaclavas under their helmets. Braziers had been supplied to keep them warm as they watched the prisoners.

A day before the snow fell, Meyer and Geller were working next to an area where they were about to bring down another tree. Most of the wood had been cleared, and they were getting ready to move on to the next sector where the cut up remains of a once mighty pine tree lay when they heard 'alarm', the usual shout of warning, when a tree was about to fall, quickly followed by a further shout of warning.

As the tree swayed through the branches of its neighbours, one of its own branches twisted and snapped away from the main trunk and fell directly on to one of the men carrying logs back down to the main track. He let out a cry as the heavy branch hit him, and trapped him in place. The two tree-cutters were already running across the broken ground to try and pull him free. It was obvious that he was lying where the tree was about to fall.

What happened next happened so fast that it was only later, when Meyer re-ran it in his mind, that he got an idea of what had actually occurred. One of the tree-cutters had fallen as he ran, only to be crushed by the tree as it slid off its stump. The other made it to the man trapped by the branch and tried to pull him away from the falling trunk, but it was no use. Both men disappeared in a shower of pine needles and splintering wood.

Meyer and Geller dropped the branches they were carrying and ran over to the fallen tree. Geller held back the branches as Meyer searched through the broken wood to look for the men, until he saw the stripes of prison uniform. The tree-cutter's legs were visible under a blanket of pine needles, but most of his body lay under the trunk.

Meyer could not see the man who had been hit by the branch. Then he heard groaning from the other side of the tree trunk. Geller had heard it too, and Meyer watched in astonishment as Geller vaulted the tree trunk. Meyer followed after him.

Two SS guards had run over to the fallen tree and unhitched their rifles from their shoulders. Meyer supposed that if there was going to be an attempted escape, then a moment of confusion such as this would be the best time.

The man was being crushed by the tree trunk. His breath was being squeezed from him and pain was etched across his face. Geller looked at Meyer.

"We can't move it," he said, panic in his voice. "The tree. It's too heavy."

Meyer stared down at the crushed man's face. Blood trickled from his nose and his mouth was open in a silent scream, his eyes pleading with him to stop the pain.

Meyer pulled Geller to one side and looked over at the closest guard. He did not say anything and, thinking back, he was not sure how he communicated it with his face, but it was a rare moment of connection between guard and prisoner. The guard loaded a round into the rifle breach then pulled the weapon up to his shoulder. Meyer looked away until he heard the shot.

Smoke and the smell of cordite filled the air. The guard lowered his rifle and waited as an officer made his way over.

The officer wore a lighter-coloured greatcoat than the guards, and his black lapel patches carried the two silver squares denoting his rank of Oberscharfuhrer on one side, and the SS runes on the other.

"You two, get this tree stripped and the trunk cut. And get these bodies out from under it," came the barked orders. Meyer and Geller started the process, clearing the branches into a pile for someone to remove to the main track.

The officer turned to the guard. "The men under the tree. What was their function?"

"They were the tree-cutters, Herr Oberscharfuhrer," he replied.

"And what do these two do?" he asked, pointing at Meyer and Geller.

"Wood clearance, sir," replied the guard.

The officer nodded and thought for a moment. "You two, once you have cleared this tree and put the bodies on the cart you can consider yourselves promoted. You are now tree-cutters."

Meyer cleared the snow from around the trunk of the next tree they would fell and knocked off the ice which had stuck to the bark on the tree's exposed side. Geller took a small hand-axe and made a notch in the trunk around thirty centimetres from the ground. Then he and Meyer hoisted the heavy two-man saw, so that the teeth of the blade sat within the notch.

Slowly, they pushed the saw backwards and forwards until the dulled teeth of the saw began to dig deeply into the wood. Once they were both happy that the saw had found its track, they increased the speed.

