Eichmann's Executioner

by Astrid Dehe

You’re the wrong victim, Shalom. Eichmann is only following you as a stand-in. In place of another. It’s me, Adolf Schneider, I’m the one he’s after. The traitor.

  We reach the main building. Ben is breathing hard, worn out by his battle with the gravel. My hands are shaking. I can’t keep my head still. A guard meets us at the entrance. He has been ordered to take us to the oven. Your description on the telephone helped, he says to Nagar, we found it on the ground floor of the office building, behind the stairs. Over there, just across the yard on the left. Then he looks at me and at Ben, who is covered in sweat. We can go through the main building, he says. This way, gentlemen.

  One corridor after the other, light from the barred windows crisscrosses on the floor. As Ben pushes me through it, we slice up the shadows. There is hardly a sound. Just the echo of footsteps. Out of sync at first but then they fall into step. At the end of each corridor the guard unlocks the door, lets us pass, locks it again, and then walks ahead of us into the next corridor. Eventually he slows down. Just one more door to go, he says. Nagar starts to hum, but the creaking hinges drown out the sound as the door opens. I’ll leave you here, the guard says.

  Behind us, the heavy door bangs shut. We listen to the key being turned in the lock.

  In front of us, fitted into the triangular space beneath the stairs, we can see the outline of a bulky object partly visible beneath a gray tarpaulin. Ben hesitates before he nods at Nagar. They lift off the tarpaulin together, carefully folding it to one side. As it slides to the floor, dust whirls through the air and settles on the exposed oven standing there all black and solid. I recognize it, although I have never seen it before, compare measurements in my head, stare at the incinerator, the metal ribs, the heavy door at the far end. Everything fits. But seeing is not enough if I’m going to banish my doubts. Ben can tell what I’m thinking and moves me closer. I stretch out my hand. Touch the metal with the tips of my fingers, notice the gritty texture and a long straight welding line. Ben is next to me. He makes a fist and raps the cylindrical frame once, twice. And Nagar? Nagar is standing beside the oven door, resting his hand on the side of the oven. He strokes it, cautiously, gently. Then he pauses and looks at us, tears in his eyes.

  The Lord is my throne, Ben. And Moses said: The hand on the throne of the Lord!

  When the guard returns, Ben and Nagar have just finished covering the oven up again. He lets us out through the door to the yard. The oven was pushed and dragged through this door fifty years ago. Outside, the sun has stopped shining. Nagar embraces Ben, then he bends down to me and takes hold of my shoulders, winks at me. For the first time since we’ve known each other, he grips the handles of my wheelchair.

  The guard comes with us. Is the gravel beneath the wheels more even now, or is it thanks to Shalom that we are gliding?

  When we get to the middle of the yard, the guard stops. We shake hands, say thank you. The guard pushes back his cap, wipes his brow. Something wasn’t right with that oven, he says. The incinerator didn’t get hot enough, all the heat escaped. Maybe they didn’t know how to operate it, or maybe it had a defect. At any rate, Eichmann didn’t burn properly. Only part of his body was burnt to cinders, the rest—I don’t know. They scattered the ashes into the sea and buried what was left.

  I feel giddy; I can sense Nagar stiffening behind me. I cling to the sides of my wheelchair and try to start humming. Nagar joins in. Ben doesn’t join in. Instead, he asks a question.

  Buried? Where?

  Somewhere nearby, the guard says, and makes a vague sweeping gesture. Perhaps here, where we are standing.

  About the Authors

  Astrid Dehe is a journalist, translator, and teacher. She lives in Varel, Germany.

  Achim Engstler is a university and adult education lecturer and writer. He lives in Varel, Germany.

  Dehe and Engstler have worked as a writing duo since 2008 and are the authors of six books in German.

  About the Translators

  Helen MacCormac has been a freelance translator since 1998 and lives in Kassel, Germany.

  Alyson Coombes is an editor and translator and lives in London.

  Celebrating 25 Years of Independent Publishing

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