by Herman Wouk
25
WERNER BECK was having problems.
A letter had landed on his desk from subsection IV B-4 of the Reich Security Main Office, requesting a report on the possibilities of deporting Italian Jews to the east. For such ticklish matters, Beck handled liaison with Mussolini’s comatose bureaucracy. It was he, for instance, who was getting drafts of Italian workers shipped to German factories. Beck knew how to handle Rome officials, those smiling eels whose life specialty was paralyzing positive action with charm, paperwork, and words. An electric shock of fear from the OVRA would cause the smiling eel to cease smiling and wriggling every time, straighten into a man, and get the desired job done.
However, Beck was no miracle worker; and this Jewish project he considered hopeless. No Italians, right up to Mussolini himself, were likely to cooperate in sending off the Jews to a shrouded fate. Even fanatical Fascists smirked at the anti-Semitic laws. Most Italians liked the Jews, or at least felt sorry for them. So Beck adopted the appropriate obfuscating tactics: he wrote official queries to the right bureaus, got official evasions in reply, made official appointments for useless secret talks, and wrote official minutes of these. He sent an official negative summary to the Reich Security Main Office, with a file of all the negative responses, and trusted that that would end the matter.
Back came another letter from the SS lieutenant colonel who headed Subsection IV B-4, saying that he would himself visit Rome. For a lieutenant colonel, the man wrote in peremptory style. SS rank was nothing like a genuine Wehrmacht commission. An offspring of Hitler’s strong-arm squads, now a swollen private army of Nazi faithfuls, the SS was, in Beck’s view, really just a phony “elite” of government police terrorists — even if reserve status in the SS had become a token of Nazi fealty, and Beck therefore was himself a reserve Sturmbannfiihrer. But this Lieutenant Colonel Eichrnann seemed to swing some weight, for the ambassador next received a terse tough top-secret letter from Heydrich — an SS general of frightening reputation second only to Himmler — saying in effect, “Do whatever Colonel Eichmann wants.” Shaken, the ambassador demanded from Beck a detailed written rundown on Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann’s Subsection IV B4. This compelled Beck to review the whole dreary and opaque tangle of security agencies, which puzzled the oldest heads in the Foreign Service.
It was all a mess of political empire-building. Division IV of Main Security was the old Gestapo, forged by Goring out of the Prussian political police into a secret service arm. Himmler and Heydrich of the SS had co-opted the Gestapo into Main Security, a bureaucratic octopus sprawling through Berlin’s official buildings, combining the intelligence and police functions of both the government and the Nazi party. In no state structure had the Nazis made a worse hash of things. The RSHA was a sinister and ill-defined catchall outfit, but it was obviously just what the party wanted: a secret total police power operating outside federal law, answerable only to Hitler.
Section B of the Gestapo was devoted to “sects.” The fourth “sect” was the Jews. Subsection IV B-4 of the RSHA thus was the Gestapo desk for Jewish affairs. So this Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann governed the destiny of all the Jews in German-held Europe, for they were classed as a security matter. His peremptory style became more understandable; he held sway over eight to ten million souls, a larger domain than Sweden. Beck developed a somewhat anxious curiosity about him.
Eichmann arrived in Rome by car, shortly after the assassination of Heydrich. Despite the gasoline shortage, he had driven all the way from Berlin. One of his first remarks, in a meeting in the ambassador’s grandly furnished reception suite, was that he never flew in airplanes; they were too unreliable. At this meeting there was only chitchat over coffee among the three men. Despite his ominous and splashy black-and-silver SS uniform, Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann looked and acted quite pleasant; scarcely military, rather with the brisk intelligent crispness of a high-level accountant. But he lacked class. He sipped coffee with a vulgar noise. The ambassador was an erect, ruddy, elderly gentleman of great affairs and polished deportment, descended from a field marshal; yet it was the old ambassador who deferred to this businesslike bureaucrat in his thirties, rather than the other way around. Assuring Eichmann that the embassy was at his disposal, begging him to convey his cordial regrets to Reichsfuhrer SS Himmler over the sad death of General Heydrich, the ambassador fobbed the lieutenant colonel off on Werner Beck.
