Eichmann's Executioner

by Astrid Dehe

  The compound isn’t safe anymore, you see. I had to bring them here—the chickens and the geese. I’m going to fetch the sheep later, as well.

  What do you mean, not safe?

  IV B 4!

  What?

  Eichmann’s department, Ben. His number!

  What about it?

  It was written on the post where I hang my smock and my apron. In the shed beside the sheep pen.

  The post is cracked, Shalom. The paint is beginning to peel. There’s no number there.

  Yes, there is. Scratched into the wood. His nails are sharp, you know. The compound is going to be his new department. IV B 4!

  Nonsense, Shalom! What are you talking about?

  He’s taking over the meeting place, too, Ben. He’s looking for staff. Has he asked you, Moshe?

  What are you saying, Shalom? Why would he ask Moshe?

  Nagar shrugged his shoulders. Then he started to sing again, left us where we were and went back to his work, to his blood-red cages. Fortresses for his chickens, geese, and doves.

  Ben drew in his breath, but he didn’t say anything. He grabbed the handles of my wheelchair without a word. Even at the end of the road, we could still hear the hammering and singing getting louder and shriller like a battle cry.

  Although these days I think about Nagar more than ever, I don’t talk about him when Ben is here. I don’t mention his name. Neither does Ben, but I know he’s thinking about him, too. Shalom runs riot in our heads, but he is dead in our mouths, extinguished. He greeted us with a raised hammer, he’s knocking nails into wood for no good reason, the birdcages are going to spread everywhere, my mind tells me, swamp his house, the whole street, driven by the singing, hammering Nagar; they are going to spread to the edge of the compound, devour everything, the boundaries, the pens, even the meeting place, everything will be daubed in bloody red, decorated with shaky white squares, everything wrapped in barbed wire, until there is no outside left, until everything is cover, fortress, defense.

  Aren’t you writing anymore, Moshe?

  Ben has started visiting me regularly again, always on the same day, at the same time. He’s at the door, he unbuttons his coat, comes in, stands by the window, looks out. Has he noticed that the satellite dishes on the neighboring houses are no longer pointing toward my apartment? If he has, it is no surprise to him. He stares out, as if he needs this view, this monotony, the barricaded sky. Sometimes I think that is the only reason why he comes. He stares, turns around. Goes to my desk, leans on it, supporting himself with his large hands. Investigates.

  Nothing to check today. No papers, no typed pages, no blank ones. The typewriter has its cover on. Everything I have written has been tied up with string and put on the shelf beside the folders full of newspaper clippings and the books on Eichmann.

  Aren’t you going to carry on writing, Moshe?

  No, I’m not going to carry on writing. He can see that, can’t he?

  Are you finished?

  Finished? With what?

  Ashes in a Glass

  Those were the last words I had written. Is that an ending?

  Are you finished, Moshe?

  No.

  Why don’t you carry on writing, then?

  How can I explain this to him? He will ask questions, cut in, object, and I’ll say too much.

  I’m scared that what I’m writing is actually happening, Ben.

  What do you mean?

  One of the chapters I wrote before we went to see Shalom was about a Nagar who loses himself:

  It is someone else who once again stands in front of the corpse—grips him by the hips, lifts the dead body with all his strength, until the noose is loosened—who stands there, alone, the body in his arms.

  And what happens? Nagar’s no longer himself. He’s changed. He stands there by himself, holding the body of Eichmann in his arms. He guides his fingers. Makes him scratch his sign on the post.

  You told me what happens shatters, Moshe. It can’t be written down. If you can’t write what actually happened, then how can anything you write happen?

  I tell myself the same thing. They are just words written on paper, lying on a shelf. No breathing, no metabolism, no heart pumping blood between the lines. No matter how my words and sentences connect—they will never be anything but text. Reality feels different. And yet Nagar’s question lingers: Where are you writing me to, Moshe?

  You’re right, Ben. But still I can’t get over the idea.

  Are you feeling guilty about what is happening to Shalom?

  I know I’m talking nonsense. I talk nonsense, I think nonsense. Everything is slipping through my fingers. I don’t even believe in Eichmann’s death anymore.

