Eleos, p.23
Eleos, page 23
“Marilyn Monroe died,” announced Elam. He looked even sadder than usual.
“Such a woman, such a woman,” moaned Ofer the mechanic.
“Tipesh!” Galit swore. “Idiots! There are real live women here in Kfar Tahpooz that can use some love. And you are weeping over an American actress.”
“Oh, but what an actress! So sexy! Why did she do that?” the usually cheerful Ofer seemed on the edge of tears.
Galit walked away in frustration.
Moshav’s people largely gave up on my ability to fix radios, but I continued to teach English. I also worked in the orange grove. Working outside in the fresh air felt good.
October was a busy month for Elam.
“The Second Vatican Council began in Rome,” he announced one day.
“And why is that important to us?” Ofer shrugged.
“The radio reported that they will address Christian – Jewish relations.”
“We’ve already seen what kind of relations they want with us.”
“The rumor is that they may no longer hold us responsible for the death of Christ.”
“Pffttt … I’ll believe it when I see it. But after two thousand years of beatings, that would be nice.”
Soon, the Vatican Council was overshadowed by the Cuban missile crisis. For two weeks, we— together with the rest of the world—had been glued to radios and TVs, as the American and the Russian ships steamed towards each other on a collision course. Nuclear war seemed inevitable, until the Russian ships turned around.
“The world may end tomorrow, but oranges must be harvested,” Hirsh reminded us.
During that time, I received a letter from Fritz Jager. It contained two newspaper articles. One was about twelve defendants in the Chelmno trial that opened in Bonn. The other article discussed the disappearance of a German scientist Heinz Krigger, implying possible Israeli involvement. There was a handwritten note with two sentences: “Thank you for your help with the trial. I hope we’ll put them away for a long time. The name of the scientist should be familiar, he was on the list that you brought to Ludwigsburg.”
Jacob Broder, my friend from Jerusalem, came to visit me soon thereafter. I was working in the grove when I got the message, and found Jacob sitting on the bench with a glass and a pitcher of orange juice. And a thin file.
“Shalom, David. Good orange juice.”
“Shalom, Jacob. Orange juice is something we have plenty of. It’s good to see you. Many of my old friends no longer want to know me.”
“They’ll come around. Nothing would have changed, no one would have profited from your death. You look good. Very tanned.”
“What’s this?” I pointed at the file.
“I submitted a claim for damages to Germany, but it was denied. I thought that perhaps you could help. Do you know much about medical experiments in Dachau?”
“I’ve heard some names, like Hans Eisele.”
“Yes, he was there. What did you hear?”
“He served a few years after the war, denied the allegations and represented himself as a devout Christian and a compassionate physician. Worked as a doctor in Munich until another Nazi ferreted him out, so he ran off to Egypt.”
Jacob laughed bitterly:
“A compassionate physician! They were doing hypothermia and high-altitude experiments. They would strip us naked, insert a rectum probe, force us in the vat of cold water and measure when we would lose consciousness and, in most cases, die. Or suck the oxygen out of the room and see what happens. Here ...”
He picked out a page from the file and handed them to me.
To Reichsführer-SS Himmler, 11 May 1942:
Highly esteemed Reich Leader,
Enclosed I am forwarding a short summary on the principle experiments conducted up to date. For the following experiments Jewish criminals who had committed race pollution were used. The question of the formation of embolism was investigated in 10 cases. Some of the experimental subjects died during a continued high-altitude experiment; for instance, after one-half hour at the height of 12 Km. After the skull had been opened under water an ample amount of air embolism was found in the brain vessels and, in part, free air in the brain ventricles.
To find out whether the severe psychic and physical effects are due to the formation of embolism, the following was done: After relative recuperation, however, before regaining consciousness, some experimental subjects were kept under water until they died. When the skull and the cavities of the breast and of the abdomen had been opened under water, an enormous amount of air embolism was found in the vessels of the brain, the coronary vessels, and vessels of the liver and the intestines, etc.
SS-Untersturmführer Sigmund Rascher
“They killed thousands like that,” Jacob said when I put down the paper. “I was one of those that polluted the Aryan race, I dated a German woman. Luckily, I was in the test group where they wanted to see how far they could go and still resuscitate. Not all of the doctors were the SS—some were academics from universities, researchers from IG Farben and Bayer. When the Americans liberated Dachau, corpses were lying all around the camp, in the railway boxcars nearby … The Americans went berserk when they saw it. They lined up some of the guards and machine-gunned them. When the Dachau Trial was going on in Nuremberg, when the Americans hung commandant Martin Weiss and the chief medical tormenter Claus Schilling, I thought ‘here it is, the justice’! And then it all stopped. I wish we’d killed them all right there and then.”
“Why was your claim denied?”
“They replied that the damage was only psychological.”
I burst out laughing. “Brilliant! If your damage was more than psychological, you would have been dead. This way, they never have to pay.”
“I’ve been told that if I go to Germany and argue the case in person, I’ll be more likely to get a compensation.”
“Why won’t you?”
