by Astrid Dehe
And that’s the end of the story?
No, Ben. The story isn’t over.
We’ve heard enough, Shalom.
Don’t you want to know why Eichmann left the district in the end?
I don’t, how about you, Moshe?
I didn’t either. The pathos of the last sentences was clanging in my ears. Life’s lament! Tools of doom! That sounded like Eichmann. Was it Eichmann? Who told Nagar that story?
No Tears
One month after the condemned man said goodbye to his wife, the appeals court announces its verdict. Among the small audience in the Beit Ha’am is the Reverend William Lovell Hull, a Canadian preacher who is trying to save the condemned man’s soul. The preacher has already sat opposite him in the meeting room on twelve occasions, together with his wife Lillian, who acts as the interpreter. The condemned man speaks very little during these visits; most of the talking is done by Hull, who looks like a businessman and offers salvation in exchange for remorse. The man opposite him smiles politely. After the preacher and his wife have left, he writes; Hull has already received several long letters explaining what the condemned man thinks of the Christian mission. Not much. To him, the Christian God is too small. And yet Hull does not give up; he wants this soul, perhaps the darkest soul he knows. Delivering this soul would be his greatest triumph. He wants to defy Satan himself, Satan, whose power he believes he can feel through the glass in the meeting room on each visit, oppressing, challenging, an exterminating grip that must be disarmed by the gentle spirit of evangelism. If only there were enough time.
Today, too, Hull sees the man behind glass, but here in the courtroom he does not give anything away, he looks pale and tired. The five judges enter, the chairman opens the session, then the verdict is read. The judges take it in turns to read, each one reading faster than his predecessor, they race through the text, the final word has already been read, the appeal denied, the verdict of the District Court is confirmed on all counts. The session is closed, the judges leave the room.
The hastiness strikes Hull as indecent. Such an abrupt ending, he writes in his book “The Struggle for a Soul,” cannot be reconciled with the severity of the decision, and neither can the speed at which the verdict was read. A situation such as this one requires composure, he believes, a solemn rhythm, loaded pauses. He is equally unimpressed by the behavior of the public; when leaving the room, the people beam as though they were coming out of the cinema. They could not be expected to shed tears, writes the preacher. But perhaps there could have been even the slightest hint that the matter was being taken seriously.
The people in this country do not want such seriousness anymore, no burdens, no grief. In the four months since the verdict and the telephone survey that followed, the mood has shifted. People want an end, a beginning. A death. As soon as possible.
The prison director is tasked with carrying out the necessary preparations for the death. For a while now he has had an English manual on his desk: “British Judicial Hanging.” The director has studied the book thoroughly and has made his initial plans. He will have to improvise; this country is not set up for executions. The walk to the gallows must be short, it is inconceivable that they would lead the condemned man through the nine doors, across the courtyard, from one floor to the next. The director decides to have a hole knocked through the wall of the meeting room, leaving just one landing and one corridor to cross. The gallows, a simple wooden construction with a hook in the middle, will be set up in the unused room at the end of the corridor—the wood has already been ordered. Beneath this room is a storeroom, where they will be able to take the body from the rope. They will make a hole in the floor for the trapdoor, a square iron plate.
For the hundredth time the director studies the book’s Official Table of Drops, which shows how far the condemned man must fall in relation to his weight. He has done a few provisional sums to calculate the length of the rope. The Manila hemp rope recommended by the manual is not available. They will somehow have to strengthen the rope they do have to hand. Or make a double loop.
The director puts down his pen, massages his temples, looks out of the window. Double barbed-wire fence, unnecessarily high, with trestles every few meters on which searchlights are mounted. Behind the fence is a narrow access road with open land on either side. Even this area is patrolled by guards. The director wants to go to the mountains when this is all over. He does not want to see anyone, either alive or dead. Vineyards, perhaps. Or perhaps simply the sky.
At the same time, in another block of the prison, the condemned man’s guards are called together, twenty-two seasoned men. The commander stands at the door, hands behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. If he were not in uniform, he would take off his jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves. When the men have gathered around he makes a short speech, ending with the question of who would be willing to carry out the death sentence. Twenty-one hands shoot into the air. Only Nagar does not want to. The commander draws lots. The lot falls to Nagar.
An Eye for an Eye
After his appeal has been rejected once and for all, the condemned man submits an appeal for mercy to the president Yitzhak Ben-Zvi. The wording is not known; it is said to have consisted of four handwritten pages, composed by the condemned man following strict instructions from the defense.
What would he have written if he had not been forced to follow legal guidelines? Would he have begged for his life, appealed to the power of forgiveness, talked about his six-year-old son who needs a father?
That is not his style. He does not think like that. Individual people do not interest him, they have nothing to do with him. He talks only about what he calls the matters, the affairs. Evacuation matters, transport affairs. For them he would have asked for mercy, perhaps even demanded mercy. I believe I have the right, Mr. President, he would have written, to suggest that these matters have been sentenced to death along with me. They will die without having been resolved. Because, I must reiterate, a guilty verdict for me will not help secure an understanding of these matters.