  Moshe!

  Nonsense, you see? Lunacy, even. Eichmann was born in 1906. More than one hundred years have passed since then. Even if he had managed to escape everyone, he would still have been the victim of what people like him called natural reduction, a long time ago. But what can I do? I don’t see him as a dead person anymore. I see him alive, growing younger, wearing his black boots again, with a whip in his hand, striding through the halls of the Palais Rothschild, which is full of victims who shy away from him. Jews who can’t keep hold of their Judaism, it’s escaping them, they let it be taken away. They no longer trust in their God, the covenant with him, Jews who falter, who stand with their backs against the wall. And I see myself standing beside them, but not as one of them. As a traitor. The man Eichmann ordered to be brought to life.

  Ben has been to see Nagar. And this time he didn’t come back with questions. Instead, he told me about it in a few short sentences. Ben, actually telling me something! For the first time. The world is turning upside down.

  Nagar hasn’t stopped building those pens, Ben says. He has made more. They take up all the space in his garden now. One cage even sticks out past the house and you can see it from the road, it’s painted black. But he has also dismantled some of the pens. Ora doesn’t know what to do, Moshe. Shalom has started going to the compound again. To see the sheep.

  Ben pushes me to the meeting place. Nagar is nowhere to be seen. Ben makes tea. Takes three pears from his coat pocket. Cuts them in two and puts the pieces beside our cups. We don’t talk much. Just a few words about the weather. It’s been too dry, it would be good to have a few days of rain. We notice that someone has wiped the table and swept the floor. We look up suddenly at the same time and see him.

  Nagar is standing a few feet away from the sheep pen. He’s got his suitcase with him. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He turns around once more. His eyes scour the hill lined with cypresses and palm trees and the dilapidated shed in front of it, the corrugated iron fences.

  Everything is as it should be. Nagar goes to the shed beside the pen. He swaps his black coat for the blue smock hanging on a nail. Then he puts on his blue apron, opens the suitcase, and takes out a pair of thick rubber soles, a towel, and a wooden box. He ties the soles to the bottom of his shoes.

  He opens the latch of the gate, talks to the animals, holds one back, pushes the others away. He forces the chosen sheep to the ground, binds its legs together with two ties. Then he heaves it into the wheelbarrow. Its body hangs over the side, the bound legs stick out. The animal is calm. It stares at him as if it has been stunned. Nagar opens his wooden box. Undoes the catch, lifts the lid, looks inside. He doesn’t take anything out, he closes the lid again, fastens the catch. He sits down on a stool next to the wheelbarrow, puts his hand on the sheep’s head. He stays sitting like this for a long time. Then he gets up, undoes the ties on the animal’s fetlocks, gently tilts the wheelbarrow until the sheep stands shakily on its four legs. Nagar pats the animal and it goes back into the pen, where the others welcome it back. Nagar glances across the compound, sees us, raises an arm, and then comes over. He walks across the square. He walks slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, as if he is walking a tightrope.

  My knife is broken, Nagar says. He broke
my knife.

  Eichmann?

  Yes.

  That’s enough, Shalom! I’ve had enough. Can you see Eichmann anywhere here? Is he running around, does he have hands and feet? Do you see Eichmann anywhere, Moshe? No? I can’t see him either. Perhaps he’s hiding? Shall we call him? Eichmann! Eichmann! Adolf Eichmann! No answer. Or can you hear him calling? No? So he doesn’t have ears either. Maybe—

  Ben—

  Leave me alone, Moshe. Does he have a nose then? Shall we fry a piece of meat for him? Maybe Eichmann’s nose will appear then. Followed by his mouth. And then the rest of him!

  You don’t know anything! You know nothing. You don’t know him. He deludes us all. Who is Eichmann? Where is Eichmann? Nobody knows.

  You know very well who he is, Shalom.

  Adolf Karl Barth.

  What?

  He’s him! He’s Otto Henninger, too. Adolf Eckmann, Leo Ehrenreich, Alfred Veres, Ricardo Klement, Ernst Radinger. One was a prisoner of war, one was a lumberjack, one poisoned himself, one got shot in the woods. But he was the wrong Eichmann.

