Under the Sky-Signs

  I have been left by German law, a lengthy document which chronicles a man's life, his ambitions, his dreams and the final moments leading up to his death. For the rest which I have read, I can only say that this journal has allowed me to glimpse beneath the surface of the prisoner's facade and reap the rewards of honesty with oneself as with no other. I am uncomfortable never-the-less... Perhaps I play the role of the noncommitted observer, perhaps he has made me into a voyeur of sorts and it is in that other place, laughing at me. I could envision that happening...
  I have come to the conclusion that by accepting into my care the personal effects of a War Criminal, that I have entered into his world too closely and can no longer remain in as objective as a psychologist should. After these many months of work with the living man, I am afraid that I will be susceptible to judging a dead individual on the basis of his crimes alone without once considering the very human factors which led him to these serious consequences.
In the aftermath of total war, we are victims of such judgements. We are reliant on the hard evidence of blood and suffering. We are required to hear the voices of the subjugated and the tortured before we may listen to the story of their methodical masters.
  If all of this justice which is a victor's preogative has been meted out- for good or ill- I do not know- then the world may rest but not I. I have a new task.
  It is with relief that I have found in Nuremberg, the city of judgement, a brother to the War Criminal, who I will visit with this journal. He has agreed to see me but beyond that, makes no promises. I hope that we may examine this material with a clear head and an open mind and when we are done, I may be able to pass William Hasenbrucke's personal testimony on to him.
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  "So far from fear, so close to death..." As if having second thoughts in completing the words to the Stormtroop ballad, right arm kept deliberately stifled by black cord so as not to permit the illegal Nazi salute, William Hasenbrucke shouted in the direction of the reporters:"Heil! Everything for Germany!" He smiled a boyish smile rather like an actor under the floodlights of the gymnasium, then the hood roughly applied, the thick, knotted rope, then the trapdoor banging open, bouncing against the force of the plummeting body, then death. It all took less than sixty seconds to snuff out this particular life.
  His corpse was relaxed, expression serene, they told me. Faint traces of blood around the lips which were noted by the medical examiners as a contrast to the battered Field Marshall Keitel and the broken jaw of Ernst Kaltenbrunner. "...Much bigger men..."- more important to history. Nothing else. He looked as if he had fallen asleep  though throughout the eighteen months of criminal proceedings, a living, struggling William Hasenbrucke had found deep sleep in Nuremberg Prison last on his list of priorities. I had lost much sleep myself over this man and his ghosts.
  "Not a bad death." I told his brother. "It was a concept he wrote about often in his journals."I had had the eerie feeling upon first meeting the U.S. Air Corps Lt. that here stood William ten years after his death. It could not be helped. Hans-Peter's blue eyes had a harder, more confident gaze. His frame was stockier, stronger, than his prisoner-brother whose silent case of nerves had wasted his body in his rejection of surrender. Hans-Peter also stood an inch taller in his jump boots, straighter in his required role as victor of Nuremberg but the resemblance of family was striking, startling, to the psychologist who had looked inside the mind of the younger William and seen the shadow-reflections, the influences, of the older Hans-Peter.
  "Excuse me if I seem to be staring but you will accept my left-handed compliment, I'm sure. You could have been a perfect candidate for the Waffen SS."
  He shook my hand with a nod of his head and he answered me in precise Hochdeutsch: "I take no offense for myself. The only offense I can really find now-a-days is when I have to apologize for my brother."
  The blue eyes remained cold. One could not easily see what lay behind them. He meant what he said,this American officer, having endured a long interrogation for the prosecuting team from the IMT and a voluntary suspension of his military duties to be on the wainting list of potential witnesses. At his brother's trial and throughout the preliminaries, though approached by various individuals, he had consistently refused to speak with Defense counsel, an attitude duly recorded and expanded upon by the Allied press organizations. In the end he was not called as a witness. His life, so he said, had been threatened by SS veterans and he received hate mail almost daily. Only a sworn affidavit was read in court, evidence that William had hotly refuted as lies. I wonder if he knew how damaging his testimony had been or that his life had never been in any danger.
  "They say my brother was mentally ill at the end of the war." Hans-Peter stated flatly. "That is what I shall tell my parents when they ask. All things considered it will be easier that way."
  I could not accept this lack of compassion as final. "He spoke unpopular truths but so did all the others. If you knew towards the end that he wept for his transgressions, wept freely and openly in front of me, behavior that was unmanly and degenerate to the man that he had become... Not one of his co-defendants could blame him as he blamed himself... Few were that strong. He died bravely in uniform as a German soldier, without a blessing, without spiritual comfort, without descendants. I could not be there but I know all of these things... I made inquiries of witnesses... I had to... especially now since William has left me... a virtual stranger, a sometimes enemy, his personal effects..."
  "Why you?" For the first time I saw a change come over this man's face, a glazing over of the eyes and he sat stiffly in the hotel chair, turning his service cap around in his hands. "That's the part I don't understand."
  "I can not say except for eighteen months in the service of the IMT, I was allowed to speak with him more frankly than anyone else on the outside. He allowed me to read portions of his private journal which is now in my possession. I am not honored by the gift for I feel it really should belong to you."
  "Have you read it?" The voice was quiet, somewhat nervous and in English this time.
  "As I've said only parts which were significant to the individual cases. The lives of many people are chronicled here for the last time. For them, it is the only record that they ever existed. For that reason alone, these pages deserve to be kept and read. Hasenbrucke's wife and children are here." I pointed to the notebooks. "Women and children who led not so extraordinary lives but deserve to have their story told. We all deserve that, I think. You are here as well. There are things that you don't understand about William. I spoke to him often under the most stressful circumstances and did not come close to solving the mystery. It may be because I lack the necessay background."
  Hans-Peter lit a cigarette, contemplating through the smoke, glazed blue eyes which purposefully allowed no tears to fall for the stranger. "I leave Europe in a few weeks. I'm happy to be leaving. This continent doesn't have the fascination for me that it had for my parents. It's a different place, right? If you have time, we can read through the journals together. I have the feeling that you'll give me no peace until I do."
  I had to smile at this adult Hasenbrucke cramped into the hotel chair who really looked ill at ease in his pilot's uniform. ("I have a business in New York - flying used to be a hobby... hard to believe...") There was a difference between the brothers after all.
  "You're right." I told him. "Unless you read them, neither one of us is going to have any peace."
  I got up to answer the door to a waiter with a tea-cart clattering in the hotel corridor. When I offered him tea, he refused.
  "You know I need something stronger, Herr Dr., before we open the book."
  I called the waiter back.
  Forever, it seemed, for the eighteen months of my duties in Nuremberg as prison psychologist, there had been two brothers - the secure and victorious Hans-Peter and the other - some people called him Willi... In the end, there was only one and we opened the book today...