It took a considerable amount of time to saw through the trees. The saw blade was blunt and would often get stuck as the sap built up. This last was an unexpected bonus which Meyer and Geller had not expected. The sap was sweet, and they secretly began to collect it to pass around the others in Forest Group D. Meyer wondered if the previous owners of the saw had realised that the sap could be eaten and had kept it to themselves.

In spite of the time it took to saw through the tree trunk, the work was much easier than the backbreaking collection of wood. Geller's health improved and his tiredness returned to its normal level. He entirely attributed this to the consumption of the sap, but Meyer suspected that it was the change in the work they did. Yet it was still hard work. Even on the coldest of days, they had to remove their jackets to stop them becoming soaked with sweat, which would cool down quickly and suck their body heat into the ether. This could be followed by hypothermia or frostbite.

Meyer and Geller were only a third of the way through the trunk when the cart, which carried water in the summer and bitter ersatz coffee in the winter, arrived. The prisoners always followed the same routine it it's arrival. They had to move into the clearing as two of the guards kept watch over them, while the other guards took their time at the cart.

Meyer and Geller pulled their vests, woollen jumpers, and prison jackets back on to keep warm as they waited for their turn. Ziegler, who had been working nearby, joined them.

"That was a good discovery of yours," he whispered. "The sap."

Geller pointed at Meyer. "It was Manfred who discovered it; it is him you should thank."

The men stood in silence for a moment. Meyer looked into the darkness of the trees. The snow seemed to have removed the colour from them, leaving them like black cathedral towers, matching the black and grey men standing in their shadow.

"Do you ever think about trying to make it away from here, into the forest?" asked Meyer quietly.

Geller and Ziegler followed Meyer's gaze towards the darkness of the trees.

"If you did make it, without being shot that is, winter would not be the best time to attempt an escape," replied Ziegler. "First of all, the snow cover on the ground, your tracks would be easier to follow. Even if you kept within the trees, the ground is frozen and footprints in the frost can be easy to see for days. Then, of course, if they used dogs to track you, your scent will hang in the air and stick to the undergrowth in this temperature. And then, if you managed to get away, you would freeze to death during the first night. No, if you were going to attempt such an escape, spring or summer would be the best times."

"Spring seems such a long time away," said Geller, rubbing his hands together.

"By then you might see Russian or British or American soldiers walking through the forest," joked Meyer.

Ziegler shook his head. "I don't think that will be happening I am afraid, Meyer. Anyway, if it does, it won't be British soldiers, it would be Russians, and they are just as bad as the Nazis."

"They would free us from the camp, wouldn't they?" said Meyer.

Ziegler wiped a running nose on his sleeve, then folded his arms against his body and stamped his feet to try to keep warm. "I wouldn't bet on it. I fought against the Germans when they invaded Poland from the west, then I fought the Russians when they invaded from the east.

"The Nazis and the communists were friends back then. They took it in turns to batter my country and then they met in the middle and shook hands with each other."

"That was in 1939. You only arrived here last spring. Where were you hiding until then?" asked Geller, surreptitiously handing Ziegler a chewy piece of sap.

Ziegler quickly popped it into his mouth and began to explain his journey to Auschwitz. "Like I said, I was in the Polish Army, the 74th Infantry Regiment. I remember the night we got the call that the Germans had invaded. We spent ten days fighting them until we were to retreat to the southeast, to what they called the Romanian Bridgehead. That was where we could hold off the Wehrmacht until the French and the British sent supplies and reinforcements. But then the Soviets thought that they would also have a piece of Poland and we had to give up our defences and fight the Russians as well. It was difficult from the start but once the Russians invaded, all hope left us.

"I got separated from my regiment and joined a group that two brothers had started, a resistance group that fought the Germans and the Russians. We developed strategies which made us look as if we were appearing out of nowhere. Then we'd make our attacks, and disappear. We earned a fearsome reputation, especially amongst the Russians, who were much more superstitious than the Germans.

