by Evans, Mike
“We crossed the river there,” I said. “And then we drove up the street.” The taxi driver turned in the direction I pointed and we started north. “We crossed a second bridge.” I closed my eyes as I imagined the route—the wind in my hair, the sound of the truck as it rattled along. “And then we turned right, I think. Onto a wide thoroughfare.”
“I know the street,” the driver offered.
In a few minutes we reached a major intersection and turned right, traveling east. I glanced around searching for landmarks, but the area had changed since the war. “What if it’s not here,” I worried.
“Relax.” Eli patted my leg. “We’ll find it.”
“If this is correct, there should be a convent on the right.”
In a moment, the driver slowed the car and pointed out the window toward a building. “This was a convent before the war. It’s been converted to apartments now, but I think the church still owns it. Is this the place you were looking for?”
“No. Turn right at the corner.”
We turned right and idled past the building to a residential neighborhood. And then I saw the boardinghouse on the corner. It was three stories tall and had a green lawn now, but there it was. The driver brought the car to a stop at the curb. I pointed out the front windshield. “The office was down there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure. This is it.”
We climbed from the car and Tobin paid the driver to wait. Then we walked together to the front door and knocked. A flood of memories threatened to distract me but I pushed them aside and concentrated. A moment later, the door opened and a woman appeared. I explained to her that I had lived there when it was a boardinghouse during the war and asked if we could come inside and have a look around. It all seemed suddenly awkward, the three of us appearing unannounced and her standing there in the doorway of her home, but it was too late to back down now. The woman was reluctant to let us inside and stepped back from the door to call for her husband. While she was distracted, Eli prodded me forward and we entered the house.
The door opened to an entryway, and the stairs were straight ahead. I made my way toward them and moved up to the second floor. Behind me I heard the woman talking to her husband in an excited voice, trying to explain why we were there.
At the top of the stairs I turned left and at the end of the hall came to the bedroom where I once lived. It was now a child’s room, decorated in pink and green. The walls were repaired with a smooth finish that was painted and fresh. I glanced back at Eli. “I can’t find the spot. There was a hole in the wall and I shoved the papers inside. But I can’t find it.” “Picture it in your mind.” He pointed toward the window, which stood along the wall near the door. “Was this here?”
“Yes.” I looked out to the yard below and saw children’s toys strewn across the grass. After a moment I turned away and pointed to the left. “The chest was here.” I moved to the side and stood where it would have been, then I turned to the left and pointed. “The hole in the wall was over there in the corner near the top. I had to reach up to drop the papers through the hole and then they fell to the bottom.”
“You’re sure?” Eli asked.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I think I am.” I looked up at the ceiling for a reference point, then tapped with my finger on the wall until it sounded hollow. “Here. It should be right here.” I looked over at Eli. “But what if I’m wrong?”
He touched my arm. “Stand back. We’re about to find out.” Suddenly the woman’s husband stormed into the room with an angry look on his face. “What are you doing?”
“Wait a minute,” Tobin cut him off before he reached us. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay,” he roared. “This is my house and I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“There’s an item hidden in that wall. We need to get it out.” “An item. What item?”
“Documents.” “Papers?” “Yes.”
“And that gives you the right to come into my house like this?” I leaned near Eli. “What do we do now?”
“Just stand back,” he muttered. I turned away and he kicked the wall with the toe of his shoe.
The husband started shouting in an Upper Austrian dialect, which I don’t think either Eli or Tobin understood. Eli ignored him and kept kicking the wall until finally his foot went through. Then he stooped down and tore the hole larger with his hands. “Here it is,” he announced.
The husband squeezed past Tobin. “Here what is?” “This.” Eli stood, holding a document in his hand. “What is it?”
“Part of a prisoner list,” I answered. “From people who were held at Mauthausen camp during the war.”
“Oh.” The intensity suddenly drained from his voice. “Well, who’s going to fix my wall?”
“I’ll see that it gets fixed,” Tobin offered. “Right after we get the documents out.”
“There’s more?”
“One way to find out.” Tobin moved around him and joined Eli in kicking the hole much larger.
“This is crazy,” the man complained. “I’m calling the police.” He was almost to the door when documents began sliding from the hole.
Tobin looked over at him. “I don’t think you want the police here.”
“Why not?”
I started crying, but Eli was laughing as he gathered the papers into a neat stack. He looked up at me. “This is what you were looking for?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “That is exactly what I was looking for.”
“How do I know you’ll fix my wall?” the man insisted. “I really should call the police and get them involved.”
Once again he turned to leave and once again Tobin stopped him. “I’ll stay right here until we get this settled.” He glanced back at me. “Get the papers and go.”
“But those are my papers,” the husband protested.
Tobin glared at him. “These are documents from Nazi concentration camps listing people who were executed as a result of mass murder. Do you really want to be a part of that?”
“No,” the man replied timidly. “I suppose not.”
