by Isser Harel
He himself reached Buenos Aires on the evening of March 1, 1960, and went straight from the airport to his hotel. He immediately started looking through the telephone directories for Buenos Aires city and district. The city directory listed both a Ricardo Klement and a Carlos Ricardo Klement, but in the district directory, which included the Olivos area, the name Klement or Klements – with either ‘K’ or ‘C – did not appear.
The next morning he learned his way around by wandering through the streets with a map. Later on he rented a car, so he could drive the following day, March 3, to the café prearranged for his first meeting with Lubinsky, who was now installed at another hotel.
Kenet asked Lubinsky if he could – without arousing undue attention or curiosity – go to a private investigation bureau to seek information about certain people and their places of residence. Lubinsky said it would seem perfectly feasible if he, as a lawyer, were to explain at the bureau that he needed to find these people in connection with a legacy. Any detective agency, he said, would preserve strict secrecy if asked. He had often initiated such inquiries in his own country and had also on various occasions requested friends of his in Buenos Aires to deal with private investigators on his behalf. So they decided that Lubinsky would establish contact with a suitable agency to investigate details about the identity of the tenants at 4261 Chacabuco Street, Olivos, and to find out whether in 1952 or 1953 a woman by the name of Vera Liebl had arrived in Argentina with three children. And he would also try to obtain the 1952 telephone directories for Buenos Aires city and district.
Lubinsky’s task turned out to be completely routine. When he explained to the people at the bureau selected that he had been requested to undertake an extremely complicated inheritance suit involving the search for heirs in several continents and their subsequent investigation, not a soul doubted his veracity. His request that the work be carried out quickly and in complete silence and secrecy was received with full understanding, all the more so when it was accompanied by an open hint that his clients would be generous with their remuneration if the results came up to expectations.
At his next meeting with Kenet, Lubinsky was able to reassure him that the detective agency saw nothing strange or unusual in his request. This report encouraged Kenet to entrust Lubinsky with further inquiries, this time through a different investigation bureau in another part of the city. The subjects in this case would be the Fuldner and C.A.P.R.I. companies mentioned in our background material as Klement’s past or present employers, and Lubinsky would explain his interest in the companies by telling the agency that his clients might wish to communicate with them about carrying out certain development work.
Kenet’s next meeting was with the student, Primo. As Primo had a large circle of acquaintances in the Argentine capital and there was always the chance that he might run across them, he chose as their meeting place a restaurant where the cuisine appealed to his personal gastronomic tastes but not to those of any of his friends.
After a short talk over a snack, Kenet and Primo set out in the rented car on a tour of Olivos. They drove along Chacabuco Street, and from the detailed descriptions he had been given Kenet had no difficulty finding and identifying number 4261. He had heard so much about its seedy and neglected appearance that he was surprised to find it larger and nicer than he had imagined and to notice that the unpaved street was flanked by a curious combination of humble cottages and luxurious villas. They asked directions here and there and gathered from the accents of the people that the district was indeed inhabited mainly by Germans – and there were several swastikas daubed on the walls.
They parked a few hundred yards from the house. Kenet took a postcard out of his pocket and asked Primo to write on it in Spanish: ‘Regards from George.’ In the space reserved for the sender he wrote ‘Dagosto’ and below it ‘4263 Chacabuco Street,’ a number that didn’t exist. Kenet chose ‘Dagosto’ because it was similar to Dagoto, the name in which a meter had been installed at 4261.
Kenet told Primo to go up to the house, postcard in hand, on the pretext of looking for its sender. Several minutes later he returned and told Kenet he had spoken to a girl who said there was nobody by the name of Dagosto in the neighborhood. He went into the yard of number 4261, looked through the windows of the house, and was able to see that one of the apartments was empty and painters were at work in the other.
Kenet inferred that the tenants had moved and that, even if Eichmann had ever been one of them, he was no longer to be found there. That being the case, he reasoned, there would be no risk of complicating matters if straightforward inquiries were made at the house itself; the likelihood of meeting Eichmann or any member of his family had been eliminated.
He thought the inquiry would seem more innocent if they pretended they wanted to do someone a good turn. Kenet remembered that March 3 was Klaus Eichmann’s birthday and felt it would not arouse suspicion if they were looking for Klaus to give him a birthday present.
The next day, March 4, Kenet bought an expensive cigarette lighter and dropped it into his pocket. He then went to meet the Kornfelds, who had arrived the day before. He asked Hedda to wrap the lighter as a gift and to attach to the small parcel an unsigned greeting card: To my friend Nicky, affectionately, on your birthday.’ He told her to address the envelope to Nicolas Klement, 4261 Chacabuco Street, Olivos.
Kenet explained that he wanted Hedda to register at a luxury hotel for one day, find an intelligent page from the hotel, and have him deliver the gift and card – according to very specific instructions, which he outlined at some length.
