Hunting Eichmann

by Neal Bascomb

  "You must be joking," Aharoni scoffed. Haim Cohen had advised him that it would be better if Eichmann came willingly to Israel and wanted, if possible, a signed statement to that effect. "You know that nobody will put you on trial except the Israelis. So, it's Israel or nowhere. Don't worry. It won't be a kangaroo trial. It will be a proper trial. You will have a lawyer."

  "I will think about it," Eichmann eventually said.

  Aharoni ended the interrogation; Eichmann would recognize soon enough that he had no other option. For now, Aharoni needed to report back to Harel on the most pressing issue: what the Eichmann family would do when he did not come home.

  Nick Eichmann was installing a control box for an elevator shaft in the city when his younger brother Dieter appeared suddenly. Short of breath and panicked, Dieter blurted out, "The old man is gone!"

  The screwdriver in Nick's hand clattered to the floor.

  Dieter hurriedly recounted how their father had not come home the night before. The two sons had been bothered by the repeated reports in the press announcing a fresh search for their father. Their fears had been heightened by that strange encounter in April with the two men who had claimed to be looking to buy property in the area. The incident with the limousine driver asking for directions two nights before had further aroused their suspicions. Now that he had vanished, they immediately thought that he must have fallen victim to an assault, probably by Jews, maybe even by Israelis.

  Together they rushed from the construction site. Their middle brother, Horst, was away in the merchant marine, which meant it was up to the two of them to find their father. They traveled across Buenos Aires to see Carlos Fuldner, the man who had helped their father get into Argentina, who had provided him with employment over the years, and who remained one of the leading figures within the expatriate German community. Dieter and Nick did not know where else to turn. At this point, they were also scared that whoever had gone after their father might also want to abduct their mother and younger brother as hostages.

  Fuldner was calm and more reasoning. He told Eichmann's sons that there were three plausible reasons why their father had not returned to Garibaldi Street. First, the police could have arrested him and kept him overnight in jail for drunkenness or some other infraction. Second, he could have been involved in an accident and been taken to the hospital—or even the mortuary. Third, his pursuers could have found him, as his sons suspected, and these individuals, whether vigilantes or state sponsored, had kidnapped or already killed him. These were the options, plain and simple, and a search needed to be launched, starting with the hospitals and police stations around San Fernando. The area around the house also should be searched for any signs of a struggle and, potentially, a body. They should also visit the Mercedes-Benz plant to see whether Eichmann had shown up for work the day before.

  Nick and Dieter left to start the hunt, hoping that Fuldner and the other members of the German community would rally to help. They also planned to visit Willem Sassen, who was a friend of their father's and had many contacts in the city.

  Their inquiries at the San Fernando police station and nearby hospitals came up empty. Vera Eichmann went straight to Mercedes-Benz, where she learned that Ricardo Klement had worked the entire day before and had then stayed late for the union meeting. He had not shown up for work that day, and the supervisor informed Vera that Eichmann would lose his job and benefits if he did not return to work soon.

  A search around Garibaldi Street uncovered Eichmann's broken glasses, pressed into the mud in the ditch. There was no question now. He had been taken.

  The day after the capture, Isser Harel returned to his string of city cafés. His every attention had shifted to getting Eichmann out of Argentina before the operation was exposed.

  Yosef Klein joined the Mossad chief at one of his cafés. News of the capture did not have as much of an impact on the El Al station chief as Harel's warning that the potential risks of their activities had just escalated, particularly since they were unsure as to what the Eichmann family would do. The conversation turned to the flight, specifically to how they would move their prisoner onto the Britannia now that they had finalized the plans for parking the plane in the maintenance area of Aerolineas Argentinas.

  They ran through the range of possibilities, some originated by Harel, others suggested by Klein. "Let's do it this way," Klein would suggest. "Okay," Harel typically responded. "I'll consider that, but how about doing it in another way ... And a third way ... And how about...?" The flow of ideas—including one that involved a harness and a set of ropes and hooks to lift Eichmann onto the plane—evolved into three possibilities.