Perhaps he would also have used the word truth, explained that without him, without the statements he is yet to make, the truth would remain unsaid, unheard. Had the three judges at the District Court not called the extermination a secret? He—and only he—could reveal this secret and he would do so if they let him. I ask you to give me the chance, even after the confirmation of my death sentence, to make a detailed statement on the concrete matters with no yes or no, otherwise this confusing mess will never be explained, Mr. President, he would have written.
Haunted, Ben-Zvi would have followed the structure of this statement, at first grammatically confused, then semantically disturbed. With no yes or no, what does that mean, he would have mused, how does he want to make a statement without saying yes or no? After all, making a statement means to say what is and what is not, what happens and what does not. Do you not have to accept or deny, agree, reject? I must, Ben-Zvi would have thought. I, the president, must give a yes or a no. Either, or.
What I say will define me; at the end of the day I am the man who said no, the man who said yes.
Perhaps the president would have taken a deep breath at this thought, staring with unseeing eyes at the pages in front of him, on which the sentences had transformed into waves seeking the shore. Bit by bit the eyes of the president would have returned to this country, this city, this building, this room, bit by bit the waves would have congealed into words, syllables, letters. Ben-Zvi would have been haunted by this handwriting, these wide, low arcs, brought up high and taken down again, decisive and solicitous, at once authoritative and subservient. The writing of a man with no yes or no.
Perhaps the president would have sensed that this writing is an echo, a reverberation of the condemned man’s existence during the years of the Reich. Living and acting in a swirling no-man’s-land, a crack that tore through reality and severed everything to which binary logic could be applied. Right, wrong, good, bad,
these simple options no longer represented anything in this condemned man’s no-man’s-land. Instead—orders, obedience, enforcement, a language that only knows the imperative, the sheer will, that in the end wants itself. A will devoid of humanity, in which commands command and obedience obeys.
An appeal for mercy, in this language? It is possible the meaning of these words would have escaped the president. Mercy. Perhaps he would have remained sitting at his desk, still, silenced.
That is not what happened. Another text lies in front of the president. His thoughts go in a different direction, as he withdraws into the silence of his office. He stays there for hours, four pages in front of him that weigh more heavily than a life, more lightly than millions of deaths. The president writes a single sentence during these hours, on the first sheet of the appeal, a verse from the book of Samuel:
As the sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women.
I gave this chapter to Ben to read. I knew he was interested in Yitzhak Ben-Zvi. More than in Eichmann. As usual, Ben took the pages to the window, as usual he read slowly, mumbling the sentences to himself, as if he physically needed to taste them. Finally, he shuffled the pages back together and put them on my desk. Then he dug around in his pockets, pulled out his wallet, fumbled in the section for paper money. I didn’t understand until he held out a hundred-shekel bill so that I could look straight at the person portrayed on it. Ben-Zvi. A grainy photo against a background with small colored squares, showing strong features beneath a straight high forehead, despite the blur. I’d seen it so many times, but only now did I notice that Ben had the same chin, the same nose.
Why show me that bill? Because you look like him?
How could I ever look like him, Moshe! He was a great man. Do you know that he and his family lived in a shack? When he became president, they wanted him to move but he refused. He stayed living there. Anyone who wanted to see him had to enter the hut. He was a man of austerity.
Ben looked at the money again and then put it away.
He didn’t speak on the way to the meeting place, something was bothering him. When we got there, he pushed me over to the wooden table, but instead of tending to the fire and making tea, he stayed standing beside me. You think Ben-Zvi didn’t know about mercy?
Of course he did, Ben. But I can imagine Eichmann tested his definitions. He tests all definitions because he rejects yes and no. For himself. For others. It’s catching.
Not for me, Moshe.
If you’d been in Ben-Zvi’s position you’d have been infected by his way of thinking, too. Mercy is not a law. You must obey the law, you don’t need to think about it, you don’t have to decide. Mercy isn’t like that. Either you grant it or you don’t. Yes or no. When you grant it, you give someone something he is no longer entitled to by right. Freedom, for example. Or his life. Someone has forfeited his right to live, and now he comes to you and asks you to pardon him. Why should you? You need to think about it.
Don’t you question your heart?
No, Ben. Your heart doesn’t understand mercy. Mercy needs reasons.
What are you talking about?
Nagar had arrived, humming so quietly that we hadn’t noticed him.
We’re talking about mercy, Shalom.
Why?
Moshe wrote about the president. He was asked to waive the death sentence. Eichmann asked him to do it.
And what did he say?
Eichmann?
The president!
He wrote one sentence. As the sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women.
You see, the president understood.
What?
That Eichmann is Amalek. You know the verses, Ben.
We all know them, Shalom. Isn’t the story read aloud on each Shabbat before Purim?
Samuel said unto Saul: Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I remember that which Amalek did to Israel, how he laid wait for him in the way, when he came up from Egypt. Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.
