by Astrid Dehe
Storfer complains that he is forced to work too hard in the camp. He can’t manage it at his age. Eichmann says to Höss: Listen, I do not want Storfer doing any hard work. Höss calls for a broom. Storfer takes the broom and starts sweeping around Eichmann and Höss.
Höss sends for tea and cake, they drink their tea and eat the cake. Storfer sweeps. When they’ve finished, Eichmann gets up and says goodbye to Höss. He pats Storfer on the shoulder. And then gets into his Mercedes.
The car drives off. Storfer stands at the fence with his broom in his hand and watches it leave. As soon as he is out of sight, Storfer is shot in the back of the neck. Just his luck.
Twenty-two guards, and one has to go into Eichmann’s cell: Shalom Nagar. Just his luck!
Twenty-two guards, and one has to be Eichmann’s executioner: Shalom Nagar. Just his luck!
Nagar pushes the button! Nagar is told to take the body down from the gallows! Nagar gets covered in spewed blood. That last sentence written in blood went all over the little Yemenite.
Just his luck!
Eichmann had targets to meet, you know. A number! He was given a number: ten point three million. That was how many Jews there were, that’s how many he was supposed to dispose of. He does his sums: How much time does he have, how many trains will it take, how many carriages? How many Jews can he fit in one carriage? They started off with passenger trains, third-class carriages, but they couldn’t fit enough in, it took too long, he needs different material, Eichmann said, the Jews need to roll faster! Not passenger trains, he said, Jews are cargo! He needs freight trains, cattle trucks, that’s what he wanted. They were used to transport troops to the front, forty-eight men per car. But that still wasn’t enough for him. He reasoned that soldiers carry luggage and weapons, which take up space. Jews don’t need luggage. He could put seventy, eighty, a hundred in one cattle truck. That’s what he did. He was at every station, pressed his arm against the trucks, and then the trains set off, no one could stop them, and he kept his lists. Fanatically! He told me himself. My fanaticism, my zeal! he said, and he is proud of it. The master demonstrated what he was capable of. I am not interested in the individual Jew, he said! I am not concerned with small fry, I only register ten thousand Jews or more. I have to deliver numbers. Huge numbers. And I did deliver, he says. I operated ruthlessly with exacting elegance, the transports rolled, it was magnificent. And if anyone tried to put a wrench in the works, I stepped in. I turned up everywhere. They had to reckon with me at any time, I was there, even when I was not there. Eichmann! Was that a name or an order? They could never tell.
Then the war was over. Eichmann said: I am not interested, it is nothing to do with me. I have my number. And he carried on working. On and on. But he didn’t ever finish. Then the people from Mossad caught him, brought him here, and put him in prison. He still couldn’t stop. He carried on making plans, writing lists. If he disappeared—then that was part of the plan. He had his quota, the quota had to be fulfilled. He’s done his duty now! He is almost finished. There is just one Jew left on the list. He saved him for last. His special Jew, his guard, his keeper. He marked him while he was hanging from the gallows. Blood is the dwelling place of the soul, you know. I could wash his blood from my face, I could do away with the uniform covered in his blood. But his soul. Can you wash away a soul? He has been biding his time. He has stayed with me, never lost sight of me, day and night. He talked! I know everything. And now he is coming. He broke my knife; he is taking over the compound. The meeting place, too. IV B 4, his department. He is looking for workers. Has he asked you yet?
Shalom, he’s not asking anyone anything. He can’t break anything, he won’t do anything. Eichmann is dead!
What do you mean?
Dead, he died, I mean. Fifty years ago!
He doesn’t know the difference, Ben.
Who?