"They called us 'Prizrak'. It is Russian for 'ghost'. Some of them thought that we were the ghosts of Polish soldiers from the past coming to take revenge." Ziegler laughed out loud as he slapped his hands against his chest, keeping the blood flowing to his fingers.

"Sometimes," he continued, "we would leave one of them alive. If it had been a particularly silent attack, we would never speak during it and try to use only knives, we would leave one of them alive so that he could tell his comrades about the Prizrak.

"We fought them in the woods and forests near the border of the Russian and German sectors, just north of Lvov. We could pass over that line easily to escape any attempt to capture us whereas the Russians would never cross over into German-held territory, and vice-versa.

"There were not enough of us to fight like an army. We couldn't take land, fight for a village or town and hold it against a counter attack. All we could do was cause fear. We hoped that if the Russians or Germans feared us, then they would stay in their barracks, do less patrols, stay off the streets. Especially at night, which might give the people a little bit more freedom, a little bit of hope every time we attacked.

"We would make our attacks against the Russians for a few weeks, just long enough to cause fear in the local area but not long enough to provoke a full-scale search for us. Then we would move over to the German sector and make our attacks on them.

"Of course, it couldn't last forever. We were short of food, our clothes were ragged, and it was only a matter of time before we would end up either dead or captured.

"I was taken prisoner by a Russian unit in February nineteen-forty-one and handed over to the Germans. The Russians didn't realise I was a Prizrak or I am sure they would have shot me there and then. When the Germans discovered I was Jewish, they took me and several others to Warsaw and we were put in the ghetto there. It was their great Nazi plan at the time, ghettos. As well as the one in Warsaw, I know for a fact that there was one in Lodz, and I heard rumour of more in other Polish cities.

"You would only have believed it if you saw it. They had built a wall all around a part of the city. Right the way around, so no-one and nothing could get in or out without them knowing. They then rounded up all the Jews in Warsaw and the surrounding areas and made them all live in this walled city within a city.

"They took me to a gate in the wall and sent me inside. I had nothing to take in with me except the clothes I was standing in. Once I was inside, it was a different world. And for the first few minutes it seemed like time had been turned back. There were people walking in the streets, there were no enemy soldiers or checkpoints, no tanks or trucks, no hammer and sickle or swastika flags, and for the first time in a long time I didn't think that at any given moment I would be shot. But then I began to notice what was wrong with what I could see. The people were thin, like the prisoners here. Their clothes were shabby, and the shop windows were all empty.

"I wandered the streets until a Rabbi stopped me. He could see that I had just arrived and wanted to know if he could help me. I explained about being a soldier and having been in the resistance before being taken prisoner and brought there. He had heard of the Prizrak and personally thanked me for causing so much fear amongst the invaders. Then he took me to an apartment block not far from the gate where I had come in, where he introduced me to some families that shared a floor.

"They gave me what little food they could spare and a corner of a room that I could call my own. The next morning, the Rabbi returned. He had a spare set of clothes for me and asked me to join him for a walk back to his apartment.

"On the walk, he explained how the ghetto worked. He told me that there was an infrastructure in the ghetto; schools, soup kitchens, hospitals, and even libraries had been started. How it was run by a Jewish committee, but how there was very little food and no work for the people.

"The biggest problem by far was the lack of food. He asked me to think about the way, as a member of the resistance, that we had collected food while hiding from the Germans and the Russians and to visit him in a day or two if I had any ideas.

"On the way back to the apartment, I saw a boy, only about eight years of age, slipping out of a doorway from a building that was right up against the ghetto wall. Although he was trying to hide it, I could see that he had some bread inside his jacket. He took off down the street as if the devil himself was after him. So I took a look in through the doorway and you know what I found? A stairway down to a basement which had a  
boarded-up window leading to the other side.

"It wasn't long before we had gangs of youngsters bringing back food and raw materials that were needed inside the ghetto. We found other places along the perimeter where they could safely get in or out. It was the children of the ghetto that kept us alive.