“My roots are there. I still love it, you know… Despite everything, I’ve never really left. That’s why I can’t go back. Nostalgia or nightmares would kill me. David, do you like it here? Did you find your home?” Jacob swept his arm to indicate the moshav’s land.
“Yes. I like it. It’s not home but it’s nice. Calm.”
Jacob nodded. “I’m here because I lost my home. It’s hard to find a new one.”
“There is someone I know in Germany who works on these cases. I’ll ask him to intercede in yours. His name is Shimon Bezor.”
“Thank you, David. Are you going back to Germany?”
“Yes, I’ll have to do it for work. To sell oranges.”
“Are you going to be OK?”
“Yes, I think so.”
5
Jaffa oranges are harvested beginning in November, with the marketing season starting before that. We were late already. The fault was with the moshav’s finance committee—they had difficulty spending money. Eventually, Hirsh pounded the table with, “If you don’t want to grow the moshav, I’m out!” The committee ended up agreeing to pay for the trip, but with my compensation based strictly on sales. They ended up regretting the arrangement, but that’s another story.
I flew to Frankfurt, the de facto business center of West Germany. There, I had discovered that most import-export outfits already had deals in place, so I started visiting headquarters of supermarket chains. I quickly realized that I would need at least a month to get anything done, but the money that the finance committee gave me would not last that long, even after I moved into a cheaper boarding house with a free breakfast. I remembered the couch in Gerhardt’s office, and as much as I didn’t want to re-open the past, I went to see him.
“Good to have you back, David,” Gerhardt greeted me at the door. “How’s the oranges business?”
“You don’t seem to be surprised to see me.”
“Not really. Shimon called me two days ago and asked me to look for you.”
“Oh. A friend needs help with his damages case. Shimon didn’t return my call.”
“He did, but you moved out of the hotel. I was there yesterday, and they didn’t know where you went. But then you called.”
“Yes, I needed a cheaper place. I’ll have to be here longer than planned. Even the place I’m in now is too much.”
“You’re welcome to move in with me.”
“Thank you, Gerhardt. I’m busy during the day, but if I can stay the night on the couch here in the office, I would really appreciate it.”
“David, I guarantee you that the couch in my living room is more comfortable. But whichever one you like.”
“Was it Shimon who told you about the oranges?”
“Yes. He also sent me names of some Germans that were in Erzurum during the first World War.”
“Really? Why?”
“He didn’t explain. Do you still want to find who that man was? The one they called Prinz?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It was such a strange story. I was doing it because of Yosef. I was in love with his sister-in-law. But that’s over.”
I threw it out there calmly, but my face must have betrayed me, because Gerhardt lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry. You never know, life is full of twists and turns. But I thought that you yourself were interested in those that saved during the war. You call them the Righteous, right?”
“Yes. But I no longer work for the museum.”
“Many changes in your life.”
I pulled out of my pocket the scientist disappearance article, the one that Fritz sent to me.
“Gerhardt—why was he on the list we took to Ludwigsburg?”
Gerhardt stared at the ceiling, drummed his fingers against the table.
“Did Shimon tell you to add names of some of the German rocket scientists?” I pressed.
“Yes. The ones that were working with Egypt and we couldn’t find on our own.”
“What happened to him? Is he alive?”
“I don’t know. Look, of course we were in the wrong.” Gerhardt shifted uncomfortably. “But there is a legal wrong and there is a moral wrong, and morally we were in a grey area. This man was a member of the SS. After all that happened … he had no business building weapons for Nasser, the man that threatens to finish Hitler’s work. If you become a mercenary, you risk being treated like one.”
“But you lied to Yosef and me.”
“I apologize, David. I didn’t like doing that.”
As I was leaving, he cleared his throat. “David … I didn’t know about the Sonderkommando. I’m sorry.”
“I’m a collaborator to many people at home.”
“Those that were not there, they shouldn’t judge.”
The next morning, I was having breakfast in the common room, when the landlady came in with, “You have visitors.” Behind her were Fritz and Erika Jager, and a man I had not met before.
“We apologize for such an early intrusion,” Erika started, “but we wanted to get you before you leave on your errands. Gerhardt told us where to find you.”
The landlady offered them to sit down and have coffee, then discreetly disappeared. Fritz and the other man sat across from me, Erika next to me.
“Fritz”—I cleared my throat—“I swear I didn’t know about the scientist. I’m very sorry.”
“I understand. You’d been played.”
“What can I do for you? I don’t mean to rush you, but I do have a business meeting. Must go sell oranges.”
“Mr. Levy,” the other man spoke up, “my name is Karl Sassen. I am a prosecutor here in Frankfurt, working on the case against Robert Mulka and others.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the Auschwitz case,” Fritz explained. “We are planning to put the people that worked there on trial. Remember, we spoke about this a year ago.”
I figured they were going to ask me to testify, and I prepared myself to say no.