  The first centered on secreting Eichmann onto the plane in a crate stamped as diplomatic cargo. In the second, they would hide him in one of the caterer's carts that were forklifted on board before departure. The third plan involved dressing Eichmann in an El Al uniform and passing him through inspection with the crew. All three had their strengths and weaknesses, depending on the intensity of the police presence, roadblocks, passport control, and whether or not the operation had been compromised. Since Harel had only forty-five minutes with Klein before needing to move on to his next café, they postponed making a decision to further investigate the pros and cons of each plan.

  Later that day, the Mossad chief sat down with Avraham Shalom. Since Eitan was overseeing the safe house, Harel needed someone to spearhead the escape. "You are in charge of getting Eichmann out," Harel informed his deputy head. "Make a plan."

  The El Al flight was to be Shalom's chief focus. He needed to consult with Klein on airport procedures and to acquaint himself with the place and its people. He also needed to map out safe routes and arrange documents and disguises for the day they transported Eichmann to the airport. Most important, he had to finalize the most advantageous method to get Eichmann on the plane, using either one of the three plans discussed with Klein or his own scheme.

  Shalom was instructed to survey the port of Buenos Aires: was there a way to smuggle Eichmann out of the country by ship? Over the past few days, Harel had been plagued by the concern that someone might connect Eichmann's disappearance with the arrival of the first-ever El Al flight to Argentina. If the two events were linked—and this was certainly conceivable—government forces or vigilantes could easily stop the plane before it had a chance to take off. A contingency plan was essential.

  Meanwhile in Tel Aviv, the pilots, navigators, flight engineers, radio operators, pursers, aircraft maintenance technicians, and flight attendants whom El Al had selected and the Mossad had cleared were receiving phone calls or notices in their mail slots that they had been chosen for a flight carrying a special diplomatic mission to Buenos Aires for the 150th anniversary of Argentina. Except for Zvi Tohar, the chief pilot, none of them knew the flight's true purpose.

  For those locked down at Tira guarding Eichmann, the Britannia could not arrive soon enough. Only twenty-four hours had passed since they had captured the man, and they already felt oppressed by their duty in ways they had not anticipated. They had mentally prepared themselves for the risks of holing up at the house, possibly having to face an assault from the police or from Eichmann's sons and associates if they were located. Every time a car braked on the street outside, they were unnerved. But not one of the team had foreseen the soul-hollowing effect of inhabiting the same space as Adolf Eichmann.

  Their prisoner had already proved to be no threat. He was obedient to the point of subservience. When they had brought him to the bathroom for the first time, he had asked permission before having a bowel movement. When finished, he had asked if he could have some toilet paper. Tabor was reminded of German prisoners after the war who would polish the heads of nails when ordered to do so without so much as a mutter of protest.

  Eichmann was also clearly too scared to attempt any resistance. When told to stand, he would obey but would tremble uncontrollably. Earlier that afternoon, when they had brought him out for some exercise, he had asked if
they were taking him outside to kill him. Their assurances to the contrary did little to relax him.

  Now that it was clear that Eichmann was no threat either to them personally or as an escape risk, they were overwhelmed with disgust at having to be so close to him. This was the man who had driven many in their own families to their deaths. They had to feed him, to dress him, to shave him, to accompany him to the bathroom, and to tend to his every discomfort. It would have been easier had they felt only hatred toward him, but unexpectedly, he looked and acted too pathetic and sheepish to inspire that emotion. They were contemptuous of his presence, especially when they considered those they had lost because of his actions. But most of all, they were burdened by other unsettling emotions, namely their frustrating inability to reconcile the pitiful nature of their prisoner with the fact that he had been responsible for the deaths of so many Jews. This conflict cast a pall over the house.