"Then, one day, the Rabbi came to see me again. This time he wanted to talk about organising armed resistance inside the ghetto. He was worried that one day the SS would come and try to take everyone away. If that day came, he wanted us to be able to fight. There were already some armed groups inside the ghetto, but they didn't communicate or work with each other. Some were communists. Some were right-wing. Some were criminal. But if the SS had entered the ghetto at that time, there would have been no coordinated resistance.

"We managed to get guns smuggled in. We traded with those outside the ghetto walls and bought ammunition and weapons. The underground Home Army supplied us as well. Those of us who had been in the army trained those who hadn't, and before long we had a reasonable sized militia. The problem was that it seemed like a hopeless cause. How could some armed civilians keep the Waffen SS at bay? If they decided to enter the ghetto, what would stop the members of our resistance from just putting down their weapons and melting away?

"That was when we used the same sort of idea that we used for the Prizrak. That was where Ishmael came in. He was like a ghost with a secret band of followers. No-one knew what he looked like, or what his real name was. We heard stories of him crossing over into Warsaw from the ghetto and slitting the throats of German soldiers. There were rumours of Ishmael and his men manning the rooftops of the ghetto, moving fleetingly from building to building.

"Various men were suspected of being Ishmael; normally tall, handsome types," Ziegler laughed.

"Some said they had seen him and his men in the moonlight. Some had met him, some were part of his inner circle."

Zeigler blew into his hands to keep them warm and looked down towards the cart, where the soldiers stood laughing and chatting. Steam rose above them like smoke.

"Then, of course, the day arrived when the gates opened and the soldiers came to get us. It was Passover and they came to take us to the camps. But we were waiting for them. We had well-laid plans and defensive positions which we took up. We fought the might of the German Army and kept them at bay for over a month. Throughout that time, there were reports of Ishmael's unit from all over the ghetto. Stories were told of him taking control of a German truck full of weapons and ammunition outside the ghetto, by attacking it from a sewer and driving it back inside. We heard that Ishmael and his unit had been attacking SS troops outside the perimeter, that they were in the sewers, that they were on the rooftops. They were everywhere.

"But the Germans were too much for us. We ran out of ammunition, ran out of weapons, out of people. It ended in Muranowski Square. We were surrounded and it became a final stand. As we tried to hold them off, rumours reached us that Ishmael was among us. It gave the remaining fighters heart.

"Then something extraordinary happened. In the midst of the fighting, two boys began to climb onto the roof of one of the buildings in the square to raise the flag of the Jewish resistance and the Polish national flag. The SS could see what was happening and pinned them down. Ishmael was seen leading his men in a final charge against the Waffen SS unit, sacrificing himself so that the two boys could escape.

"The flags were still flying four days later, as I was taken away in the back of an SS truck. But do you want to know the strangest thing of all? Ishmael never existed except in the mind of the people. He was an invention of the Rabbi and myself. A ghost. Prizrak. But he was needed. He gave everyone hope. So much so that two boys climbed a roof in the middle of a battle and raised two flags to give the people strength.

"The German truck _was_ stolen and driven to the ghetto, but it wasn't Ishmael, it was the ghetto resistance. It wasn't Ishmael that patrolled the rooftops or used the sewers, it was the resistance."

Zeigler looked longingly at the cart. He could smell the hot coffee and the black bread that it held.

"Then they brought me here to Auschwitz. I haven't met anyone else that was in the ghetto. They must be somewhere, but they are not here.

"I have thought about escaping from here, to try to get back into the safety of the forest and become a Prizrak again. Maybe in the spring," said Ziegler.

The guards had finished at the cart and shouted for the prisoners to be sent down.

"I couldn't leave here anyway," said Meyer. "Even if I had the chance."

"Really? Why not?" asked Ziegler.

"My wife and children are here somewhere. I couldn't leave them."

