Burden of Duty

By A.S. Xavier

A Murderer among Murderers

Tasked with discovering the killer of SS officers and their families across Germany in 1943, Captain Peter Stressler of the Kriminalpolizei must navigate complex Nazi politics and his hatred for what Germany became under the Third Reich. His work on the case wins him the ire of the Gestapo. With Major Wilhelm Berger and his Gestapo goons breathing down his neck, he gets caught between doing his job and war. Pursuing the case forces Peter to make choices that endanger himself and those he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurel Highlands Publishing
• Release date: Oct 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781941087404

A.S. Xavier

A.S. Xavier is a lover of all things historical and has a passion for learning. Despite sharing a wide range of interests and hobbies, he finds he always seems to gravitate back to History. He lives in Calgary where he has been teaching History at a local high school for the better part of twenty years.

Book preview

BERLIN

SEPTEMBER

1943

1

The two uniformed Orpos came smartly to attention when he got out of the Volkswagen. He paused, his eyes narrowing on the two. Gestapo, he thought. The pounders only paid attention to military protocol when the Gestapo were present. Even though he was a captain, formalities such as the stiff armed salute he was now getting from these two were never a high priority, at least for him.

Where are they?

The older one on the left jerked his head, too lazy to point, and said, Up there. Indicating the apartment block behind him. Third floor, sir.

He nodded and made his way into the apartment building. Two more pounders came to attention, but he ignored them and headed up the stairs. By the second flight, he was taking them two at a time.

Captain Peter Stressler was fit for a man in his forties. His body responded as if it were still on the parade grounds of the Willenstrasse barracks. In many ways, he felt he was more fit now than he was at seventeen drilling to be a soldier of the Great War.

Being fit was one thing and although he took care of himself, he still felt his vulnerability most keenly. Or perhaps, mortality was the better word. 1918 had a way of creeping into his mind whenever he felt these bouts of youthful energy. Still, he had his health and a full head of hair that made him the envy of many of his contemporaries. Even the shot of grey above his ears did not diminish their approval.

He made it to the third floor and took a moment to smooth down his clothes. He was about to straighten his tie when he thought better of it. Who was he trying to impress, the Gestapo? He shrugged and straightened his tie, angry for his capitulation. He stepped through the stairway door into the hallway. The pounder that guarded it turned and snapped to attention. He ignored him and made his way to a knot of people further down the hallway. A head popped out of the group, recognising him as he approached. A hand beckoned him over as he dismissed the surrounding men.

Getting them to canvas the floor, he said absently when Peter joined him. He fumbled for a cigarette, offering one to the captain who refused.

Why did you call me, Johan? I thought Bauman was on roll tonight.

Johan shrugged. Bauman is a political animal. He got wind the Gestapo were involved and suddenly went home ill. Johan paused to light his cigarette. I’m protected and you don’t give a shit. That’s why. He took a drag; a cloud of thick smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke like a dragon hissing steam. Besides, you’ll solve it. Bauman couldn’t find his own ass if his two hands were holding it. And besides, it’s a bad one. He jammed his thumb behind him as he continued, Woman. ‘Bout thirty-two give or take. Took two to the head and five more to the body. Gestapo are inside.

Why Gestapo?

Wife of a decorated SS officer. Captain Thomas Haubner of the Totenkopf Division. Perhaps the Gestapo are worried how the Volk will react to the murder of a hero’s wife.

Peter looked around to see if anyone overheard.

Hush, Johan.

Johan grinned in response, reaching into his pocket to pull out a flask.

Peter frowned, but left him to make his way into the apartment.

Two black uniformed officers of the Gestapo stood at the door. Uniformed Gestapo meant an officer was present and an important one at that. They asked for his papers, not quite keeping their contempt for him off their faces or their disapproval for his rumpled civilian clothes. They made a show of studying them, and for a wicked moment, Peter entertained the thought that they could not read. They finally nodded for him to enter, already returning to their conversation as if he never existed.

Such was the new Reich and its Security Services. Hierarchy was everything: with the Gestapo at the top and everyone else at the bottom.

He walked through salon towards the small hallway to the bedroom. Stopping at the doorway, he took in the bloody corpse lying on the bed. The silk bed sheets were red with her blood but the body had been placed as if it were in a coffin. Her arms were folded over her breasts and her legs were straight. Three distinctive pools of blood had marked out her breasts and sexual organs under a white chemise and bloomers. He noted the position of the body and stepped into the room.