And Saul smote the Amalekites from Havilah until Shur that is over against Egypt. And he took Agag the king of the Amalekites alive and spared Agag. Then came the word of the Lord unto Samuel, saying it repenteth me that I have set up Saul to be king: For he is turned back from following me, and hath not performed my commandments. And it grieved Samuel; and he cried unto the Lord all night. Samuel rose early to meet Saul in the morning and Samuel said the Lord anointed thee king over Israel. And the Lord sent thee on a journey, and said: Go and utterly destroy the sinners, the Amalekites, and fight against them until they be consumed. Wherefore then didst thou not obey the voice of the Lord?
And Saul said unto Samuel, I have sinned: Now therefore, I pray thee, pardon my sin, and turn again with me, that I may worship the Lord. And Samuel said unto Saul: I will not return with thee. For thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, and the Lord hath rejected thee from being king over Israel.
Then said Samuel: Bring ye hither to me Agag the king of the Amalekites. And Agag came unto him delicately. And Agag said: Surely the bitterness of death is past. And Samuel said: As the sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women.
And Samuel hewed Agag in pieces before the Lord.
Ben and Nagar stand motionless, reciting the verses from the first book of Samuel in turn. An antiphony of verses that loosen Ben’s tongue to make a declaration of faith, although he normally only ever asks questions. I must remain seated, however, paralyzed and bound next to their empty chairs, must remain silent, because these verses may only be spoken standing upright, tall and humble at the same time.
Now they call upon him, the deadly enemy of Israel, Amalek, son of Eliphaz, son of hapless Esau, who was denied the blessing, the precious promise that Yakov his brother had stolen from him through deceit. Esau wept, so it is written, but there is no record of his father’s tears, only the bitter words that the father spoke to Esau as his legacy: Your dwelling will be far from the fatness of the earth, Esau, and away from the dew of heaven from above. You shall live by the sword. What could grow from this other than hatred? Esau hated Yakov his brother, so it is written, and the hatred was passed on from one son to the next, smoldering in each of them just as it had smoldered in Esau. Eliphaz. Amalek. The kings of Amalek. The Amalekites. Whenever they could, they defeated Israel. They were evil, Nagar will say, and we are ordered to conquer them. More pious Jews write Amalek’s name on the soles of their shoes to drag it through the dust at every step: Destroy the memory of Amalek from beneath the heavens. That is what the mitzvah says and this is how Ben and Nagar fulfill their duty in their own way. They call Amalek by name, let him rise up in the landscapes and times that he haunted, watch his destruction and his return and the repeated destruction that follows his every appearance.
Remember what Amalek did to you when you went out of Egypt. Destroy the memory of Amalek from under the heavens, do not forget this!
Yes, don’t forget to remember, Israel. Remember to forget. What sounds like a contradiction to me, is an endorsement for Ben and Nagar.
In the wilderness of Sinai, Shalom. Amalek against Moses.
Amalek came and sought to fight with Israel in Rephidim. Choose your men, Moses said to Yoshua, and go into battle against Amalek! I will stand at the top of the hill with the rod of God in my hand. Yoshua did as Moses commanded him and went out to fight against Amalek. Moses climbed with Aaron and Hur to the top of the hill. As long as Moses kept his hand held high, Israel was stronger, whenever he let his hand fall, Amalek was stronger.
Aaron and Hur held up his arms, one on the right, the other on the left, so that his hand remained high until the setting of the sun.
And Yoshua defeated Amalek by the sword, Shalom. Unlike Saul, who spared Agag. Samuel had to come, Samuel swung the sword. Then came David—
That
was in Ziklag, Ben, in the south of Judah. When Amalek had razed the city to the ground and stolen all the women, David set upon him at dawn and felled him by dusk the next day. He took back from him everything that he had captured, and David freed the women.
And Haman, Shalom, don’t forget Haman, the Agagiter.
Did you say Haman? His happiness was incomplete, as long as he saw Mordechai the Jew sitting at the gates of the palace. But they strung up Haman, Shalom. They hanged him on the gallows he had built for Mordechai. That was so.
Amalek’s hatred against Israel will never wane, Ben. Other enemies took bribes or were willing to be reconciled. But not Amalek. He follows Israel’s trail. For, lo, thine enemies make a tumult: And they that hate thee have lifted up their head. They have taken crafty counsel against thy people, and consulted against thy hidden ones. They have said: Come, and let us cut them off from being a nation; that the name of Israel may be no more in remembrance. We must be like Moses, Ben. When Yoshua defeated Amalek, the Lord said unto Moses: Write this for a memorial in a book, for I will utterly put out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven. Moses built an altar and called it: The Lord is my throne. And he said: The hand on the throne of the Lord! The Lord is at war with the line of Amalek from one generation to the next! To this day, Ben. To this very day.
He is at war, Shalom, and he wins again and again. Go forth and defeat Amalek! Destroy everything that belongs to him, the Lord says to Saul. He doesn’t do so, but Samuel—Samuel did. Joshua—Joshua did. David—David did. Mordechai—Mordechai did. Shalom Nagar—Nagar did.
Ben speaks his sentences as if he has only now truly understood the meaning of this list, he raises his voice, repeating the names of those who overcame Amalek to accentuate them. Nagar reaches for his chair, sits down, and stares at the floor.
You are Eichmann’s executioner, Shalom, Eichmann is Amalek; you belong on the list.