Ziegler nodded and started down towards the cart.

Berlin, 15th June 1931

FRIEDRICH Bauer had been careful in his choice of cases which he had passed to Meyer and Weber. Meyer had conducted his defences with great skill and Weber had fulfilled his position as assistant in a professional and accomplished manner. Bauer had slowly built up the complexity of the cases handed to the pair until he felt that Meyer was ready for his first murder case as principal defence lawyer.

The case he passed them was the defence of Wolfgang Kolb, a young apprentice upholsterer, originally from Nuremberg but now working in Berlin for Josef Pfeiffer & Sons. He was accused of the murder of one of the sons of the family firm, Josef Pfeiffer Junior, on the site of the upholstery workshop.

Bauer had provided Meyer and Weber every resource they required, including his personal guidance in the preparation of the case. He moved them into Deschler's old office, which afforded Meyer the services of a secretary, freeing up time for both himself and Weber. Bauer had even accompanied Meyer to the Renaissance-era Spandau Prison to interview Kolb on two occasions.

On the evening before the start of the trial, Bauer called in on Meyer in his office. Meyer smelled the man's pipe tobacco before he saw him.

"I see you are working late tonight, Manfred," said Bauer, allowing the smoke from his pipe to visibly punctuate his words.

"Yes, Herr Bauer. Just finishing a few things off in preparation for tomorrow," he replied, rubbing his eyes.

Bauer looked around the office. "Has Otto gone home?"

"Yes, Herr Bauer, I sent him home an hour ago to get a good night's rest."

"Very wise advice, young Manfred. Advice you should take yourself." Bauer sucked deeply on his pipe and filled the room with a long cloud of smoke. "I have never seen a case so well-prepared as this one. There is nothing further you can do. Go home, Manfred, go home to your lovely family. Have something to eat and get a good night's sleep. That is an order."

Meyer nodded and closed the folder he had been studying.

The next morning, Meyer woke with a start. Klara was already up with Anna and Greta, and the sound of their laughter lifted his heart.

"Good morning, sleepy head," giggled Klara.

"Good morning, darling. What time is it?"

"It's okay; it has only just turned seven o'clock." Klara had Anna in her arms and Greta was holding onto one of her legs. "I have made you some breakfast. Nice hot coffee and some bacon and a boiled egg. Some fresh bread as well."

Meyer smiled. "Ah, you are such a good wife."

Sun streamed in through the window of their apartment and Meyer could hear the birds singing in the nearby park. He had had a good sleep that night and looked forward to eating his breakfast, although he was not sure if the feeling he had in his stomach was hunger or nerves. He got out of bed and got dressed in between tickling Greta and kissing Klara and Anna.

"It is such a beautiful day," said Klara. "I am going to take the girls to the park this morning, after you leave."

"That is a good idea," replied Meyer, while finishing off the last of the bacon and a mouthful of sweet coffee. Klara smiled.

"Are you enjoying that?" she laughed, pointing at the space on the plate where the bacon had been. Meyer caught her laugh and sat back.

"Can you imagine your mother's face if she knew your good Jewish husband was stuffing bacon into his face?" he joked.

"I am sure that the fact that you are a lawyer on the rise would blind her to your blatant pork-eating," replied Klara. She lifted Anna from her knee, leaned over, and kissed Meyer on the lips. "You need to go, or you will be late for your first big case, lawyer husband."

"Whatever you say, beautiful wife," replied Meyer. He kissed Anna and Greta, pulled on his jacket, and put his arms around Klara. "Wish me luck," he said.

"Not that you need luck," she replied. "But good luck anyway."

He kissed her one more time and headed down the stairs into the street, where the newspaper-seller was declaring that morning's news.

"Good morning, Paul. More good news I see," he said picking up a newspaper and dropping a few coins into the paper-seller's hand.

"Yes, Herr Meyer, there are calls for the dissolution of the Reichstag and there are food riots in Berlin. The country has no money, no food, and soon, no government." replied the paper-seller.

