Dachstaht

By Emil Metallic

In September, 1939, Germany’s Third Reich was approaching its zenith. An economic recovery-turned-expansion was bolting the nation to a level of prosperity and international prestige it’d not enjoyed since before the First World War. German armies verged on total victory in Poland were announcing the nation’s newly reminted power, and final response to the hated Treaty of Versailles, as little else could have. To a population grown overly familiar with the bitter humiliations of defeat, the future looked bright.
But all is not well. In the small town of Dachstaht, nestled deep in the Bavarian forest, bodies are turning up all over the place. If Arlen Skunk, hapless chief of the local police department, doesn’t figure out what’s going on, and do it quickly, he could be next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emil Metallic
• Release date: Feb 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005604516

Emil Metallic

Emil Metallic writes stories based on people and places he knows or has known. Names are changed to protect the author.

Book preview

Dachstaht

By Emil Metallic

Copyright 2022

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is copyrighted property of the author and may not be

reproduced or redistributed without written consent of the author.

"In the coming war we shall fight not only on the land, on the sea, and in the air. There will be a fourth theatre of operations, as well: the Home Front. This fourth, internal, Front will decide the continued existence or irrevocable death of the German nation." ~ Heinrich Himmler, September, 1937

I

September 26th, 1939

Arlen Skunk stood in the gray morning light, sucking the life out of a fresh cigarette. The overcast sky hung low, remnants of an overnight storm, threatening more rain. The air was cold. Forty minutes earlier he’d been asleep in his bed. Now, without stopping even for coffee, he was on the edge of a muddy dirt road in the middle of nowhere in the Bavarian countryside. At the bottom of the ditch in front of him a dead soldier, SS-Totenkopf by looks of the uniform, lay face down in the tall grass. A small, dark hole in the back of the soldier’s head contrasted nicely with the short, Aryan blonde hair surrounding it. Two patrolmen waited next to the car, a third stood a little closer, by a motorcycle. Skunk dropped the cigarette, stepped it out, and lit another. How’d we find him?

Anonymous tip, replied the patrolman by the motorcycle. Somebody called the Desk.

Skunk took a drag off the cigarette. Get a hold of the camp, he ordered. "Tell them I want somebody out here, now. Escort them back."

The patrolman climbed on the motorcycle and drove away. Skunk wandered along the edge of the road, looking at the dirt. About 20 feet up, he stopped, dropped the cigarette, lit another, and wandered back. Twenty feet past the body he turned around and made the trip again. Nearly an hour passed before the messenger returned.

A truck from the camp followed the motorcycle. The motorcycle pulled up next to Skunk. The truck swerved by, rolled to a stop a little further along the road. Half-a-dozen SS men, Totenkopf, jumped out of the back and spread across the site. When a perimeter was established, Sergeant-Major Gruber climbed from the cab, leaving a driver to wait inside. Gruber was a giant, more than six and a half feet tall, stout, like the trunk of a tree, with dark, brooding eyes, and a wide, square jaw. He stood a moment, conspicuously checking his people, then moved toward Skunk.

Skunk absentmindedly watched the big man approach, impressed to see a sergeant-major rather than one of the pencil-necked junior officers the camp usually sent out to deal with local authorities. The sergeant-major stepped up and the two men stood a moment, side by side, looking at the ditch. What the hell is this? Gruber finally asked.

It looks like one of yours, replied Skunk. He quickly added, We haven’t touched him, heading off the sergeant-major’s second question, whatever it may have been.

Gruber waded down into the ditch, straddled the body, and leaned in for a closer look. It’s a pretty big hole, he said.

What made it? asked Skunk.

Hard to say, replied Gruber. Grabbing a handful of shoulder, he flipped the dead man over. The body was stiff like a board. The left eye and nose were gone, replaced by a gapping exit wound. Gruber straightened up. What a mess.

How long has he been dead? asked Skunk.

Gruber rubbed his chin. Judging from the rigor mortis, I’d say ten, twelve hours. Maybe a little more but, for sure, not less.

It was cold last night, suggested Skunk.

Not like this, returned Gruber. He bent over, again, and pulled identification papers from the left pocket of the dead man’s tunic. From the right pocket he pulled a small bundle of money. Next of kin, he explained, tucking the money into his own shirt pocket. He straightened up examining a gold pocket watch with a metal key attached at the end of a short chain.

What’s the key? asked Skunk.

Footlocker, replied Gruber. Back on the road he opened the identification booklet, looked a moment, and handed it to the chief inspector.

Hamill, Ernst, corporal, read Skunk. Do you know him?

I’ve got more than 800 of these guys, not counting those processing through to sub camps, replied Gruber. Excepting screw-ups, they’re all the same to me. How did he wind up at the bottom of a ditch?

No idea, shrugged Skunk. No tire tracks, no footprints, no drag marks. The rain washed everything away.

Maybe they shot him right here, suggested Gruber.