He noticed the spent cartridges by the foot of the bed. Two were close together while another lay further away from the others. He scanned the floor, ignoring the broken picture frames around the bed, looking for other spent cartridges. Within seconds, he saw the other four strewn in a small but discernible pattern. He bent down to retrieve one. Flipping over the casing, he saw the letters and the number stamped on the bottom. He looked at the primer and noted the dent. He placed the casing in his pocket then bent down, picking up another to join its companion.

There was nothing left of the face. Two sprays of bloody brains dominated the headboard and the pillow where the remains of her head lay. Her hands rested on her breasts as if covering them. He lifted one hand then the other. Bullets shot at close range mangled her breasts. He replaced her hands, then studied the proximity of the shell casings on the bed. Satisfied, he returned to the body, taking out his pocketknife as he bent over her.

He inserted his pocketknife in the waistband of her slip and lifted it up to inspect the mess that was her destroyed sexual organs. Noticing movement at the bedroom door, he looked up at the Gestapo officer standing there, watching him. Peter matched his stare, taking in his blue eyes and the blond hair showing beneath the death’s head cap. A perfect Aryan; poster boy of the master race, thought Peter.

Peter disregarded the officer to return to his work. Lifting her bloomers higher, he ignored the overpowering smell of urine and blood. He clasped her leg and lifted it, looking again at the wounds. Satisfied, he placed the leg back and replaced her bloomers hoping to restore what little dignity that robbed her even in death.

He looked up at the doorway but the officer was gone. He was relieved. They would not interfere, at least, not yet. He turned his attention to the shattered picture frame strewn on the floor. Grabbing the frame, he shook away the broken glass and looked at the picture it contained. It was a wedding picture of an SS officer and his bride. Frau Haubner had a smile on her face as she clung to her husband on what must have been the happiest day of her life. He looked back at the dead girl on the bed, and wondered what story started with a smiling bride so full of promise to this tragic end. He took it out of the frame and tucked into his overcoat. He paused, then grabbed another picture form the ground and put it in another pocket of his overcoat. He left the room, making his way back to the hallway and to Johan who worked on another cigarette.

Did the Orpos move the body?

Johan shook his head. She had not been touched by anyone until you arrived.

He took a moment to process that information. When was the body discovered?

Johan stuffed the cigarette in his mouth and caught the attention of a pounder standing off in the distance. He beckoned him over.

When was the body discovered? he asked.

We got a call from the landlady about a disturbance. She said she heard an argument between two people followed by gunfire. It took us about fifteen minutes to get here. The door was locked when we arrived and no one answered the door when we knocked.

Locked?

Yes. We couldn’t hear anything so we got the landlady to open the door for us. We noticed the body soon after. It was about eight in the evening.

Did anybody else hear anything?

The uniformed policeman nodded. All the neighbours on this floor said they heard loud voices like an argument before the shots were fired.

He nodded to Johan and Johan dismissed the policeman.

A competent pounder? What are the odds?

Johan laughed. Sometimes, you luck out.

Peter removed his hat to scratch his head. She hasn’t been dead for more than a couple of hours.

Johan nodded in agreement before adding, Neighbours said they saw no one enter or leave all day. But then again, most of them spent the day and part of the night in the air shelter. I doubt they saw anything.

Peter frowned. The raid last night by the Tommies hit the other side of the city.

Johan nodded. Again, Meyer has failed to protect the Fatherland.

Peter ignored the barb against Goering.

Can you please have the landlady join us? I would like to ask her a few questions.

Johan waved to a pounder down the hall and conveyed his instructions. It wasn’t long before the he returned with the landlady in tow.

Frumpish, with lines mapping her face, she looked about for the feared black uniform. When she saw that it was just Peter in his rumpled overcoat, she visibly relaxed.

Peter bowed to her. Thank you, Frau…?

Straccsen.

…Straccsen for talking to me. I know you have had a difficult day. This won’t take long.

Frau Straccsen nodded.

Did you go to the air raid shelter?

She again nodded.

Did Frau Haubner join you there?

No. Frau Haubner did not, said the older lady. In fact, she rarely ever goes to the air raid shelter even though I have complained to the Block Leader. Nothing has been done about it.

She spoke with the authority of the block gossip; the kind the Nazis used to terrorize the populace. Peter kept the disgust for her off his face and his voice as he spoke.

Thank you, Frau Straccsen. You have been most helpful.