Eichmann! Let me tell you a story. After the verdict had been announced, when Eichmann was sentenced to death, a preacher went to see the prison director. His name was Hull and his wife never left his side; she was a slight little woman, dressed elegantly with high heels and a hat and scarf. He had come to save Eichmann’s soul, he said. The prison director didn’t want to see him. Eichmann will have to look after his own soul, he said. Hull went to someone else, a minister, perhaps, someone who didn’t have any objections. Then they asked Eichmann. He didn’t want to see a preacher, he didn’t have time, he needed to write. Then suddenly he changed his mind. So Hull was allowed to see him after all, twice a week. We took Eichmann to the visiting room and they talked. At first, only Hull spoke, Eichmann listened and shook his head. At some point he ran out of patience and cut off Hull’s words. Are you finished? I have had enough, he said, I will not listen to any more. Now I want to have my say. I do not believe the things you preach, he said. You keep coming at me with the Bible and God and Jesus Christ, but I am not interested in what is written in the Bible. It has nothing to do with me. I have my own beliefs. And then he had his say.
I do not believe that God created man, he said. I do not believe that God has a son, and I also do not believe that there is such a thing as hell. I have studied science, I have read many books by mathematicians and physicists. I have gazed at the stars through a telescope, and I have seen the endless realms of heaven mirrored in a well at night. Everything I have seen and read corresponds with my beliefs.
Everything is energy, he said. Us included. We are energy. Energy gets transformed. Something moves, it stands still, it moves again, it stands still. Something heats up, it cools down, it heats up again, it cools down. Back and forth, to and fro. And it is the same with me, he said. Energy is transformed into Eichmann, Eichmann is transformed into energy, energy is transformed into Eichmann again, Eichmann is transformed back into energy. I get posted from one state to the other, he said. Sometimes I have to be energy and then I have to be Eichmann, I cannot control it. It is to do with the greater order of things, the will and the power. This transformation has nothing to do with life or death, Eichmann says. Those are just human concepts. He can be energy and alive, or Eichmann and dead. But there is a secret, he said.
The preacher didn’t want to listen to this. He didn’t understand what Eichmann was going on about. He kept going back to the Bible, he even brought him one, with passages underlined and lots of handwritten notes. We had to give it to Eichmann when he sat opposite Hull in the visiting room. Eichmann always swiped it away to the edge of the table immediately. It fell to the floor once and he left it lying there. He actually tore up his wife’s copy. She often read the Bible and he wasn’t happy about that, so he took it away from her and tore it apart in the middle. From then on, his wife either read one half of her torn Bible or the other.
Eichmann wanted to tell his secret, do you understand? But the preacher wouldn’t listen. Repent! Repent! he cried, and his wife folded her hands. She had to translate everything. Eichmann and Hull couldn’t understand each other, the preacher only spoke English and Hebrew; Eichmann could only speak German and Spanish. Repent! Repent! Eichmann just stared at the two of them blankly. He’s trying to tell them his secret, and they won’t listen. He couldn’t understand that.
And what was his secret? Or don’t you know?
I do know.
But you won’t tell?
I will tell you, Ben. There is something that stops the transformation.
What?
Ashes. If you transform the human state into ashes, all the energy disappears. It goes into the fire. The flames devour it. There is nothing left to be transformed. The person is gone. He can no longer exist! Like—like a square circle. It was meant to happen to the Jews, do you see? It’s what Amalek wants. He gave Eichmann the order. The other leader, what’s his name?
Hitler?
He’s just a stand-in. The highest German officials talk to Amalek directly. Flammenführer. That’s what they call him. Eichmann is Flammenführer’s favorite. His Habibi. He whispers in his ear.
&
nbsp; Where did you get all this, Shalom?
Habibi? That’s what the woman called the wolf in the district. You remember, where the sky is mirrored in the well? That’s when Eichmann started to believe.
No, I mean Flammenführer. Where did that come from?
From Eichmann! Sometimes he looks away and talks into the air, you see, when he thinks I’m not listening. He speaks and then he listens for ages. When he’s done, he clicks his heels and stands to attention. Jawohl, Herr Flammenführer! At your command!
Nagar nudges Ben in the ribs with his elbow. He seems relaxed, almost buoyant. At your command! Herr Flammenführer! Jawohl! They’re nuts, the Germans. Mad, that’s it. He stuffs his two halves of pear into his mouth, then mine and then the ones lying beside Ben’s cup. He is beaming happily, with gleaming eyes.