“We need your help,” Sassen continued. “We still don’t know enough about the operations in the gassing chambers and crematoriums. Our likely witnesses are either those that worked in the prisoners’ hospital or secretaries from the political department. You are one of very few living witnesses we have that saw the actual…” He hesitated. “The actual process. Even if you don’t testify, the knowledge will help us to construct the picture and to evaluate the testimony of the others. After seventeen years, people’s memories differ.”
“Who are you even going to try?” I asked. “There were over seven thousand SS working there. The Poles took care of thirty or so. Some are in East Germany, some in South America, some are dead. That still leaves at least five thousand here, in West Germany. How many of them are you taking to court?”
“Twenty or so.”
I started to laugh. I didn’t mean to, but the number seemed so ridiculously low.
“David, I understand how it sounds.” Erika put her hand on mine. “It’s not a matter of how many. People here don’t know. They think that Auschwitz was a regular labor camp. They will be outraged when they hear what went on there.”
“That’s right!” Sassen jumped back in. “The people we are going after did horrible things. Boger, Mulka, Kaduk, Hoffman, Stark, Schawik …”
“Schawik?” I interrupted involuntarily. My body must have jerked, because Erika quickly removed her hand.
“Yes, Hans Schawik. You know him?”
“I thought he disappeared.”
I looked for Schawik after the war but found no trace of him.
“He’s been living under a false name,” Fritz explained. “We found his new identity by accident, when searching Aribert Heim’s home.”
“Did you get Heim?”
“No, Heim escaped. We were coming to arrest him literally a few days after your friend Shimon brought it up. Someone warned him, and he ran off.”
“Yes, likely someone in your own police. And Schawik?”
“We are finishing the paperwork and will arrest him soon.”
I deliberated for a long moment. They stared at me anxiously.
“Very well. I’ll give you the interview, but on one condition: after you arrest Schawik, I want a private meeting. Just he and I.”
Sassen spread his hands helplessly. “What if he won’t talk to you? We can’t force him.”
“That would be my problem. You just get me into the room with him. One on one.”
That night, I went to a bar around the corner from my boarding house. The bartender poured me a whisky and brought a plate of salted almonds. I downed the drink and asked for another.
It was October 7, 1944.
Ezra Klaudia came to Sonderkommando in December of 1943 and was assigned the bed next to mine. He was from Turin in Italy, an affable and friendly man in his forties, more than twice my age. His wife was gassed upon arrival, but he and his older daughter Lia passed the selection. As a dentist, Ezra was put on gold extraction and processing. He was the one that established a connection with SS-Oberscharfúhrer Hans Schawik. Once a week, Ezra and I would “organize” an ounce of gold or similar for Schawik. In return, Schawik protected us and let Ezra visit his daughter. Once, he had us reassigned just before Sonderkommando liquidation, and then put us into the new command. In May, Ezra was stopped by a new guard while carrying Schawik’s donation. He was taken to the political department and severely beaten but didn’t give away our names. Schawik managed to get him out.
The night of October 6th Ezra asked me, “Can you make the delivery to Oberscharfúhrer Schawik tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“I can’t. Hauptscharführer Möll told me to fix that oven where the bricks had gotten loose on the inside. You know how he is.”
Yes, we all knew how Möll could fly into a rage at the smallest pretext.
“But I don’t have a pass.”
“I have one for you. And here’s the donation.”
Inside the bag there was a gold ingot, a pair of gold cufflinks and gold earrings. The ingot bore “JK” initials, for Jacob Kurzher, one of the jewelers busy re-smelting gold fillings torn from mouths of the gassed Jews.
“Jacob made these cufflinks for Schawik,” said Ezra. “A special gift. The earrings are for the guard. You’ll be fine.”
I was a bit nervous the next morning, but Ezra was right: the sentry inspected the pass with the earrings wrapped inside, gave it back to me minus the earrings, and waved me through.
Schawik looked agitated. “What took you so long?”
His demeanor changed when he saw the cufflinks. He rolled them in his fingers, clearly pleased, then quickly pocketed the ingot.
“Gut, zehr gut. OK, let’s go, we have a bit of a walk to Block 24.”
Schawik took off, I obediently trudged after him.
“Remember, you have fifteen minutes, so hurry it up!”
“Fifteen minutes for what?”
Schawik stopped, turned around, looked at me and burst out laughing. “Ezra didn’t tell you!”
“Tell me what?”
“Youngster, I am taking you to a brothel!”
And that’s when the explosions and gunfire started.
“Hey, don’t crush the glass.” The bartender was standing in front of me. “You’re squeezing it so hard. I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself.”
I looked down. I was bathed in sweat and my right hand clenched the empty glass as if it were a person I was trying to choke.
“Seems like you need another drink,” the bartender said affably. “Here, this one is on the house.”
He was about fifty, and his left hand was missing three fingers. He noticed me staring.
“El Alamein, November 5, 1942,” he said proudly. “The British shot my fingers clean off. You can say I was lucky. What about you? Probably too young to have served.”
“I’m from Israel.”
His expression changed.
“Your German is very good.”
“Grew up here. We left when I was twelve.”