“I didn’t think so. We’ll take the documents out of here and you will never have to deal with them again. I will get your wall fixed and pay you for the inconvenience, and it will all be done.”
“Okay,” the man sighed.
Eli checked to make certain we had all the papers from the wall cavity, then we bundled them in our arms, hurried down the steps to the first floor, and out to the waiting taxi. As I climbed in back, I caught the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Airport,” I said. “Quickly.”
Eli glanced over at me. “We still have Tobin’s stuff in the trunk.”
“He knows how to live without it.”
We arrived back in Jerusalem on the last flight of the night. I called Metzger from the airport to find out what we should do with the documents. He met us at the office with three members from his staff and we began sorting through them right then. At three in the morning we finally locked the pages away and went home to sleep.
For the next two weeks I worked to organize the documents and assemble them for trial. Then I spent another week explaining them to Gideon Hausner, the newly appointed Attorney General and the man who would be leading the prosecution in court. Finally we brought in a court-certified translator who translated them into English and Hebrew. Hausner insisted that the trial record be both thorough and accessible to as many people as possible. He wanted the trial to be not just a legal proceeding but an exhibit to the world of what happened to us at the hands of the Nazis.
As the opening day of trial approached, Metzger handed me the final witness list. We broke it down into a schedule based on the amount of time we anticipated each witness would need to tell their story and for what we expected could be grueling cross-examination by Eichmann’s attorney. I was in charge of getting the witnesses to court at the required time. If things went as we expected, I would testify w
ith the documents during the second week of trial, probably on Wednesday. At trial, however, Eichmann’s attorney chose to ask very few questions of our witnesses. That meant the trial proceeded much more quickly than we had expected. My testimony was moved up to Monday.
The Sunday before I was to appear in court, I worked at the office all day going over my testimony with Hausner. About five that evening, he looked at me with a kind smile. “I think you’re ready.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “I believe I am.”
“You do realize whether Eichmann’s attorney asks any questions or not, your testimony means reliving much of what happened to you in the past.”
“I know.”
“If you don’t want to do this, I can find a way to work around it.” “No you can’t.” I knew he was only trying to be kind.
“No,” he said wryly. “I suppose I can’t.” “I’ll be fine.”
I arrived home that night exhausted. Eli was seated on the sofa, waiting for me. I set my briefcase on the floor and flopped down beside him. “You look tired,” he said.
“I am tired.”
Tears filled my eyes and he pulled me close. “What’s the matter?” “I’m scared.”
“Eichmann won’t get to you.”
“I’m not scared about that. He’ll be in the defendant’s box with glass all around him.” I looked up at Eli. “What if I can’t remember?”
“You’ll remember. Didn’t you spend the day going over everything?” “Yes. But that was in the office. What if I get nervous and I can’t remember what to say?”
“You’ve spent your entire adult life remembering. You have notebooks full of memories. You’ll remember.”
“How do you know?”
“Do you remember your friend Stephan?” “Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” “On the street corner in Vienna.”
“Tell me about it.” “Why?”
“Just tell me about it,” he insisted.
“It was almost dark,” I began. “He told me to be careful what I said and to pay attention when they came for me. To watch how they divided the groups. I asked him what he meant, but he said never mind and for me not to worry about it. That everything had worked out right for me and he was sure it would continue to be that way. Then he kissed me and I went inside.”
“Where was that?”
“The ghetto in Vienna. Just down the block from where we lived.” “What month was it?”
“I don’t know the exact month. It was fall. The weather was pleasant outside during the day but the nights were rather cold.”
Eli smiled at me. “I think your memory will serve you just fine.” “Maybe you are right,” I sighed. “I hope so.”
“If your mind starts to wander, think of Stephan and David and all the others. And if their image fades from your mind, remember their names and you will hear their voices. It will be okay. You will do well.”
I rested my head on his chest. “I am so blessed to have found you.” “No,” he whispered. “I am blessed that you found me.” Then he kissed me lightly on the lips and gestured with a nod. “We should get to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
“About that.” I sat up straight on the sofa. Eli had a puzzled look. “What about it?”
“I think I need to do this alone.”
“What do you mean? It’s all arranged. We put David on the bus for school in the morning. Mama will meet him after school and take him to the shop.”
“I know, but the trial will be tedious and I’ll need to focus. I think it would be best if you stayed away. Go to work at the shop. This is going to take several days and you can’t be gone from work all week.”
He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “Are you worried I might get in the way?”
“No. You are never in the way. I’m just worried I might focus more on you and less on what I need to do. And I need to face him. Alone. Just me.”
“Is that all of it?”
“He killed my mother and father and brother.”
Eli put his arm around me. “And he killed Stephan.”
“The man was responsible for six million deaths.” I started to cry and I could barely speak. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” He squeezed me tight against him. “Everything will work out right.”