In Beck’s office Eichmann turned peremptory again. About the negative responses of the Rome officials he was coarsely scornful. Italians were not to be taken seriously, he said; mere strutters and posers, with no conception of the Jewish problem. Security police and the Foreign Ministry would solve this Jew business in Italy despite the government. For in the Führer’s view, said Eichmann, making frequent pedantic gestures with a stiff forefinger, the Jewish problem had no boundaries. Could a European epidemic of bubonic plague, for instance, be stamped out if the germs were allowed to multiply unchecked beyond invisible lines on the ground called “boundaries?” The Fuhrer’s unshakable will was to cleanse the continent of the Jews. Hence Herr Dr. Beck, as political secretary in Rome, would have to do better than file mere negative reports.
“But Italy is not an occupied country,” Beck mildly rejoined. “It’s a sovereign nation, I need hardly point out, a full military ally. And these Jews are still Italian nationals.”
A trace of pleased approval widened Eichmann’s broad thin mouth. Herr Dr. Beck was a realist, after all! Yes, in occupied capitals it was simpler. Main Security could put men in the German embassies to take over the Jewish question. But in Rome this would prick tender Italian feelings of national honor. So the delicacy of the task made the challenge all the more bracing,
He, Eichmann, had come to give Beck the guidelines. He had been dealing with this Jew business in all its aspects since well before the war. No government outside the Reich wholly understood the Führer’s farseeing policy, said Eichmann, plying his forefinger like a schoolteacher. They were all more or less confused by Christian or liberalist notions. They were ready enough to revive the anti-Jewish laws that had once been in all European law codes; to kick their Jews out of the government, the professions, and the good neighborhoods, and to tax them into beggary. On more radical measures the politicians tended to drag their heels.
Beck should bear in mind, Eichmann went on, warming to his topic, smoking cigarette after cigarette, one crucial point: it was imperative to get Italy to hand over some Jews, however few, and on whatever basis, to Germany at once. Once the line was crossed, the principle established, the ice broken, resistance to the German policy would gradually crumble. That was his repeated experience. For despite the toughest taxes, Jews could cleverly hang on to their property with one dodge or another; but when they were physically removed, kaputt! The wealth remained behind for confiscation. Once a government could be induced to hand over some Jews and sample the surprising revenue that resulted, its attitude usually changed to warm enthusiasm. This had happened in country after country. The timid politicians simply had to learn for themselves how easy it was, how little their population really objected, how willingly the Jews complied, how blandly the rest of the world looked on, and above all, how much profit there was in the Führer’s wise policy.
For example, Eichmann said, he was just now working up a deal with Bulgaria. That was a bad setup, a wobbly satellite ready to jump either way. Now that the Wehrmacht’s summer offensive was rolling, the Bulgarian czar was softening up. The triumphs of Rommel and the big advances in the Crimea had really got him talking business at last. The key to hauling in all the Bulgarian Jews was a handful of them now living in Germany. A swap was in the making. Bulgaria would get control of all German Jews who had fled there, and Germany would take charge of the Bulgarian Jews on Reich soil. The Bulgars were getting the better of it, profit-wise, but they were officially acquiescing in the radical German policy; they were abandoning Bulgarian citizens who were Jews to the Germans. That was the main point
won. Italy was not too unlike Bulgaria, a bunch of treacherous politicians running a weak country. Hence Dr. Beck might try the same approach.
It was all a question, Eichmann went on, of the existing status of various Jews. Italian-born Jews now in Italy would be the toughest ones to nab. Alien Jews would be easier, but they still had sanctuary of a sort. The way to start was with Italian Jews who were in Germany. There were exactly one hundred eighteen of these delightful people, Eichmann said. He would send Dr. Beck dossiers showing each Italian Jew’s place of origin, present place of German residence, age, health, important connections, and net worth statement. Dr. Beck should then propose the Bulgarian formula to the Fascist bigwigs. And Dr. Beck could use a fine humanitarian argument. If the German policy toward Jews was indeed so harsh — though of course he should deny that — this deal would only help the Jews, wouldn’t it? A lot more would get out of German control than would pass under it, since there were many hundreds of German Jews in Italy. Eichmann added, with the sly grin of a close bargainer, that Beck needn’t worry about the German Jews in Italy thus traded off; one way or another, they would be picked up in the end.