"Yes, Paul, where will it all end, eh?" replied Meyer. "Where will it all end?"

Meyer took his seat within the courtroom, with Weber sitting next to him. They were early and made use of the relatively relaxed atmosphere of the courtroom to organise their papers and discuss a few final points. Courtrooms held a particular serenity in the time before a trial began. If possible, Meyer always tried to get there early and enjoy the silence and calmness as he waited for the theatre which was a courtroom in session to begin.

Some members of the public had arrived and were chatting in hushed voices while court staff came and went, preparing the room for the day's proceedings. Weber was passing Meyer a note, which was to be pinned to the biography page for Wolfgang Kolb, when he happened to glance towards the door at the rear of the court.

"Manfred," he said attempting to get Meyer's attention. When there was no response, he tried a little louder.

"What is it, Otto? Look, we need to bring this out in the first day..." Meyer's voice trailed off, and he looked up from the papers at Weber. He could see by the look on Weber's face that something was wrong. "Otto, what is the matter?"

Weber replied in a subdued voice. "The prosecutor is here."

Meyer followed Weber's gaze to the rear of the courtroom. The prosecutor had arrived with his assistants and was making his way slowly down the aisle between the chairs. Meyer's stomach turned over. It was Deschler.

Meyer nodded to him as he limped past the defence's desk to sit at the prosecutor's table on the other side of the courtroom. Deschler took his seat and hung his stick from the table, before returning Meyer's silent greeting. If he had been surprised to see Meyer, he had certainly not given it away.

Meyer heard Weber sigh. Meyer placed his hand on Weber's shoulder and smiled. "Otto, we must not allow the fact that Herr Deschler is the prosecutor to force us to deviate from our plan. We have a good case; the prosecution have a lot of circumstantial evidence but nothing concrete. All we need to do is find a crack and open it wide enough for the jury to see our point of view and not the prosecution's."

Weber nodded and smiled in return, but it was forced, and his fear of Deschler as the prosecutor was evident in his eyes.

Once the preliminaries had been concluded, Wolfgang Kolb was brought into the court. He was a handsome young man, with his shock of blonde hair and his piercing blue eyes, one of which was partially closed from a black eye which he had received in prison.

Meyer did not like him very much. There was an arrogance and brutishness about him which Meyer feared may prejudice the jury against him. However, Kolb was obviously intelligent and had spoken at great length to Meyer and Bauer about the case during their trips to Spandau. Meyer had also taken him books which he requested and, since Kolb had no immediate family, chocolate and cigarettes, which Kolb was always extremely grateful for, his arrogance dropping as he thanked Meyer.

Once Kolb had taken his seat, Meyer and Weber watched as Deschler initiated the prosecution's case against him. As was usual practice, Deschler made a brief opening statement to the jury before calling his first witness.

It was a consummate lesson in perfection. From his questioning of his witnesses, Deschler took the jury through how the prosecution saw events having unfolded on that evening. Deschler painted a picture of how Wolfgang Kolb and Josef Pfeiffer had been working late in the upholstery workshop. As it was a Saturday evening, they had left the workshop for an hour and a half to visit a local beer hall, where they had been seen arguing. On their return to the workshop, the argument had continued between the two men due to Wolfgang Kolb's jealousy over Josef Pfeiffer's position within the company, as the only son. During this argument, Kolb had got hold of a sharp tool and stabbed Pfeiffer in the heart, killing him instantly.

Kolb had been found by Josef Pfeiffer's own father over the body of his son, stained in blood. No-one else was on the premises, and no-one had seen anyone else arrive at any point during that night.

Deschler pushed home the point of the argument in the beer hall, explaining how it would have got out of control once they had returned to the workshop, and, with Wolfgang Kolb's well-known short fuse, in an unfortunate fit of temper he had picked up the closest weapon to hand and brought Josef Pfeiffer's life to an untimely end. Most tragically of all, his own father had found the victim.

