by Astrid Dehe
Schneider did what Eichmann had told him to do. He went to Switzerland, formed a dance band there, married a German, a Catholic girl from Constance, and together they had a son, whom he named Adolf, in honor of Eichmann.
Adolf Schneider had a Swiss passport, but he felt German. He was brought up that way. All his relatives lived in Germany, and it was always assumed that the Schneider family would return there one day. Almost every week, his father dreamt up a new plan about where he could work or where they would live. Then Adolf’s mother became ill, so ill that a move was out of the question. Adolf’s father was changed by his wife’s illness. He became curt and distant, he hid in his office. He never played the violin at home now; when he got back from concerts, he left his instrument in its case.
One night, when Adolf was almost asleep, his father suddenly appeared in his bedroom. He turned on the light, sat down on the edge of the bed. I have to show you something, my boy, he said, and took a worn photo from his jacket pocket. It was a portrait of a man in uniform. His head seemed rather small under his large cap with the death’s head on its black peak. The man had boyish features, a crooked nose and a soft, almost feminine mouth. But his expression was sharp, although his eyelids drooped oddly. Adolf felt as though he were being scrutinized as he looked at him.
Do you know who this is? The boy shook his head. This is Obersturmbannführer Adolf Eichmann, his father said. It is thanks to him that I have a son. It is thanks to him that I have you. And he told Adolf his story. The boy listened sleepily, and when his father had finished, simply asked: So we’re Jews? Not Germans? Did you not understand, Adolf? I’m a Jew, you’re not! You’re a half Jew, a Mischling. Your children will be quarter Jews. And their children, your grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, will be Germans. True Germans, Adolf. Like Obersturmbannführer Eichmann.
I can still feel his hand in mine, son, he said in a gruff voice. Then he leaned down and hugged his son, holding him for a long time. You must go back, Adolf, promise me. Back to Germany.
His father’s emotions moved the boy more than his revelation. Adolf wasn’t exactly pleased about being half German all of a sudden and the half Jewish part sounded a bit unpleasant somehow, but he wasn’t too deeply affected. Jew, Jewish, these words meant nothing to him. He knew nothing about anti-Semitism or the hatred of the Jews. And he didn’t know who this Eichmann was, either. He found that out a few years later, in a history lesson. His teacher, a strict man with a stoop, stood in front of the class, took off his jacket, rolled up a shirt sleeve, and showed them the number that was tattooed on his arm. Then he told them about Auschwitz, explained about the persecution of the Jews, the transportation of the Jews. Spat out names like poisonous morsels: Himmler, Heydrich, Höss. And Eichmann. Eichmann, again and again. Adolf listened as though the teacher meant him. He started to sweat; he wanted to run, out of the classroom, away from this unrelenting man with the number on his arm, away from Eichmann, Eichmann, Eichmann. The teacher knows, he thought. He knows Father’s story, my story. And at the end of the class, he will reveal it all, point at me: Him. Adolf! Named after Eichmann.
Of course, the teacher didn’t do that, but from that day on, Adolf felt like a stranger in his class. As if he didn’t belong there anymore. Just his luck. Where did he belong? To the Jews, the victims? Or to the Germans, the perpetrators? He carried both inside him, he persecuted and was persecuted; driven by Eichmann, he persecuted the Jewish Adolf, and driven by his father’s ancestors and six million victims, he persecuted the German Adolf. He turned on himself, going around in ever-decreasing circles until there was no ground beneath his feet, nowhere for him to stand. He drifted, floundering as though caught in a storm, helpless against the forces that tore at him: Eichmann, hurrying toward him in his black uniform, his father, naked with his death’s head cap beside him on the floor. Here, Jews were forced into carriages, there, Eichmann shook a Jew’s hand; here, his teacher rolled up his sleeve, there, his father hugged him. How could he live like that? Should he exterminate the German within him because that part of him was doomed, a fatal legacy? Should he hate the Jew within him because he owed it to his father, who had brought him into the world? His father, who belonged to the perpetrators, who worked with Eichmann, for Eichmann, to exterminate his own people. This man was inconceivable, he countermanded himself and should never have existed. This man had Eichmann to thank for his son. And he had continued Eichmann’s work in him, Adolf Schneider! Because what was this act of mercy ordered by Eichmann other than a further step toward exterminating the Jews? Didn’t he spill his Jewish seed in a German womb so that the Jewishness, the impurity, would be halved, then quartered in the next generation and would eventually disappear, fading like smoke blown away in the wind? The Shoah was within him. And he, Adolf, was the tool!