To sum up, Eichmann said, the opening wedge was what counted. Hadn’t Herr Dr. Beck ever laid a virgin? That was the whole idea: gentle persuasion to start with, lots of soothing words and disarming talk, and then, at the proper moment — sock it home! After the first time, no problems! This Italian Jew situation called for a persuasive diplomat. The Labor Ministry had warmly recommended Herr Dr. Beck, and positive results were confidently expected by Reichsführer Himmler.
The clearer Eichmann’s drift became, the less Werner Beck liked it. He had heard enough knowing hints about the Jewish camps in the east. Anti-Semites abounded in the Foreign Service, creatures of Ribbentrop. One of the worst was an undersecretary incongruously named Martin Luther, head of a high-security section called Deutschland, which was somehow involved in Jewish affairs. Beck had talked to this gross drunkard at a Berlin party. Very much in his cups, Luther had volunteered, with a gloating smile and a wink behind his hand, that the Jews were finally “getting it in the ass” in the eastern camps, just as the Führer had predicted. Among the better class of Germans, the subject was smothered in silence. Werner Beck had never asked anybody for details, and had tried to shut his mind to this whole unfortunate business. His army brother had lately dropped the entire subject.
Now this round-shouldered obscure functionary, with the long lean face, foxy nose, high balding forehead, and brisk manner, in a black uniform that heightened his paper-shuffler’s pallor, was suggesting that he plunge himself up to his neck in that morass. One thing Beck never forgot, as a seasoned diplomat with a doctorate in history: all wars ended, and postwar accountings could be onerous. He was not quite at ease about his role in drafting Italian workers. The hardship pleas which he had vetoed wholesale had often upset him. War was war, and orders were orders, but this business with the Jews was entirely out of bounds.
He spoke up decisively, to nip the thing in the bud. “Let me point out one fact. In setting up the labor drafts I’ve had to give explicit written guarantees of destinations, wages, and working conditions of the laborers.”
“Of course, but those were Italians. These are Jews.”
The tone nonplussed Beck, for Eichmann might as well have said, “These are horses.”
“Rome officials still regard them as Italian citizens. I’ll be asked exactly where these one hundred eighteen Jews will be resettled, what they’ll do there, and in what circumstances. I’ll have to put an official written reply from the Foreign Ministry in the record.”
“Fine!” Eichmann shrugged and smiled, quite unperturbed. “Just write whatever you please. What will all this shit ever amount to?”
Beck winced, but he tried to be patient. He was used to Nazi commonness, and perforce had to put up with it. “That’s not how the Foreign Service works, you see. We’ve been very factual in the labor matter. We’ve made good on our representations. That’s how we’ve gotten such favorable results.”
The two men stared at each other. A change came over Lieutenant Colonel Eichmann’s face. All the lines slightly stiffened, and into his narrow eyes there came a strange vacant look. “If you like,” he said in deep sarcastic tones from his hollow chest, “I’ll be glad to tell you exactly where the Jews will go, and what the disposition will be, by the Führer’s direct orders. Then you can decide just what story to write for the Italians.” There was no focus in the man’s eyes. Behind the glitter of his glasses two dark caverns seemed to open, and in those caverns Dr. Werner Beck saw horror, a vision of mountains of dead bodies. Not a word passed between them, but the moment of silence told the political secretary what happened to deported Jews. It was disheartening to have to face this. With chills rippling on his backbone, he seized at a straw. “The ambassador would have to know.”
“Oh, I can see what you mean.” The long livid face relaxed. Eichmann said in a humorous familiar tone, “He’s just the sort of backward old fart to make trouble for us, isn’t he? Well, the Foreign Minister himself will put him in the picture. That’ll squelch him, I assure you, and he’ll be quiet as a mouse. He won’t say ‘boo’ to Ribbentrop.” Eichmann emitted a pleased sigh, and waved the forefinger, “f 11 tell you this, you can look for a very positive effect on your career once you pull this off. Old fellow, do you happen to have a spot of brandy in the office? I drove two hundred kilometers this morning, and I’ve had no breakfast.”