Meyer struggled to find pertinent questions with which to disprove or throw Deschler's arguments off-track, and he chose not to question Josef Pfeiffer senior at all.

All of Deschler's witnesses were either police or family members, giving credence to the prosecution's case. Meyer sat in dismay, as he could see the jury follow the story that Deschler wove, bringing them to the position which Deschler called the 'fork in the road'. It was as far as a good prosecution could take a jury; pointing down the correct road. Once the prosecution left them there, the defence had to turn them around and point them down the other path. This was a defence lawyer's most difficult task.

It was human nature to believe the first version of a story that was heard. This was the prosecutions greatest weapon; if the prosecutor could tell an impressive story which appeared to be airtight, then the defence rarely managed to convince a jury otherwise. And this was what Deschler had just done.

Once the prosecution had rested, the court adjourned for the day and Meyer and Weber retired to Bauer & Bauer's offices.

"Herr Deschler has certainly taken his new role as a prosecutor in his stride," said Weber, attempting to break the silence.

"I wouldn't have expected anything different," sighed Meyer. "So we now have a jury convinced of Wolfgang Kolb's guilt. To be honest with you, I am almost convinced of Wolfgang Kolb's guilt.

"In spite of all the witness statements and questions today, as I see it, Herr Deschler laid out a very simple case.

"Kolb and Pfeiffer argue. Kolb loses his temper and stabs Pfeiffer. He has no time to escape or hide the body since Josef Pfeiffer Senior arrives to check on their work. Pfeiffer Senior finds Kolb over his son's body, covered in blood. Kolb makes a run for it and is picked up later by the police. Simple."

Meyer rubbed his forehead and as soon as he had done so, realised it was exactly what Herr Deschler did when he was thinking. He wondered what other characteristics he had picked up from Deschler. As far as the case was concerned, he was at a disadvantage; since he had assisted Deschler, he now ran his own defence in the same manner, and Deschler would read him like a book. Once Meyer had finished questioning a witness, Deschler would swoop in and destroy any progress he made.

It was Deschler's simple story that was causing Meyer problems. There was nothing to get a hold of. Nothing to twist around and use to his own advantage. Deschler's defences were never simple, they were complex and pulled in witness statements, police reports and testimony which he could use to build his case. Before either the prosecution or the jury knew it, everyone was making their way down the correct fork in the road. But Meyer knew Deschler's case today had been too simple. And then it struck him.

Meyer looked up at Weber. "It was too simple."

Weber looked blankly at him. "What was too simple?"

"Herr Deschler's prosecution case. His story. His tale. It was too simple. Herr Deschler's style is to take every element, no matter how little, how insignificant, and use it when required. Truth, to Herr Deschler, is only the truth when all of the elements come together, when the strings of a case play together in harmony. This makes Herr Deschler's cases complex, not impossible to follow and you need to be led along the correct path, but they are complex."

Weber still did not understand.

"His case today was too simple. Kolb and Pfeifer argue. Kolb kills Pfeiffer. Kolb found covered in blood, standing over the body. Kolb runs away. End of story. It is too simple for Herr Deschler. Too simple," explained Meyer.

"So what does that mean then?" asked Weber.

"It means that Deschler has spotted something. Something that doesn't make sense. Something that would blow his case out of the water. So he has ignored this 'something' and made the case simple. Nothing for me to get my hands on. Simple and easy for the jury to understand and convict on but nothing for the defence to dispute. What is there to dispute? Everything he has said is true. Only the continuation of the argument in the workshop is conjecture."

"So what is it that Herr Deschler knows that we don't?" mused Weber.

"What indeed?" replied Meyer.