  Just codenames he used after the war so no one could find him, Shalom. So what? Lots of Nazis did that.

  Not codenames, Ben. He is always Eichmann. And he’s someone else. But who is he? Sometimes he plays a game with me; he asks me what he’s called. I’m allowed to say all the names I can think of except for Eichmann. Eichmann is not allowed! If I say the right one, he smiles, like this, with really thin lips. And then he disappears. If I say the wrong name, he heats up. He burns me, my skin starts to blister. And then I disappear. If you don’t know who he is, you’ll never know where he is. Before the trial started, they dug out some of Eichmann’s old colleagues they wanted to question about him. One of them, I don’t know his name, it was something double-barreled, couldn’t understand what they wanted. Eichmann? He said it was just a codename, an alias for an undercover operation. They showed him photos; here, they said, this is him. He’s in prison in Israel; we are going to put him on trial. The man with the double-barreled name just laughed. I don’t know who you’ve caught there, gentlemen, he said, but I can assure you there is no such person as Eichmann. Eichmann is a codename.

  So you were guarding a codename then, Shalom? A codename was sitting at the table? A codename lay on the bed? You tasted food for a codename?

  No.

  You see? It’s all nonsense.

  The codename isn’t Eichmann.

  Well, what is it?

  Let me tell you a story. When Eichmann was on trial, the attorney general blamed him for the marches. They happened in the final months of the war. In some country or other. I can’t remember which one. But the Jews were to be taken out of that country. But how to do it? There were no more trains running, the lines were broken. So they called for the master. If they cannot be transported, they will just have to walk, he said. Thousands of Jews were rounded up, old people, young ones, men, women, and set marching, back to the Reich to work and be shot.

  And the codename?

  Wait, Ben. You’ll see. Many of the Jews didn’t survive the march; it was two hundred kilometers, it was raining, it was cold, they had nothing to eat, they didn’t know where to sleep. Many of them died on the side of the road. Eichmann did it, said Hausner, the attorney general. Eichmann ordered the marches, he is responsible. No, Mr. Attorney General, Eichmann said. I did not do that. Hausner lost his temper; he pulled out a piece of paper from the pile on his desk, held it up for everyone to see, and slapped it with the back of his hand. Here, what is this? What does this say, this is your name! he shouted. Eichmann didn’t know what he meant, so I was told to fetch the document from the attorney general and take it over to the glass box. Eichmann changed his glasses, lowered his head, and studied the paper. It was very quiet in the courtroom. Everyone was watching Eichmann. Eichmann stared at the document. He removed his glasses, brought the paper up to his face, and read it again. From top to bottom, from left to right. He even turned it over, but there was nothing on the other side. Read it! the attorney general shouted. What am I supposed to read, sir? Eichmann asked. Your signature! The line where you’ve signed your name. Eichmann looked confused, he turned the page this way and that. The chairman called him to order and told him he must obey the attorney general. So Eichmann started to read, slowly, hesitantly, he took off his glasses, put them back on again, read a few words, commented on them, read a few more, and so on:

  A brief recap of the day . . . what is this?

  Then I can tell you, I know very well all and sundry were opposed to it.

  I know, though I cannot remember who told me. Not int. either . . . no idea, it is absurd.

  Not int. at all. Weeks . . . I worked on it for weeks.

  The Reichsführer was never . . . what? He never said I was responsible, he never reproached me, the Reich’s emissary actually congratulated me . . . on my elegant procedure.

  What about Dr. E . . . no idea. E? Dr. E congratulated me for the elegant procedure as well.

  Afterward I drank to that with E., schnapps, it was schnapps made from fermented horse milk, mare’s milk, I remember because I had never drunk it before.

  Great . . . what is this?

  Great pleasures . . .

  The attorney general had been growing more and more agitated while Eichmann read, he threw his arms into the air, as if he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, and then he interrupted him: Just your signature! he shouted. The signature! Your name!