Maybe, agreed Skunk.

Gruber frowned. For somebody who’s supposed to solve crimes, you don’t seem to be taking this one very serious, Herr Chief Inspector.

Skunk lit another cigarette. Sometimes it’s best to know what you’re looking at before you look at all.

Gruber nodded, grim. "Herr Stieber is expecting a report.

I’ll take that key, said Skunk.

Gruber detached the key, handed it to Skunk, and dropped the watch into his own pocket. What about the commandant? he asked.

I’ll talk to him, replied Skunk.

Gruber turned to leave.

Take Corporal Hamill with you, added Skunk.

Gruber barked a few orders. The SS men tossed the body into the back of the truck and climbed in behind it. With a final glance around the crime scene, the sergeant-major folded himself back into the cab and they drove away. Skunk watched them go, then walked over to the patrolmen. Are there any farms on this road?

One, answered a patrolman, about half a mile back. We passed it on our way in.

They climbed into the car, Skunk in back. Take me to the farm, he ordered.

****

The farm was merely a small house attached to an only slightly larger barn. A wisp of smoke, nearly invisible against the gray sky, rose from the chimney. A few goats and chickens rambled about the yard. Skunk and his patrolmen left the car on the road, circled the building once on foot, then burst in through the front door, unannounced. An old man and woman seated at a table in the center of the room, small breakfast in front of each, jumped from their chairs. What is this? they demanded. What is the meaning of this?

The patrolmen leveled their weapons.

Sit, ordered Skunk. He smiled reassuringly. Please, finish your meal. No matter what happens, you will never be worse off for having had a good breakfast.

The old couple settled nervously back into their chairs. The woman fixed her eyes on the bowl on the table in front of her and froze. The old man glared at the chief inspector. What do you want? he asked, helplessly.

Ignoring the farmer, Skunk spoke to the patrolmen who set to searching the premises. As they worked, he strolled around the table, looking at the room. It was deep, with a low ceiling and no windows. A kerosene lamp hung from a rafter above the table almost filled the space with a sort of dingy, yellow glow. A shelf, like a workbench, ran the length of one side, with firewood stacked beneath. A large brazier sat in a corner in the back next to a door that, ostensibly, accessed the rest of the building. The wall above the shelf was decorated with Nazi memorabilia and a large portrait of Hitler: souvenirs from a rally in Munich or Nuremburg, no doubt. Hanging along the wall opposite Herr Hitler were framed photographs of four proud, young brownshirts.

One of the patrolmen presented an old, double-barrel shotgun. The gun had clearly not been fired, nor apparently even looked at, for months, maybe years. Skunk dropped his cigarette, briefly examined the shotgun, and handed it back to the patrolman. He addressed the old man. Why do you own this gun?

The old man was flummoxed. I used to hunt birds, he stammered. Sometimes rabbits. My sons hunted, too.

Skunk turned to the old woman still staring at the bowl on the table in front of her. Where are your sons, Mother?

The old woman did not react, as if she hadn’t heard the question.

With the tip of a finger under her chin, Skunk lifted her face toward his.

"My sons serve the Führer," declared the old woman, indignant.

Skunk held her eye a moment, then withdrew his finger. The old woman resumed her stare at the bowl. Skunk lit a fresh cigarette, and returned to the old man, who was now, also, staring at the bowl on the table in front of him. Where are your sons? he asked.

The old man lifted his head. In Poland, he replied, proudly.

All of them?

All of them.

No daughters, no youngsters?

No, replied the old man. We live alone now.

Skunk nodded, slightly. A farm, even a small one like this, must be a great deal of work for an old couple like yourselves, he observed.

We work very hard, confirmed the old man.

Have you got a telephone? asked Skunk.

A telephone!? exclaimed the farmer. We are miles from the nearest line. We don’t even have electricity.

Skunk tossed another glance around the room. Indeed. He turned for the door.

What about this? asked the patrolman, holding up the shotgun.

Leave it, replied the chief inspector.

****

During the ride from the farm to the camp Skunk thought about the dead soldier. The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to do with it. He’d been the law in Dachstaht for more than a decade but had never solved, nor even investigated, a crime. Nobody ever expected him to. He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t even a real policeman. His father worked at a factory and, as a boy, Skunk assumed he would grow up to work in a factory, as well.

Instead, a war broke out. Skunk went with the first wave and spent all four years in the trenches, on the Western Front. Twice decorated, twice wounded. After the first couple of months he didn’t think about what he might do after the war because, like most of the men there, he didn’t expect he’d live to see it. Then, one day, a major came out from headquarters, gave them the news, and told everybody to go home. Skunk landed in Munich, working as a bully-for-hire to support himself.