His confusion turned to anger, anger at Eichmann and his devilish duplicity, anger at his father, who had allowed himself to be used, who used his son, and wanted to use his son’s sons and their sons after them.
It was a curse. And in that instant, Adolf knew how it could be lifted. He would preserve what Eichmann and his father wanted to destroy, would begin what they wanted to end: He would become a Jew. The thought came with a tremendous feeling of liberation. Become a Jew.
He knew almost nothing about Judaism. So he sat in the library after school and read. In his rigorous way, he started with the Old Testament. Then he read a three-volume history of Judaism, a book about the Jewish festivals, and finally Theodor Herzl’s The Jewish State. And that was just the beginning. He needed to learn Hebrew, and taught himself as best he could. He did hardly anything for school, just scraped a pass in his final exams, but he didn’t care. He’d made up his mind.
One evening, Adolf took his courage in both hands and knocked on the door of his father’s study. He found him sitting in front of a bottle of Cognac, tired, lonely, gray. I’m going to Israel, Father, Adolf said. I’m going to be a Jew like you. His father raised his head and looked at him. His eyes hardened, but Adolf held his stare. His father stood up, went to his desk, took something out from among his papers, held it out to Adolf. The photo he had shown him once before. Eichmann, wearing an SS uniform. You will not betray him, his father said. And you will not betray me. You will go to Germany! Horrified, Adolf snatched the photo, tore it to pieces, and let the scraps fall to the floor. His father leapt up and struck him in the face. Adolf staggered backward, tears springing to his eyes. You’re the traitor! he shouted. It’s you! And then he confronted him with everything that had been stewing inside him since the day his teacher had revealed who Eichmann was.
His father turned pale. He stared fixedly past his son at the wall, and as Adolf finally fell silent he replied with a single word: Lies.
The next day, his father kicked him out of the house. Adolf moved in with a friend, found work as an unskilled laborer, saved money, and when he had enough, he packed his suitcase, took his violin, and left for Israel. He changed his first name, called himself Moshe, worked in a kibbutz, became a musician and formed a string quartet, for which he also wrote music. He lived as a Jew, saw himself as a Jew. A part of the kingdom of priests as all Jews should be. Yet he felt different from the others. Different, because he was a Jew out of protest.
It’s you?
The two men on the sofa had remained so silent throughout my story that I almost thought I’d asked the question myself. But it was Ben. His question was painfully matter of fact, with no hint of horror, shock, or empathy—the question sounded as though he were simply confirming a casual assumption.
I am no Nagar. I lack the warmth, the indulgence of his storytelling that can take a joke, enjoys diversions, and calmly puts up with disbelief. My story is too real for that. Too German.
It’s you?
Yes. It’s me, Ben. I am Adolf Schneider. Or I was. I cut off my roots all those years ago. My mother was already dead when I came to Israel, my father no longer existed in my eyes, I broke off all contact with my family.
My background was erased, including Eichmann.
Then came May 23, 1960, the day David Ben-Gurion declared to the Knesset: We’ve captured Eichmann. The news hit me like a shock. I had always assumed he was dead, had taken poison like Himmler or Göring, shot himself like Günther, his ever-faithful deputy, or had died in the last days of the war like Heinrich Müller, his superior in department IV. And now he was here, in the country I had chosen! As if he had come to get me. Me, the man who was only alive because of him, whose existence he had commanded so that a tainted tree could bear good fruit once more, and who had turned traitor to his cause, the German cause.
Eichmann was alive, he was in Israel. Nothing could change that. This time he wasn’t just a photo I could tear to pieces. This time he was here in the flesh. I had to face him. I had to see, grasp, understand this man. You must swallow him, I thought, and you must digest him. Then you can flush him out, and he will leave your body for good.