A little later Hedda was sitting in the spacious lobby of one of the best hotels in the city. She was an attractive woman and had taken special pains with her outfit that day; she looked perfectly at home in the posh surroundings, and no one would have dreamt that this elegant young woman was a fraud or that she could be taking part in a daring manhunt destined to take the world by storm.
There were not many people in the lobby, and Hedda’s sharp eyes scrutinized its few occupants. Now and then she glanced toward a young page who appeared to be more alert and well-mannered than the others; she had in fact noticed him the moment she came in. The boy must have sensed her interest, for he blushed to the roots of his hair. She beckoned him with a nod.
‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’
She looked him over and smiled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Pedro, ma’am.’
‘I’m sure you know the city well …’ The boy answered in the affirmative, so she went on. ‘Well, then, I want to send you on a little errand.’
‘Anything you like, ma’am.’
‘It’s a delicate matter,’ she said, ‘and I have to rely on you to be discreet. I think a boy of your age knows by now that there are certain things which have to be handled quietly, and when you come back you’ll have to report on every little thing without leaving out a single detail. Keep in mind all the time that it’s top secret and must be kept strictly between you and me. I’m sure I can trust you.’
The boy straightened up proudly. ‘Word of honor, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Are you free now? Can you go at once?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. Here’s an envelope with a small parcel for you to give to a man by the name of Nicolas Klement. The name and address are written on the envelope. There’s a present in the parcel and you have to deliver it personally - I mean, into the hands of Nicolas Klement himself. If you can’t hand it to him personally, either because the address is wrong or because he’s moved away, try to find out the correct or new address so that I can send the present there. If you find that he has moved, don’t go to the new place – I’ll see to the delivery of the parcel myself. But please remember, don’t tell anybody that it was a woman who sent you, if you’re asked who sent you, say that a friend of yours who works at another hotel gave you the parcel yesterday and asked you to take it for him, and that’s all you know about it.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ he replied. ‘I’ll do just as you said. I’m on my way.’
‘Excellent. Here’s some bus money.’ The amount she handed him put an extra sparkle in his bright eyes. Off he went at a run.
Pedro had no trouble finding Chacabuco Street and the house numbered 4261. He looked for a bell at the gate, but there was none, so, after calling out and getting no response, he crossed the yard and walked straight into the house. The door and windows were open, and he could see that painters were working inside. Pedro passed through the living room and crossed the patio into a bedroom, where he saw an unmade bed, shoes, and other personal effects. To the right of this room was a kitchen with a table set with food. The kitchen, bathroom, and another bedroom faced the yard. Through the open door he could see part of a small room with an old man sitting at the door.
He went back out to the yard and walked along a side path to an unplastered shack. A young man of about thirty and a woman were busily cleaning it out. Pedro went up to them, the envelope and gift box in his hand, and asked, ‘Does Klement live here?’
‘Klement … Klement … mmm … oh yes, Klement ...’ the man replied after a moment of hesitation.
‘Yes, Klement,’ the woman confirmed.
‘Klement...’
‘Isn’t that the German?’ asked the man.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pedro.
‘He’s got two grown sons and one youngster, isn’t that so?’ the man asked.
‘I don’t know a thing about him,’ said Pedro. ‘I’ve got something to give him. Where can I find him?’
‘He used to live here but doesn’t any more. He left, I don’t know exactly when ... about twenty days ago,’ the man explained.
‘Where did he go?’
‘I haven’t a clue. But he will know.’ He indicated the small room where Pedro had noticed the elderly painter and then led Pedro back through the house.
‘I’ve got a message for the man whose name’s written here,’ Pedro began, pointing to the envelope.
‘He wants the new address of the one who moved out of here,’ the young man chimed in.
‘Ah ... the German,’ said the painter.
‘Yes. Can you tell me where to find him? I’ve got something for him.’
‘All I know is he moved to San Fernando, but I don’t know how you’ll find it – I don’t know the exact address. You go there by the number 60 bus … Wait a minute: the son works near here …’ He turned to the other man and said, ‘Maybe you could go with him and show him where it is.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure. Come with me.’
They left the house and walked down the street to the corner. The young man started to explain how to get to the workshop where he could find the German’s son, but he saw that Pedro was having trouble following his directions and offered to take him there. They crossed the street, and the man pointed out a scooter parked next to the curb.
‘You see that motoneta? It’s the young German’s. You’ll know him by his very fair hair.’
They crossed the road about thirty yards from Paraná Street, at the continuation of Chacabuco and went into a one-story building. A number of technicians were busy at various jobs, and in the corridor a typically Teutonic-looking lad, about eighteen or twenty years old, was at work. Pedro’s escort called him over and they shook hands.
‘This young gentleman wants to talk to your father.’
‘I’ve got a letter for the man whose name’s written here,’ said Pedro, showing him the envelope. ‘They tell me he doesn’t live here any more. Maybe you can tell me where to take the letter.’
‘We’ve moved,’ the blond fellow said.
‘Where to?’
‘Don Torcuato.’