* * *
The following morning we awakened early and put David on the bus to school, then Eli rode with me in a taxi down to the courthouse. We got out and walked in silence to the building’s rear entrance. I gave him a brave smile as we neared the door. “Wish me luck?”
He took my hand. “Sarah Cohen, I shall do no such thing. I’ll give you my blessing and peace, but there won’t be any luck about it. God’s purposes are at work in your life.” He kissed me one last time and stepped away. “Come by the shop if you get finished in time today,” he called. “Otherwise, I’ll see you at home for dinner.”
Inside the building, I made my way to an elevator reserved for court personnel. It took me upstairs to a hallway that led to a reception area near the judges’ chambers. An assistant escorted me to a holding room just behind the courtroom. I sat there alone, waiting to be called to the witness stand.
My body seemed to tingle with nervous energy and my palms were clammy. I tried to focus on the task at hand but over and over my mind returned to my first day on the job, typing reports for Adolf at the office in Vienna. As I thought of that day I remembered Eva Fröbe. I didn’t want to think of her. I wanted to think of Mama and Papa, of David and Stephan, but my mind kept coming back to Eva, so after a while I gave in and went where my thoughts wanted to go. She was seated at her desk in front of me when she turned to introduce herself. From all that appeared, she was a German woman with a job. Then I remembered the day she saw me looking through the files. She tried to warn me that others had worked in my position and tried the same thing. They were no longer there because of it. Now, all these many years later, I heard again the pitch of her voice and saw the look in her eye. Only now she didn’t seem quite as German as before, and I thought for the first time perhaps she was like me, one of Eichmann’s Jewish girls. For the next twenty minutes I searched my memory for other hints and clues that might provide an insight into the person she really was. Then I remembered another day, when we were working through an unusually large stack of handwritten sheets and she—
The door opened behind me, interrupting my thoughts. One of the lawyers from Hausner’s office appeared. “We’re just about ready for you.” I nodded in response, rose from my chair, and followed him from the room.
At the door to the courtroom we paused, waiting for the bailiff to announce my name. Through a window in the top half of the door I saw Eichmann seated in the defendant’s dock, looking smug and confident.
While I watched, doors at the far end of the courtroom opened and a clerk from Hausner’s office entered, pushing a dolly that held two large cardboard cartons. Eichmann seemed to pay them no attention as the clerk set the boxes on the prosecutor’s table.
When he was gone, Hausner stood and addressed the presiding judge. “Your Honor, the prosecution calls Sarah Cohen.”
As I pushed open the door to enter the courtroom, I saw Eichmann glance in my direction with a puzzled expression on his face. I felt his eyes follow me as I made my way to the witness stand and took a seat. He was seated directly across the courtroom from me and for the first time in years we were face-to-face. When I was settled, Hausner turned to me and said, “State your full name for the record, please.”
With my eyes focused on Eichmann, I responded confidently, “Sarah Batsheva Cohen.” At the mention of my name, Eichmann’s mouth dropped open and all the color drained from his face.
Without missing a beat, Hausner turned to one of the cardboard cartons and opened the top. The cartons were packed with the documents I purloined from Eichmann’s office and hid in the wall at the boardinghouse. He took on
e out, marked it as an exhibit, and showed it to me. “Do you recognize this document?”
I glanced at it and nodded. “Yes. I know what it is.” “What is it?”
“It’s a prisoner census list.” I pointed to the heading at the top of the page. “This one is a list of new arrivals at the Mauthausen camp.”
“And how is it that you are familiar with this document?”
“I typed it when I worked for Adolf Eichmann at his office in Vienna.” A gasp rippled across the courtroom. Eichmann slumped to one side in his chair.
For the remainder of the week I told my story and the stories of as many people as the judge would permit—how we were forced from our homes and crowded into the ghetto, about Stephan who went missing and how I later learned he’d been killed, my rescue from the camp by Eichmann and the duties assigned to me in his office. Slowly, meticulously we went through each document, one page at a time, and in between documents I filled in the details about how the office worked, the decisions that were made there, and Eichmann’s responsibility for it all.
After almost two full days of testimony, I was drained, but there was still the defense’s opportunity to cross-question me. It was a little after one on Friday afternoon when Hausner concluded his examination, and I braced for what might happen next. The presiding judge looked over at Eichmann’s attorney, Robert Servatius, a lawyer from Cologne, and said, “You may begin your cross-examination.”
Servatius shook his head. “We have no questions,” he said dryly. The judge dismissed me and I walked out of the courtroom through the same door I entered the first morning, earlier in the week. Though my part in it was finished, the trial itself was far from over, and all of the witnesses I interviewed were set to appear. Their files were stacked on my office desk awaiting my attention. But they could wait. I walked out to the street, hailed a taxi, and rode to the coffee shop.
Instead of entering through the front I came in through the alley and slipped up behind Eli as he stood at the stove. I touched him on the elbow and he turned around, startled at the interruption. I grinned at him, “Remember me?” Without a word, he kissed me deeply and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.