I read every newspaper article that was written about him, compiled folders, bought books about the extermination—The Final Solution by Gerald Reitlinger, The Third Reich and the Jews by Poliakov and Wulf—and eagerly awaited the start of the trial, the moment I’d look this man in the eye.
On the first day of the trial I sat in the gallery, too far away to get a good view of Eichmann. So then I went a bit earlier every day until I was one of the first to arrive at the Beit Ha’am and got a place in the front row, as near to the glass box as possible. I studied Eichmann day after day, his tic, his posture, the way he spoke, his expression when he was listening. Above all, I watched his hands, which never stopped moving; large, yet strangely delicate hands, hands that seemed happiest leafing through a folder, hands that glided across the paper when Eichmann made a note of something, as though his pencil were a natural extension.
And I could never look at these hands without thinking of what my father said as he hugged me for the first, and I think only time in my life:
I can still feel his hand in mine, son.
His hand. Eichmann’s hand.
I can’t go on. I never get any further than Eichmann’s hand.
Neither of the men spoke, Ben, my old friend from kibbutz days, and Nagar, who is a friend now, too. No comfort, no condemnation. My gaze gropes through the silence that rings in my ears, past their faces, to the window, where everything is just as it was. The world didn’t implode, but what was I expecting? The ever-same roofs opposite are as ugly as ever, spotted with a mix of gray and black satellite dishes. Sponges that absorb everything, funnels into which anything that travels through the ether is poured, no matter how trivial or significant it might be. All of them—I never noticed before—are pointed toward my apartment.
Let me tell you a story.
Nagar has found his voice again. Maybe he just waited a moment. Allowed a few minutes to pass after my last words, for courtesy’s sake.
Eichmann had lucky hands, you said. Fine hands, you said, too. He deceived you, Moshe. He deceived everyone. Let me tell you a story.
Eichmann’s hands, then. No words about Moshe and Moshe’s father. Did Nagar listen to me? Did he understand who, what I am? Or had he been daydreaming, lost in thought during all my revelations, only snapping up the last few sentences on which to build his next story, unaffected like a machine? A narration machine, which can be fed with anything you like, out comes Eichmann. Nagar’s Eichmann? I didn’t care at that moment. I was even grateful that he had buried my story, Eichmann’s Moshe, once more, covered it like a picture that didn’t deserve a second or third glance.
When Eichmann came to Argentina, he met lots of old comrades again, you know. They had new names and new jobs now, but they were still Germans. Nazis. They had their own clubs, where they’d meet. If there was something important that needed to be discussed, they would meet at each other’s homes. They were safer there, but it still wasn’t secure. They could rely on their wives, but what about the children? If they said the wrong word to the neighbors, at school—
What do you mean, the wrong word?
Names, I mean names, Ben! When they were among themselves, they used their real names, of course. Eichmann was Eichmann, Mengele Mengele. And now think of Eichmann’s sons running around telling everyone Mengele came to see us yesterday! That could never happen. There were secret agents lurking everywhere! So Eichmann took steps to protect himself. If a visitor was expected, he lined up his sons in a row. Pay attention, he said, we will be receiving visitors tonight, and you must not tell anyone about them, do you hear me? And then he boxed their ears. Whenever a Nazi came to visit, he slapped them in the face! Just so they knew what was going on.
And did that work?
What do you think? Eichmann’s methods always worked.
During the trial, reporters sought out his eldest son and wanted to know who had visited them at home. The son said he couldn’t remember any visitors, just his father hitting him. He could still feel that today, he said. Eichmann had—
Enough, Shalom. I think we should go now. Moshe looks tired.
No, wait, Ben. I want to finish the story.
Eichmann had tested this method of slapping people beforehand, in Austria, what is the name of the capital—
Vienna.