  That evening after dinner, they were looking forward to the arrival of Judith Nesiahu, an operative whom Harel had summoned to Buenos Aires to play the part of Yaakov Medad's wife at the safe house. Nesiahu was an orthodox Jew who had emigrated from Holland in 1940 before most of her family was wiped out in the Holocaust. She had served in the army during the War of Independence and had worked undercover for the Mossad on several operations, including one in Morocco, coordinating the passage of Jews to Israel. When required, she would pose as a Gentile, violating her strict religious practices whenever in public. With her thick glasses and stocky figure, Nesiahu would never play the honey pot to lure spies, but she was unflappable, multilingual, bold, and completely devoted to serving Israel. When one of Harel's lieutenants had informed her five days before that Harel wanted her to leave for an overseas mission, she had simply replied, "Very well." The bemused lieutenant had asked her whether she was interested in knowing the purpose of the assignment or its location, and her answer had been that she expected he would tell her when it was necessary.

  Nesiahu arrived at the house with Medad, who had already warned her about the "besieged" atmosphere. Her primary role was to prevent the neighbors or any other visitors from growing suspicious of their activities by making sure that she was seen enjoying the garden and taking leisurely walks with Medad, but her presence promised to break the monotony of the male-dominated atmosphere. The team was also hoping that she might be able to help with the cooking, since they had shown themselves to be inept at making anything more complicated than eggs.

  Eitan and Malkin both knew Nesiahu, and they greeted her warmly before introducing her to the other operatives as well as to the doctor. She was excited to be involved in the operation, having learned from a short meeting with Harel only hours before that they had captured Adolf Eichmann. For a brief spell, her enthusiasm lightened the mood. But once she saw the prisoner later that night, and how he lay motionless on the mattress apart from the involuntary clenching of his face, she regretted her earlier enthusiasm. "The thought of cooking or washing up for him makes me sick to my stomach," she admitted to the others. "I shudder even to think of touching anything that he's touched." Thus the oppressive mood returned to the house.

  In the early hours of May 13, Peter Malkin, who was on watch, decided that he could not bear to be idle, merely staring at the sleeping Eichmann. He dashed down the hall and retrieved some colored sketch pencils from his disguise kit and the only paper he could find, The South American Handbook, a guidebook he had bought in Paris.

  Gripping a brown pencil, Malkin opened the book to a map of Argentina. With an intensity born of contempt and unwelcome idleness, he began to sketch the sleeping figure on top of the map. The emerging portrait was of a man with dead eyes looming under spectacles, narrow bloodless lips, and the cheekbones of a cadaver. Malkin moved from that rushed portrait to another, of Eichmann in his SS uniform, a swastika on his armband. This time he painted Eichmann as he imagined the Nazi during the war, his bearing stiff, his eyes inflamed and all-seeing.

  On another page, Malkin drew Eichmann carrying a machine gun, depicting it pointed at Poland and Hungary. He also drew almost comical portraits of Hitler and Mussolini facing each other on opposite pages. Eichmann continued to sleep, Malkin keeping an ear out for footsteps in the hall. He did not want the others to know what he was doing. Still he drew, now moving to a pastel portrait of his parents side by side, hands touching. Their eyes looked downward, as if they were watching him. And last, he sketched his sister Fruma from his youthful memory of her: big eyes, deep with concern and love. For a moment, Malkin eluded the depression that hung over the house. Then he was relieved from his watch and went to try to sleep.

  May 13 began much as the day before. They woke Eichmann up, fed him breakfast, and shaved him. Downstairs, they had the radio on, and during the breaks in the tango music and soap operas, they listened intently for any mention of Klement or Eichmann that might reveal that his capture had gained the notice of the police. Nothing. They also scoured the morning newspapers, which Medad had gone out to buy. There were details of an insurrection plan by Peronists, which had been disrupted, weapons and propaganda seized. There was another long article on the massive upcoming anniversary parade featuring 10,000 soldiers, 160 tanks, and more than 100 planes flying overhead. Ella Fitzgerald was going to make her debut in the city that night. No mention of Eichmann. This offered little relief. The police or security services might not post notice of Eichmann's disappearance so as not to tip their hand.