Frau Straccsen raised her eyebrows in surprise. But Peter turned from her while Johan signalled the pounder to take her away.

He straightened his coat and said to Johan, Finish up here, Johan. I’ll meet you later at the station.

Johan frowned. That’s it? No questions about what she heard?

The pounders already established that there had been argument followed by shots. What could she add to that? Besides, it had to have been with someone familiar. Someone who had access to the flat.

Why the questions on the air raid shelter?

When Fraus are cheating on their husbands, what better way to avoid nosy neighbours than during an air raid?

Johan nodded in comprehension. So, you think she was killed by her lover?

Peter shook his head.

No.

No? Then, who, if not her lover?

Peter put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Why do you think the Gestapo are here?

Johan stared uncomprehending until the realisation of what Peter was saying hit him.

Bravo! So, the great Peter Stressler has solved the case and in less than an hour no less! In the old days, they would have given you a medal.

This isn’t the old days and you would do well to remember that.

Johan snickered, In the old days, we would have rolled those strutting black clad clowns and thrown them in jail along with the commies.

Peter gave up trying to admonish his friend. He left him with a wave and headed down the stairs.

It didn’t take him long to reach the ground floor. As he made his way to the entrance, two black uniformed men from the apartment stepped in front of him.

Captain Stressler. The Major would like to speak with you.

Without waiting for a response, the Gestapo officer turned and marched out of the building. The young officer made his way to a parked Mercedes at the bottom of the steps to the apartment building. He opened the door and clicked his heels. Peter stared into the dark vehicle, filling with sudden trepidation. It was the Gestapo after all. He hesitated momentarily, and then entered the vehicle.

It took him a moment to adjust to the dim interior. On the seat beside him sat the Major he had seen at the doorway of the bedroom. He sat with one leg draped over the other, his manicured hands holding his leather gloves rested on his knee. Blue eyes regarded Peter. He wondered if they practiced that look at Gestapo school. Being the invited guest, he waited for the Major to speak.

Captain Peter Stressler, I presume?

He nodded and asked, Yes, and you are?

Major Wilhelm Berger of the Gestapo, he responded, smiling. The smile, however, never made it to the rest of his face, making it look like a grimace.

What have you learned from your investigation? The Major paused on the word investigation with a hint of contempt creeping into his voice.

Peter frowned at the man’s arrogance. The Gestapo had no jurisdiction in criminal homicides, but he knew better than that. Nazi Germany wasn’t made for rules. It wove an intricate dance of favour and fear, carrot and the stick. He kept his voice neutral as he spoke.

The victim had been sitting in her bed when one nine millimetre parabellum round from a Walther P38 struck her in the face. Her head bounced off her headboard from the impact, indicating she was in the process of getting out of bed. He shot her once more in the face, and then, the shooter climbed on top of her to shoot her in both breasts then three more into her lower regions. The killer then took the time to rearrange the body.

Why is that? asked Berger, interrupting him.

I’m not sure, mused Peter. If I were to venture a guess, he felt remorse. He tried to restore some of her dignity by covering up what he had done.

Berger arched an eyebrow.

Neighbours heard arguing and sounds of a fight before the shots. No one saw the shooter leave, but before he left, he locked the door to the flat.

Is there a chance that this was a burglary?

Peter paused, wondering at the absurdity of the question given what he had just told him.

No. Nothing was taken. Neighbours reported sounds of an argument. It would account for the broken picture frames around the bedroom. A burglar would not have smashed up pictures or picked a fight with a surprised Frau. Besides, the weapon used in the crime was military issue.

Come now, Herr Captain. A Luger—

A P38, interrupted Peter.

—A P38 is a common enough pistol. Others could have committed this crime.

Peter shrugged. Maybe so, Herr Major.

Peter felt the disapproval as he held Berger’s icy stare.

You don’t believe this to be true, do you? said the Major.

Peter shifted in his seat. He dug into his pocket and handed Berger one of the spent casings he had picked up from the floor.

Look, Major. Lugers and P38s are the sole property of the Wehrmacht and the Waffen SS. But, one way you can tell for sure that the pistol used in this crime was a military one is in the bullets used to kill Frau Haubner. Do you see the stamp on the casing? It has the letters E-M-P. That is a company that produces ammunition exclusively for the military. The nine and the S-t-plus indicate the type of ammo it is.

The Major looked at the bullet in his hand. You can tell all this by looking at the casing?

Yes.

The Major sniffed. And how do you know if it’s a Walther P38 and not another type of pistol?