‘Well, they told me I must deliver this letter and parcel personally into his hands,’ Pedro said.
The German examined the envelope again. ‘Who sent it?’
‘I don’t know exactly. One of my friends gave it to me. He got it from a guest in the hotel where he works, but he was too busy so he asked me to do it for him. I’ve had it since yesterday really, but yesterday I didn’t have time.’
‘I’d still like to know who it came from,’ the blond man insisted.
‘What do you want from him?’ the young man interrupted. ‘They gave him these things and all he’s got to do is hand them over. He came to look for you where you lived before and I told him you’ve moved and you work here. I think you should take it.’
‘Yes, but I’d still like to know who sent it.’
Pedro pointed mutely to the envelope in his hand.
‘Mmm … I see what you mean. The sender’s name may be inside the envelope,’ said the fair-haired lad.
‘I still think I’ve got to put the letter and parcel in the hands of this person,’ said Pedro, pointing again to the name on the envelope. ‘Maybe you could give me the address?’
‘No ... the houses aren’t numbered where we live. And besides ...’
‘Oh, really?’ said Pedro. Then I guess I’d better give them to you – unless you can tell me how to get there.’
‘There aren’t any street names in Don Torcuato,’ Pedro’s escort remarked.
Pedro sighed. ‘O.K. Here’s the envelope and here’s the parcel.’
‘If you have any trouble about this you can always find me here,’ the blond fellow replied.
‘All right. Good-bye and thanks.’
As they left the building, Pedro made a note of the street number: 2865. The scooter was a Siambretta 150-Sport, and it was in filthy condition.
Pedro thanked the man who had acted as his guide and hurried back to report to the lady on how he had carried out his mission. He wasn’t sure if he’d done right handing over the letter and parcel to the blond young man, on the strength of the neighbor’s word that he was Klement’s son.
But the young woman wasn’t angry with him. When he told her the whole story, she said he had acted correctly. For some reason, she attached great importance to every single detail of his story and even made some notes. She asked him if he had caught the name of the young man he’d given the letter to, and Pedro thought about it and recalled that he’d heard the men at the workshop call him something that sounded like ‘Dito’ or ‘Tito’ or even ‘Tieter.’
She paid him generously, shook hands and thanked him, and went away.
Hedda Kornfeld reported to Kenet every word the youngster had told her. The next day she moved back to her former hotel.
7
THE NEW information in Hedda’s report led Kenet to the following conclusions:
Until a few weeks ago a German family with three sons lived at 4261 Chacabuco Street. It was almost a certainty that the name of this family was Klement. It was also extremely likely that, if Pedro had indeed met one of Eichmann’s sons, it was the third, Dieter. He was born on March 29, 1942, which would make him about the age of the blond young German at the workshop, and the name might easily come out sounding like ‘Tito’ or ‘Dito.’ The fact that the family moved out without leaving any forwarding address strengthened the assumption that they were the Eichmanns.
Kenet attached particular importance to what the painter had told Pedro about the family moving to San Fernando, and the blond young man’s statement about their living in Don Torcuato. Since the map showed these two areas to be about six miles apart, it was possible that Dieter Eichmann was deliberately trying to mislead Pedro (we found out later that it was Kenet who was wrong on this point and that, in a way, both the painter and Dieter were telling the truth).
The next step was to find out the family’s exact address. Kenet decided to try checking on the young German as he was leaving the w
orkshop; the same day, March 4, he drove with Primo and Lubinsky to an intersection ‘Tito’ would have to pass on his way from the workshop on Monteagudo Street to San Fernando, or Don Torcuato, and there they waited. He hoped to be able to identify the young man from Pedro’s description.
They waited from three-thirty until six o’clock, but no blond young man of Teutonic appearance passed the spot.
Kenet thought it would be worth having another try at finding out the Klement family’s new address from the tenants at 4261 Chacabuco Street. After making sure that Dieter had finished work and there was no danger of bumping into him, he told Lubinsky to go to the house, posing as an insurance agent making inquiries about Ricardo Klement. Lubinsky found two painters inside. One of them, who spoke Spanish with a German accent, replied to his question about Klement. ‘No, he’s not here. Ricardo Klement and his family moved out three weeks ago.’
‘Could you perhaps give me his new address?’ asked Lubinsky.
‘I don’t know it. All I know is that they moved to San Fernando.’
‘Have they rented a bigger house?’ Lubinsky asked. ‘Has the family grown?’
The painter shrugged. ‘They’ve got four children, three grown up and one small, and as far as I know they haven’t had a fifth. The eldest is married, one’s in the navy, and one works in a shop about half a block from here. The little one’s about eight.’
‘Couldn’t you perhaps still help me with the new address?’ Lubinsky urged. ‘You’d save me an unnecessary journey and a lot of searching.’
At that moment two men walked in and stood listening to the conversation. Lubinsky thought he’d better cut it short, but the painter kept on talking. ‘You can ask the son who works near here,’ he said. ‘But he’s not there now because he finishes work at five.’