Auschwitz, 13th December 1943

THE stench of the latrine block was overwhelming. Meyer attempted the impossible task of breathing without smelling, but no matter what he did the stench invaded his nose and mouth so that it almost lay as a layer on his tongue. Normally, Meyer attempted not to use the latrines. He would urinate while in the forest with the work party. He would also defecate there on the rare occasion that that was required; his body seemed to be using every bit of sustenance from the thin gruel they received each day, leaving nothing as waste.

The previous evening and all through that day, Meyer had suffered from stomach cramps. Anton Geller had helped him while out with the work party, picking the wood from the clearing floor next to him, a task which they were still required to carry out in between cutting down trees, and doing what he could so that the guards did not notice Meyer's pain.

"You do not want to take a trip to the infirmary, my friend," warned Geller. "You would not be making a return journey."

Luckily, Meyer felt better being doubled over, picking up the wood, and the pain eased as the day progressed. By the time they were marching back, the pains had abated, but when they arrived back in the camp and he had eaten the thin soup, Meyer felt the pains return.

The latrines were holes in the floor of the building. The excrement filled large buckets, which were then emptied by hand by prisoners on punishment detail. It was a dirty, disgusting job, which often left them physically ill and unable to continue which led them to be taken on the one way journey to the 'infirmary'.

Meyer felt as though the soup had passed straight through him. He cleaned himself as best he could and headed for the door, desperate for the cold, clean air outside, where he found Geller waiting for him.

"Are you alright?" Geller asked.

"Yes, but my soup has gone straight down the latrine." Meyer held his stomach with his hand, the slight pressure easing his discomfort.

"Come on, we need to head back to the hut," said Geller. As they began the walk back to Hut 72, they were met by several SS guards coming the other way.

"Out of the way!" one of them shouted, and pushed Meyer to the ground. Geller squeezed himself against the wall of one of the buildings as the men, followed by five prisoners who in turn were being pushed along by a further two guards with their rifles pointed at their backs, hustled past. Behind them, two SS officers casually followed, hands behind their backs chatting to one another.

Geller took Meyer by the arm and helped him to his feet as the two officers passed by. One of them suddenly stopped and turned.

"Wait!" came the command.

Meyer felt his heart stop. He did everything possible to keep a low profile from the kapos and the guards. He had seen men being shot for reasons as simple as soiling themselves when they were ill, or simply getting in the way of the guards while they were walking. Geller and Meyer stood still.

"Turn around," came a further command.

Meyer and Geller turned to face the two officers. They were immaculately dressed in field grey uniforms with polished black jack boots. The silver death's-head badge on their peaked caps sparkled in the winter sun, as did their tunic buttons, which matched the silver threaded SS version of the Third Reich eagle worn on their upper arms.

Neither of the officers spoke, but one of them began to slowly walk back towards them, his eyes boring into Meyer's. When he was a metre away, he opened his mouth to speak but was immediately interrupted by rifle shots behind him. Beyond the officers, the five prisoners had been lined up against a wall and executed. Smoke and dust and cordite filled the air, obscuring the fallen bodies. The officer looked annoyed at the interruption, and then stepped even closer to Meyer.

"I know you," he said, very quietly. The officer's breath left his mouth like smoke.

Meyer was astonished. He knew him? He searched his memory for any SS officers he had met in the past few years, but he was certain he had never known this one.

"Before the war. I was your client."

Meyer searched his memory. Before the war. Before the war? And then it struck him. "Kolb? Wolfgang Kolb?" he whispered.

The SS officer's eyes gave nothing away. "I am Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb, Manfred Meyer."

This was a sample of from the novel

"A Murder in Auschwitz" by JC Stephenson

Hopefully, you have enjoyed the story so far, and would like to read what happens to Manfred Meyer and his family.

If this is the case, the full novel can either be downloaded

from Amazon for Kindle use or as a paperback, both in

standard format and in large print format.

An audio book is also in production and should be available soon.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D94X8CG

 http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Murder-Auschwitz-J-C-Stephenson-ebook/dp/B00D94X8CG