Producing a bottle and two glasses, Werner Beck did some fast thinking while he poured. He must not even seem to assent; otherwise, when he failed to deliver, disaster could befall him. The Italians would not budge on the Jews; of that he was all but sure. They might round them up in camps, treat them roughly, and so forth; but handing them over for deportation — no. As they clinked glasses and drank, he said, “Well, I’ll try. But the Italians will have the last word. I can’t help that. Nobody can, unless we occupy Italy.”
“So? You can’t help it.” Brusquely, as to a barman, Eichmann held out his empty glass. Beck refilled it. The lieutenant colonel drank again, and folded his hands in his lap. “I now request from you,” he said, “an explanation of the Jastrow case.”
“The Jastrow case?” Beck stammered.
“You’ve sequestered in Siena, Herr Dr. Beck, a stateless Jew named Aaron Jastrow, aged sixty-five, a prominent author from the U.S.A., with a niece and her infant. You have visited them. You have written to them. You have telephoned them. Yes?”
In handling Jastrow Beck had of course repeatedly used his Gestapo contacts. He realized that this must be Eichmann’s source. He had been open and aboveboard, and there was nothing to fear. The lieutenant colonel had simply startled him with his abrupt change of front and uncanny recall of detail. Eichmann was now sitting up straight, wrinkling his whole face in suspicion, the embodiment of a malevolent secret police officer.
As nonchalantly as he could, Beck explained what he had in mind for Aaron Jastrow.
Shaking a cigarette from a pack and slipping it in his mouth, Eichmann said, “But Dr. Beck, this is all very puzzling. You mention the poet Ezra Pound, and his shortwave broadcasts for Rome Radio. That’s fine stuff, very fine. The Propaganda Ministry records and uses the broadcasts. But the poet Ezra Pound is a rarity, a very sophisticated American anti-Semite. He gives it in the ass to the Jewish bankers and to Roosevelt more than our own shortwave does. How can you compare this Jastrow person to him? Jastrow’s a full-blooded Jew.”
“Ezra Pound’s talks are no good for American audiences. Please take my word for that. I know the United States. He must be regarded there as a traitor or a lunatic. What I plan for Jastrow —”
“We know you studied in the United States. We also know that Jastrow was your teacher.”
Feeling that he was getting nowhere — that his conception was beyond the SS mentality — Beck yet had to plow on. What he hoped for, he said, was a farseeing, forgiving, Olympian
broadcast, or series of broadcasts, picturing the Germans and Japanese as deprived and misunderstood proud peoples, the Allies as fat cats clutching riches gained by armed force, and the whole war as a useless bloodletting that should be settled at once by a “sharing of the hegemony.” This brilliant phrase was Jastrow’s own. Coming from a prominent Jewish author it would have great impact in America to weaken the war effort and encourage a peace movement. Perhaps other high-level alien intellectuals like Santayana and Berenson would follow Jastrow’s example.
Eichmann looked unconvinced. Santayana’s name clearly meant nothing to him. At “Berenson” his eyes sharpened. “Berenson? There’s a smart millionaire Jew. Berenson has a lot of protection. Well, all right. When will this Jastrow make his first broadcast?”
“That’s not definite yet.” Under Eichmann’s hard surprised gaze he added, “It’s a question of persuading him, which takes time.”
The lieutenant colonel gently smiled. “Really? Why should it? Persuading a Jew is simple.”
“To be effective, this has to be done of his own free will.”
“But Jews will do anything that you want them to do, of their own free will. Still, I believe I understand you now. He is your old teacher, a fine man. You have a soft spot in your heart for him. You don’t want to upset or frighten him. It isn’t that you’re coddling or protecting a Jew —” Eichmann happily smiled, and waved the schoolteacher’s forefinger — “it isn’t that, but rather that you think you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Hm?”
Dr. Beck began to feel cornered. The man had a streak of the actor, and his changing moods and manners were hard to deal with. Yet he was jusf an SS lieutenant colonel, Beck told himself, whatever his role with Jews. He, Beck, must not let himself be bullied into an untenable commitment. His reply was as light and confident as he could make it. “I’m sure that my approach is correct and will get the right results.”