It wasn’t politics that attracted Skunk to the Nazis. It was Hitler, personally. Hitler had been in the trench. He understood men like Skunk, understood their anger. But where charisma brought him in, Skunk’s continued involvement with Nazis was about money. The Party needed reliable outsiders who didn’t ask questions and paid well for their services. Only after Hitler got out of jail and split the Party in ’24 did they start leaning on Skunk to join. It never occurred to him when he finally did, in early ’26, that his mid-five-digits Party number would give near mythic seniority among the rank and file when Party membership swelled into millions just a few years later.

About 18 months after he joined the Party, Skunk accidentally killed a prominent Weimar politician in a bar fight. At a time when barroom brawls were so common police didn’t bother responding to most, it should have blown over, just another body among hundreds. But this guy was connected in Berlin and pressure to find who did it came from there. Rather than risk Skunk’s arrest, the Party hid him out in a small town a few hours east of the city.

Dachstaht was a town of roughly 1200 people nestled on the edge of Germany’s Bavarian Forest, near the Czech border. With exceptions for geography and human nature, it looked about the same as any other rural Bavarian town. Same clock tower. Same half-timber houses. Same taverns. Same butcher. Same baker. Same blacksmith. Same fat bürgermeister.

It was an old town. Dachstahters unable to trace their heritage back more than six or seven generations in the church register were still considered newcomers, even outsiders, by some. Legend claimed the local castle, a relic from the 11th century, had been the stronghold of some early Teutonic king. But it was an empty legend. There were no kings, queens, or heroes. The castle was never attacked or besieged. Rather, one morning, roughly 35 years after it was built, the garrison simply marched away and never returned. The handful of peasants left behind, sires of what eventually became the town of Dachstaht, stayed simply because they had no place else to go. Nobody knows why they named their town Dachstaht.

The Party told Skunk he’d have to remain in Dachstaht a month, maybe six weeks. But the story refused to die. Every time things began settling down newspaper editorials demanded justice for the dead father of three. To kill time, Skunk imported a handful of cronies from Munich, recruited a few local thugs, and began shaking down the town’s businessmen, politicians, misfits, and assorted undesirables. Three months into his exile, Skunk’s operation was firmly established. The Party was so impressed they had him installed as Chief of the local constabulary.

When SS-Obergruppenführer Himmler became Chief of Police for all Bavaria in 1933, constables were incorporated into the police state. As senior Party member in the district, Skunk was appointed Chief Inspector in Charge of Police, Dachstaht district. With the title came a respectable salary, four patrol cars, a pair of motorcycles, a panel truck, and a new police station; complete with dank cells in the basement. Skunk’s thugs became patrolmen and traded their chains, clubs, and knives for jackboots, nightsticks, and standard issue Schutzstaffel firearms. His extortion racket morphed into an insurance scam. When the police state was absorbed by the SS roughly a year later, Skunk and his little fiefdom were absorbed with it. The SS gave him another raise.

In late 1936 a colonel came out with a survey crew. Before they left, the colonel told Skunk a concentration camp was going to be built a couple miles south of the town. The camp opened 13 months later.

****

Skunk settled back into the car seat and watched the countryside roll by. His gut told him the SS-Totenkopfverbände, itself, was behind Corporal Hamill’s death: ranks purging a disloyal or otherwise suspect member, or something along those lines. It was, of course, possible a person, or persons, from the town was behind it but he was quick to dismiss that idea, at least for the time being. Through all his years in Dachstaht, excepting crimes committed by his own people and patrolmen, and shotguns, Skunk had never heard of a firearm used in the commission of any crime in or around the town, including murder. Further, even allowing that the night’s rain had been a lucky break, this was too clean, too well executed, for the local talent. A Dachstahter, possibly a small group of them, would’ve simply beat the man to death with whatever came easily to hand, taken what money and valuables they found, and left the body where it fell.

II

Konzentrationslager #34 opened on November 2nd, 1937. Nobody in the town of Dachstaht thought much about the 8,000 or so inmates the camp was built to accommodate because nobody ever saw them. Two miles away is easy to ignore. But everybody knew the camp was there, and everybody knew what it was. By 1936 concentration camps were a common feature in German politics. The regime itself made sure everybody knew what they were for. The people of Dachstaht were not asked how they felt about having such a facility in their own backyard but, beyond a few early concerns, mostly about security, local reaction to the project had been almost universally positive, especially after everybody realized how much money could be involved.

Even before construction began, hotels and hostels were filled with project managers, engineers, and staff. Conscript laborers wouldn’t arrive until the camp was prepared to house and maintain them, so initial construction crews were drawn from the local population, and fairly paid. Besides the camp itself, they built the roads and rail lines that connected it to the rest of the world. To the extent possible, material for the project was locally sourced. Local sawmills and brickyards ran second, then third shifts keeping up with demand. Local farmers fed everybody at premium prices. After the war people liked to say they didn’t know anything about those camps. But the people of Dachstaht knew all about theirs. They built it.

Egon Stieber was an odd choice for command of a concentration camp. Not from