Ben is quiet. He’s grinding his jaws as if he were chewing something. Not pears, something tougher. Nagar gets up, Ben grabs him by the arm and pulls him back down onto the chair.
What is it, Ben? I was going to fry us some meat. I’ve still got some left.
Wait, Shalom. You can fry your meat later. First, you’ve got to listen. Eichmann isn’t here, Shalom. He won’t set up a department; he’s not going to do anything. He was destroyed! You just said so yourself: If the human state is transformed to ashes, the energy disappears. It goes into the fire, is devoured by the flames. There’s nothing left to be transformed. The person is gone. He can no longer exist! Eichmann is ashes, Shalom. You pushed his body into the oven. He is ashes!
Shalom looks at his friend Ben. There is warmth in his gaze, gratefulness and the gentle despair reserved for those we love who cannot and will not understand.
Eichmann is Amalek, Ben. One of Amalek’s people. You can’t defeat them. Samuel cut Agag to pieces, but the pieces remain—transformation! Mordechai hanged Haman, but the body remains—transformation!
Nagar pushed Eichmann’s body into the oven—ashes! Remember the ashes, Shalom! You destroyed him. You are the last in the line.
Let me tell you a story. Us guards were ordered to keep the light on in Eichmann’s cell at all times. We had to watch what he was doing every minute. But sometimes we did turn it off. It was very bright and enough light from the hall fell through the door hatch. A small square of shimmering light—like the first streak of dawn. Eichmann always avoided the square, he never stepped on it, not once. He squeezed past it to get to his bed, arranged his slippers in such a way that they could never touch the shining tiles. Then it was the night before—before he was hanged. None of us knew it was his last evening, but he—he could tell. At some point, we turned off the light. The square of light shone on the floor. Eichmann sat at his desk, he was still writing although he could hardly see a thing. When it was time for him to go to bed, he got up and stepped onto the lit-up tiles. It was the only time he didn’t skirt around them. Suddenly it was his light; on this last night, it belonged to him. There he stood, illuminated. That was a sign, do you see? He knows he’s going to die. Death is on its way. It’s the same for all people, darkness, the end. But he, he stands in the light.
Eichmann is nothing but ashes, Shalom. Hanged, burned, scattered in the sea, hounded across the world, dissolved in the oceans, no trace of him anywhere. It’s over.
No, Ben. He is here. He is coming to get me. It’s always me they’re after, you see. I am Saul.
Who are you?
The people spoke to Samuel: Give us a king. We want to be like all the other nations. Samuel turned to the Lord and the Lord said: Follow their will. There is one among them and his name is Saul, which means the requested one. Samuel did as the Lord commanded. He anointed Saul and said to him: You will be king. Only the people knew nothing about this. Samuel didn’t want to set a king before them. He wanted him to come from among them. He let them cast lots. They had all come. All the tribes of Israel, each and every one. So they cast lots and the lot fell on Saul. But Saul was not there. He refused to take on his role. They searched for him and couldn’t find him. At last they pulled him out from behind some crates and bundles and he stood among them. Long live the king! But Saul, the requested one, didn’t want this. So many men, but the lot fell on the one who didn’t want it.
You aren’t Saul, Shalom. You didn’t hide. They didn’t have to search for you behind any crates or bundles.
They did. They searched for me. It was my day off. I went for a walk with Ora and our boy. They found me by the hills and dragged me into the car. And afterward, when Eichmann was hanging on the gallows—I hid behind my colleagues. But Merhavi called for me. Come over here, Shalom, he said. This isn’t a game. I was dragged out from behind crates and bundles. I’ve been hiding ever since. Every day. Every night. But he always finds me.
He’s dead, Shalom. You’re his executioner.
Executioner? The only one this country ever had? I come from Yemen, you know. I was thirteen, fourteen years old when I came to Israel. They’d told us about the war, but not about the other things. Eichmann? Who is he? I knew nothing about him. I’m Salaam Nagar from Sanaa. What did I have to do with Eichmann? They mistook me for someone else—there was someone who looked like me. He was called Yoram, I didn’t know him. It’s a play. Nagar was played by Yoram. Who was Eichmann? He was somebody else, too. A stand-in on behalf of someone else. The gallows, the noose. Those were just—what do you call that in the theater?