Peter pointed to the bottom of the casing. Do you see the primer? When the firing pin strikes, it leaves a distinctive mark. Every make of pistol leaves a different mark on the primer. The indentation you see there can only be caused by a Walther P38.

The Major lowered the shell and looked at Peter as if to see if he was pulling one on him. Peter stared back, keeping his face neutral.

Whoever killed Frau Haubner knew her.

The Major regarded Peter, tapping the empty casing on his knee. It can’t be her husband.

Peter waited for the Major to continue.

He has returned from the front, but was with his comrades at the time of the killing.

How long has he been back?

That’s not important. He is not a suspect.

Major, his wife was most likely having an affair…

The Major lifted his hand to silence Peter.

Captain Haubner is a decorated war hero respected by his fellow officers and his men. There is a shortage of good competent officers at the front. If you believe the Frau was having an affair, then I suggest you orient your investigation accordingly.

Peter looked away to hide his disappointment. The Major made a show of putting on his gloves.

Captain Stressler. I am ordering you to cease your investigation and to give me any evidence you may have gathered.

Peter did not move.

Come now, Captain. Do you wish for me to order my men to search you?

Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of Frau Haubner with her husband in happier times and gave it to Berger.

Check his pistol, said Peter. Berger stared at him, uncomprehending. Bring him in and check his pistol. If it has been recently fired, you will be able to tell.

Berger dropped the casing into his pocket and then rapped on the window. The door swung open.

Have a nice evening, Captain. Heil Hitler.

Peter stepped from the vehicle and waited for the Mercedes to disappear before pulling another picture from his overcoat. SS Captain Haubner of the Totenkopf Division stared back at him. He put the picture back into his coat and let his finger linger on the other casings. It was time to find the killer.

2

Peter spent the next four hours finding out where Captain Haubner, decorated war hero, was holed up. A quick stop at the SS-FHA in Berlin established that Captain Haubner had returned from the front on leave three days ago. Time enough to have visited his wife and kill her.

A haze of purplish smoke hung from the ceiling, its tendrils lazily arching down the streams to their sources. Those sources were quite drunk. Their SS uniforms dishevelled and the smell of vomit lingered from their table. He glanced around the room noticing several other SS officers passed out, bottles littered the floor. Women dressed in undergarments that left nothing to the imagination were also strewn about like litter. He had found the right place.

It hadn’t been that hard to find. Several calls to police stations around the city identified the most likely spot for trouble and complaints. Soldiers on leave tended to cause trouble, but none were worse than the Waffen SS. It hadn’t been this bad, not in the beginning, the heady days of 1939. Then, they invaded Russia and everything changed. Russia had not fallen like a house of cards, and the men who had returned from battle were not the supermen German newspapers had said they were. The number of domestic violence cases, stabbings, and suicides he and others in the police have had to deal with was evidence enough.

He had canvassed all the known haunts of the Waffen SS, narrowing it down to this dump: the domain of the Totenkopf division. Peter tried to recall what he knew of the division. He remembered reading somewhere that it was made up former concentration camp guards and led by Theodore Eicke. He had been the former commander of the concentration camp at Dachau. The newspapers were filled with tales of their heroism and exploits. But he also remembered reading the casualty lists and that they suffered more than most divisions in the German army. In summation, they were tough bastards who were prone to violence. He looked about the room in disgust as the pride of Germany lay in its own vomit, drinking to forget the mantle of hero bestowed by the Volk.

Music played from the phonograph, Edith Piaf’s gritty voice lamented the loss of another lover. The discordant notes wafted on the gloomy scene before him. His presence changed the atmosphere in the room though the men at the table did not move. He could sense their barely contained desire for violence, like a beast ready to pounce. Even drunk, they carried an air of death like a companion they all accepted. He approached the table, his hand on his Walther PPK in his overcoat.

Hello, boys, he said. I won’t insult your intelligence. I’m not even going to try. You know why I am here. So, where is he?

No one answered.

Peter grimaced. Tell me, does the army still have its punishment battalions? Serving in those is like a death sentence is it not? he said, reaching for a half-empty glass on the table.

Do you think you can frighten us, Pounder?

Peter looked at the man who spoke. The lieutenant hadn’t shaved in a while; his eyes were red with deep dark circles to accompany them. He laughed, showing a row of broken teeth. We’ve been to Russia!

Those around the table laughed.