  None of the Mossad team at Tira expected that the risk of discovery or the strain of living with Eichmann would ease in the days ahead. Their only aim was to be rid of the Nazi war criminal by sending him to Israel.

  Back in Israel, Yaakov Caroz, a Mossad department head, had just received the cable from Buenos Aires. He set off through the streets of Tel Aviv to inform the country's top leaders of the capture.

  A stop at the prime minister's office revealed that Ben-Gurion was away at his retreat at the Sde Boker kibbutz. Unless a meeting was absolutely necessary, his secretary told Caroz, it would be better to meet with him on Sunday. Caroz agreed and hurried over to the office of the foreign minister, Golda Meir. She delayed an appointment and asked him to join her on the balcony of her office. As soon as they were alone, the slight, spirited foreign minister, with her dark gray hair bound tightly in a bun, asked him why he had come.

  "Adolf Eichmann has been found."

  "Where is he?"

  "All I know at this point is that Eichmann has been captured and identified."

  Meir caught her breath and placed the palm of her hand squarely on her chest. Such was her emotion that she had to lean on Caroz to keep from falling. A few moments later, she said, "Please, I beg of you, if you hear anything more, will you come and tell me?"

  Caroz left Meir to deliver the message to the chief of staff of the Israel Defense Forces, who offered his congratulations; he also wanted to know more. But Caroz had only the spare coded cable from Buenos Aires. THE TYPEWRITER IS OKAY offered little room for elaboration.

  It would be two more days before Caroz made the car journey several hours south of Tel Aviv to Sde Boker, in the Negev desert. Bodyguards led him to a cottage, where Ben-Gurion welcomed him into his small, book-lined study.

  "I've come to inform you that Eichmann has been found and his identity established beyond doubt."

  Ben-Gurion took a second to digest the news, then asked, "When will Isser be back? I need him."

  "In a week, I would say. I couldn't say precisely."

  Later, Ben-Gurion wrote in his diary, "This morning I met a messenger from Isser, who told me that Eichmann has been identified and captured and will be flown here next week (if they manage to get him onto the plane). Isser will return later. If it does not turn out to be a case of mistaken identity, this operation is an important and successful one."

  Like his Mossad chief, Ben-Gurion allowed himself only a modicum of excitement. The mission was not yet complete.

  23

  AT THE HOUSE
of Willem Sassen, on Liberty Street in the quiet, leafy neighborhood of Florida, mayhem reigned. It was May 13, two days since their father had disappeared, and Nick and Dieter Eichmann were still frantically trying to put together a search party. They had arrived in the middle of the night, pounding on the door. Sassen's wife and daughters had retreated to a bedroom, not sure what was happening but fearing some kind of violence. The youngest daughter, Saskia, thought the two boys, with guns tucked in their belts like outlaws, were crazy. Downstairs in the living room, voices raised, the men argued over who could have taken Eichmann and what they were going to do about it.

  Eventually, Sassen took the two brothers in his car to see if they could discover any trace that might lead them to him. Some of his associates thought that he might have fallen down drunk on his way home from a bar and hurt himself. But the boys had their father's smashed glasses to prove this was not the case. Their inquiries around San Fernando had not come up with anything either. Nobody had seen anything on the night of May 11.

  The boys knew that they needed more help than Sassen could provide, not only to find their father but also to protect their mother and younger brother in case the same individuals who had taken their father came to take them as hostages. Nick and Dieter had hawked some gold rings and watches for three guns—a .22-caliber pistol, a .38, and a .45—at a pawnshop. Already it was becoming clear to them that they could not depend on the German community for help. Besides Fuldner and Sassen, most of their father's associates wanted nothing to do with them. They were more worried about protecting themselves. As for the police, the two brothers could not get their help without revealing their father's true identity, which might place him in even more danger than he was already in. Instead, they decided to turn to their connections in an organization called Tacuara.