In Vienna, that’s it. The Germans had disbanded the Jewish community and put the leaders in jail. Eichmann said that was all wrong. He needed the community, otherwise nothing would work. So the men were released. Eichmann talked to them and then he picked one of them, Dr. Löwenherz, a lawyer. You are in charge of the community now, he said. It is your responsibility. First of all, write down the names of all the Jews here in Vienna. But do not say a word to anyone. You understand? And then he slapped him in the face.
He was a real bastard.
He’s evil, Ben. His hands are evil. Later on, at the trial, he told a different story. He said he’d asked Dr. Löwenherz a question and Dr. Löwenherz had given him the wrong answer. Eichmann was so angry that he slapped him in what he called a moment of uncontrollable anger. Not a slap that would do any harm, he said, because I do not have the hands for that kind of work, just a tiny, little slap in the face. Though he regretted it later. He insists he apologized to Dr. Löwenherz officially, in uniform, in front of his men.
He deceived everyone. He hides his power. Anyone looking at his hands is supposed to think exactly what Moshe thought: What delicate hands, hands for files, not made for hitting. But he is so strong! On the inside of his arm, here, there was a code, numbers and letters. It started with IV B 4, Eichmann’s department, followed by more letters and numbers and dashes. IV B 4a dash 2093 slash—I can’t remember any more. That was his sign. The signal for the transport! Whenever a transport of Jews was ready anywhere, Eichmann arrived, rolled up his sleeve, and pressed his arm against the carriages. He branded them with his arm: IV B 4a dash 2093—
You mean he marked the carriages? With chalk?
With his arm! He doesn’t need any chalk. He—it was a transmission.
Eichmann the conjurer.
It was the sign, Ben. He was the master. His arm had power. As soon as all the carriages were marked, the trains departed. No one could stop them! They never turned back a train, so Eichmann said. He’s proud of that. Later, after the war, he used cigarettes to burn away the sign. I saw the scar; it runs down the whole of his lower arm. But no one at the prison noticed.
Noticed the scar?
How strong he was. Always gentle, always polite—please, if I could just ask, gracias, gracias—he never raised his voice, never raised a hand to any of us. We didn’t have any weapons. None of the guards were allowed to carry weapons. What would have happened if Eichmann had attacked me in the cell? With his bare hands? The colleague on the other side of the door wouldn’t have been able to help me. He had the keys, of course, but the doors could only be opened from the inside. Eichmann could have trapped me like a mouse. But he didn’t do anything. Ever. I thought they must have caught a saint.
Late
Shift
Once again, Nagar is to share the prisoner’s night. A night without darkness; for twenty-four hours, the light remains on in the cell, which is still full of shadows, although the prisoner sleeps like a baby, silently, free of anxiety, free of guilt. His sleep is a lie which Nagar must share.
He buttons up his uniform jacket with a deep sigh. Ora watches him, revealing through her smile and her small, encouraging gestures that she does not know what is troubling her husband. As far as he is concerned, that is for the best.
When Nagar enters the cell two hours later the prisoner checks the time, lays down his pencil, and takes off his watch. He stands up, pushes the chair under the table, goes over to the bed. The usual reaching under the blanket, the few paces back to the table. His movements are smooth, his posture perfect. He lays the pajamas, precisely folded as always, on the table, next to the pages he has written that day; as though able to extend time he strokes the thin cotton, the buttons, straightens the collar that was already straight, takes off his glasses, turns to the wall, removes his cardigan, his shirt, his vest. Nagar closes his eyes to the naked back, presses his eyelids shut, filters this pale white through his eyelashes, this skin, no longer touched by the sun, German skin, shimmering so defenselessly, intangible.
Whose back is that? What does Nagar know? He senses a person, a border, he thinks, which needs to be secured.
The prisoner undoes his trousers. Nagar fights the impulse to lower his head; he is not allowed to look away, but he focuses on the wall instead of the exposed body, out of modesty, a forbidden solidarity between men. Straightens his lower back with an exaggerated movement while the prisoner slips on his pajamas, sits down on the hard chair, restless, until the other has settled under the woolen blanket, face turned toward the wall, as always, as though leaving everything behind him, cell and prison and Nagar, his guard. As though the man could command himself to fall asleep in just a moment. This man can. His consciousness obeys.