He lifted the glass to his nose; the not quite fermented smell of cheap alcohol assaulted his nostrils.

Suit yourself. I’ve done my time in the trenches like you, so your horseshit about Russia does not impress me. Where is Captain Haubner?

The lieutenant said, You served in the Great War? Well, my friend, a drink to you!

The others joined in their comrade’s joke as they downed their glass. He wiped his vomit-stained sleeve across his mouth and said, But your trenches are nothing like the shit in Russia!

Peter put down the glass.

Have it your way. When they come for him, it will be with a platoon. They won’t care much if he has his friends with him, he lied.

Fuck off, Pounder, sneered another man at the table. Do you know his slut of a wife was banging a fucking Frenchie while we were fighting to keep Germany safe?

Peter waited. Never mind that her husband was probably ‘banging’ camp whores the whole time he was at the Front. Peter brushed the cynical thought away as he watched the lieutenant, old beyond his years, wrestle with his internal dilemma.

Will you promise not to harm him?

The others at the table raised their heads expectantly.

Come now. You are all soldiers. If he wanted to avoid this, he wouldn’t be here.

The men at the table returned to their drinks. The lieutenant’s head signalled to a door on his right.

Peter nodded as he took his PPK out and cocked it. He stared at the men around the table, but they did not look up from their drinks.

Vodka. That shit will kill you. Swinging his pistol at the men at the table, he continued, Now, get out.

They staggered to their feet. He waited until they had cleared the room, taking the others with them. Edith Piaf was his only companion as he made his way across the room. Sounds of someone crying filtered through the door. He tried the knob. It was unlocked. It would be a simple matter to charge in catching him unawares, but he hesitated. He knew what kind of man he was dealing with. He stepped off to the side of the door then knocked.

A voice from the inside said, Come in.

Peter turned the knob and swung open the door, revealing Captain Haubner sitting on a bed. He was without a shirt, his pink flesh painted on bone and muscle. An ugly scar travelled the down his chest, ending somewhere below his stomach. He was drunk; his eyes glazed with madness or drink, perhaps both. The woman on her knees between his legs looked up, streaks of mascara relayed the terror held within her eyes. The P38 pistol at her head was reason enough. Haubner took a long swig from his vodka bottle. The liquor ran down his face as if the body itself rejected the offering. Red eyes blinked.

Welcome, Pounder! Welcome to my home! he slurred.

Peter entered the room, his pistol at his side. Haubner giggled, taking another drink and then, he poured the rest of the bottle on the woman. She squirmed under the shower, whimpering. He laughed and tossed the bottle against the wall, smashing it.

Do you know that all women are whores?

His empty hand grabbed her hair, twisting her tear-stained face upwards and caressing her with his gun.

Peter took a seat opposite him; his pistol rested on his knees. No, Haubner. Women are not all whores. Your mother was not a whore.

The SS man blinked twice as if to shake away his drunkenness, then he snorted, letting go of the woman.

So, you have seen my wife, I take it?

Peter leaned back in his chair, saying nothing.

Perhaps Frenchie won’t find her so pretty now. His words became mumbled as he spoke. Slumping in his chair, he shut his eyes; his hands came up to rub them.

Did you know she was pregnant? She told me just before I shot her. Two months. I have been gone for six! Haubner pulled hard on the woman’s hair, bringing a fresh round of tears and snivels from her.

Well, Haubner. You sure solved that problem.

Haubner laughed, throwing back his head. Peter’s bullet smashed through his temple slamming Haubner’s body against the bed. The woman screamed as she fled the room. Her wail faded like a siren in the night, leaving Peter alone to contemplate the tragic story of Captain Haubner and his wife.

3

Peter sipped his tea after his brief narration of events to his wife. She stared at him, stunned by the news. She put her cup on the table, folding her hands onto her lap as she looked away. Years of reading his wife’s moods told him that she was displeased with him. She did not like it when her carefully ordered world was challenged.

You shot him in self-defence. Surely, they must be able to see that.

Facts are never the issue when the Gestapo are involved.

She frowned. Her lips drew back into two thin bands as if she were about to admonish him. He cut off her off before she could speak, hoping to prevent an argument. Suffering through another would have shovelled more dirt on top of a mostly buried coffin.

Anyway, a man died. They need to take their time in reviewing the case. It was a criminal investigation, so I was within my rights. The Gestapo and the Kriminalpolizei will be arguing about jurisdiction for a while before they get around to me, he said, hoping to assuage her. "Maybe