  My name is not on this document, Mr. Attorney General, Eichmann said. Hausner caught his breath and the judge looked at Eichmann without a word. I think he was angry, too. Above all, though, he was disappointed. Eichmann noticed and gave an explanation. I am prepared to admit everything I was responsible for, Mr. Chairman, as I have no choice, but in this case, the marches, I must deny any form of participation. It wasn’t me. This was no concern of mine, Mr. Chairman. I could not give any orders in this case, I could not stop anything. I had absolutely nothing to do with it, Mr. Chairman, in any manner whatsoever. I must be clear on this. The documents prove it.

  The attorney general asks for the paper Eichmann had read to be returned. I fetch it from Eichmann and take it to the prosecutor’s table.

  Hausner takes the document, looks at it—the page falls to the floor. He picks up the other pages on his desk, stares at them, turns pale, drops them on the floor, one by one. He’s as white as a sheet and collapses onto his chair.

  The council for the defense, a large, heavy man called Servatius, stands up. Mr. Chairman, I see that the name of the accused doesn’t appear on a single one of the documents presented. My client is the victim of a fallacy.

  There’s disturbance in the courtroom. Judge Landau calls the spectators to order. When things have quieted down, one of the judges intervenes. He is called Raveh. He asks the council for the defense to state the name on each document. What was the name the witnesses had repeated, again and again, with fear and loathing?

  I think the attorney general should answer, Servatius says.

  But Hausner can’t say anything. He is folded up in his chair and shakes his head.

  The audience gets more restless. Landau threatens to have the courtroom cleared. Then he asks a guard to collect the papers strewn across the floor. The man comes over, picks them up, and takes them to the judges’ table. Landau proceeds to study the documents one by one.

  It takes a long time. Occasionally, Landau examines a page several times, while he skims over others or reads every single word, comma, and period.

  Finally, Landau puts the documents in order and looks up. Everyone is watching him, he looks back at everyone. All the documents are signed with one and the same name, he says. It isn’t the name the witnesses repeated, again and again, with fear and loathing. It isn’t the defendant’s name.

  The audience gasps in horror. People wearing coats wrap them around more tightly, it has suddenly gone cold. Freezing cold. Servatius stands. Would you kindly tell us th
e name, Mr. Chairman?

  Landau leans over and whispers something to the judge called Halevi, sitting on his right. Then he whispers something to Raveh, who is sitting to his left. They both nod. Landau stands.

  Nagar, he says. The name is Shalom Nagar.

  You see—I was the codename. Just my luck!

  Shalom—

  No, wait, Moshe. Let me tell you a story. Eichmann used to have a banker, what was he called—

  Storfer?

  That’s right, Storfer, who organized the money for—for his affairs, and later on he bought the ships that were supposed to sail to Palestine. Old ships with broken rudders. They never went anywhere. Eichmann liked Storfer. He looked after him. Then one day, Eichmann comes back from a business trip and hears that Storfer has been deported to Auschwitz. Eichmann gets back into the car and drives to Auschwitz. It’s a long journey, it takes him all night, but he doesn’t mind. When he arrives the next morning, he walks through the gate and sits down on the first bench he can find. I always stayed by the entrance at Auschwitz, he said. I could go no further. I could not stand all the oven business. The camp commander is informed that he has arrived. His name is Höss: Obersturmbannführer Eichmann is sitting on a bench at the entrance to the camp. Höss has no idea what this is supposed to mean. He goes over, welcomes Eichmann, and then sits down on the bench beside him. They have a chat, talk about German Shepherds and Christmas. Then Eichmann tells Höss that he has come to see Storfer. Höss doesn’t know who he means.

  Eichmann explains. Storfer is sent for.

  Well, well, dear old Storfer, Eichmann says, when the old man is standing before him. This is a bit of a turn for the worse, is it not? Storfer admits that he made a mistake. He hopes everything is going to be all right now. Eichmann shakes his head. I am sorry to say there is nothing I can do, dear Storfer. This is not an official visit, you must understand. It is strictly personal. But even if it were official, I could not do anything for you. I cannot get you out of here.

  Storfer complains that he has to sleep on uneven bales of straw. That’s hard for me, Herr Obersturmbannführer, he says. I’m an old man, I can only sleep on bales that are flat. Eichmann tells Höss that Storfer needs a decent mattress. Höss sends for the person responsible and orders him to find a mattress.