Props?
Props, that’s right. The same goes for the body. And the blood! Nothing is real.
The oven, Shalom! The oven was real. He was cremated.
Oven? Nagar blinks and squints, as if he has only just now noticed the evening sun standing low in the sky, shining on us for real.
The oven was made of iron, Shalom. They don’t make props out of iron.
Zeklikovsky built it. In Petah Tikva.
You see. So it does exist!
Nagar doesn’t say anything to that. He studies his hands, wipes them on his clean blue apron. Not a drop of blood to be seen.
The oven exists, Shalom. Built for Eichmann. Eichmann’s body was burnt in it.
Where?
I don’t know where the oven stood. Surely you must know?
I wasn’t there, Ben.
Of course you were there! You pushed Eichmann into the oven!
I felt ill. Merhavi said: It’s all right, Shalom. Epstein will take you home.
Eichmann was burnt in that oven!
They hid it afterward.
Eichmann’s remains?
The oven. No one was ever meant to find it.
So it is still there somewhere!
In the prison. They took it to the prison, Ben.
It was below the stairs, they’d taken off the chimney.
Maybe it’s still there, Shalom! It must be there. We’ll go tomorrow, the three of us. To Ramla. And if you stand in front of the oven, you will know that Eichmann has been reduced to ashes. No more transformations!
Where are you asking us to, Ben? Where are you talking us to? If we stand in front of the oven, you will know that Eichmann has been reduced to ashes. A conditional sentence. Does he understand the implications of this grammatical form? If—then. If not—then not. White or black. That’s Ben. He doesn’t question the two forms of logic, the basic equation of reality. The world and its telling must surely comply. That is why he asks questions, jogs memories, corrects. And if something can’t be explained with words, then it needs to be checked.
So tomorrow we will go to Ramla, to the prison. Will they even let us in? They probably will. They’ll do a favor for their old colleague Nagar.
The evening came. The morning came. That wise alteration praised by the priests on the rivers of Babylon in their hymn to creation. No night should last forever, not even for Shalom Nagar, the first and last unwilling executioner, the brave adversary of Amalek. I am still sitting at the table, feeling uneasy, when Ben arrives to pick me up. It is time to go, Moshe, he says.
Ben has borrowed a car for my sake. Naga
r wants to go on the bus, by himself. I imagine him walking round his old haunts in the prison before we arrive. He climbs up the stairs past Eichmann’s apartment, his knees turn to jelly, he opens the door that leads to the prison roof. Up there everything is just how it was fifty years ago. The barriers are still there, railings lined with sacks to hide Eichmann from view, the path past the railings leading to the square the guards called the sports ground is still there. So is the chair. I imagine Nagar crossing his arms in front of his chest, bowing his head, and pacing around the square, down the side, then turning around, walking halfway back, then across the square, turning around again, walking back to the start. A pattern that doesn’t make sense. I imagine him sitting down on the chair, waiting for someone to come and give him his cigarette. Then he remembers that he doesn’t smoke.
Ben parks the car at the prison gate, walks around to the trunk to fetch my wheelchair, which he took apart for the journey, and puts it back together. We show our papers, the guard nods, lets us into the yard, and points us in the right direction. The main entrance is over there, he says. They are expecting you. Step by step, Ben pushes the wheelchair across the yard. The ground puts up a fight. Either the wheels sink in or they get jammed by stones and Ben has to pick another route. Soft like flowing sand or hard as a rock. We don’t leave any tracks as we make our way, no tire prints left by the wheelchair, no footprints from Ben’s shoes even though he puts all his weight into the ground with every step forward. We crunch on, inch by inch, concentrating on the next move.
We don’t see Nagar until his shadow falls over us. Ben pauses, I look up. And I am struck by a thought so sharp and clear, that I can almost feel my legs again: