The Nazi Hunters

by Neal Bascomb

  Malkin searched the road and the ditch with a small flashlight and found some broken glass in the mud by the side of the road — but not the frames. He continued to look in the scrub beyond the ditch, but without success. He knew he had better get out of there; someone might see him if he stayed too long.

  Hours later, Malkin pulled back into the driveway of the safe house. As he was making his way to the door, something suddenly jumped on his back. Malkin spun and grabbed a fistful of fur. A white cat. He released the screeching animal, cursing not only it but also himself for being so on edge.

  The house was quiet and cold. Like a tomb, its thick masonry walls deadened any sound and kept a chill in the air. Five of the operatives were staying at Tira: Eitan, Malkin, Medad, Gat, and Tabor. This was only the first night, one of nine to come — maybe more — before Eichmann could be flown out. It was plenty of time for the police, the Argentine security services, or Eichmann’s sons and associates to find them. The Mossad team had to wait and hope that their precautions would keep them safe.

  Their contingency plans provided for the police storming the house. But what if they were discovered by a group of Nazi sympathizers? They might find themselves fending off an assault, or a siege. Tabor had already resolved that if this were to happen, he would take Eichmann into the crawl space above his cell and strangle him.

  Eitan had instituted a twenty-four-hour watch in rotating three-hour shifts. A guard was stationed in Eichmann’s room at all times, the door always open, the light always on, and Eitan slept in the adjoining room so that he would always be nearby. He wanted the goggles to stay on the prisoner until they had him safely in Israel. This would not only hamper Eichmann’s chances of escape, but if he did somehow manage to get away, he would be unable to identify anybody on the Mossad team.

  Eichmann in captivity, wearing blacked-out goggles.

  Throughout the night, Eichmann remained restless. He refused to eat anything and did not sleep. He lay on the bed, flat on his back, his face clenching and relaxing seemingly beyond his control. Sometimes he tried to adjust his position, clanking the handcuffs attached to his thin ankle against the iron bed frame.

  After daybreak, Yaakov Gat lifted up Eichmann in bed, gave him a glass of orange juice, and spoon-fed him some eggs and crackers. The prisoner ate, but his hands shook constantly.

  Zvi Aharoni arrived soon after breakfast and took up his interrogation where he had left off.

  “I just have a few simple questions for you,” he said. “Answer them, and we won’t have any problems.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eichmann answered obediently. The two men sat at arm’s length from each other in the small room.

  “Why did you use the name ‘Otto Heninger’ last night?”

  “That was my name for more than four years.”

  “Where was that?”

  “In Germany. I worked there as a lumberjack before coming to Argentina.”

  “Why didn’t your family live under the name Klement, like you?” Aharoni asked.

  It was an obvious question. If Eichmann had only insisted that his sons take his alias surname, then Sylvia Hermann would never have been able to make the connection between Nick and his Nazi father.

  “You don’t expect me to ask my family to lie for me,” Eichmann said.

  Aharoni was disgusted. Eichmann had made his family lie for him for years. The answer was typical of many he would receive, as Eichmann perceived a twisted reality that matched his own ego.

  Under the prior instructions of Isser Harel, Aharoni questioned Eichmann about other former Nazis living in Argentina. Eichmann suggested that they would be too worried about saving their own skins to do much about finding him. It was clear to Aharoni that Eichmann thought little of his former colleagues.

  On the interrogation continued, hour after hour. Eichmann remained calm and forthcoming, at least about his own life. Aharoni felt he had built enough trust with the prisoner to ask a key question.

  “Are you prepared to come and stand trial in Israel?” he said.

  Haim Cohen had advised Aharoni that it would be better if Eichmann came willingly to Israel. The Attorney General wanted, if possible, a signed statement to that effect.

  “No. Definitely not,” Eichmann said. He spoke forcefully, as if he had been waiting for the question. “Number one: I did nothing wrong. All I did was follow orders. You could never prove that I committed a crime. Number two: What … what do I have to do with Israel? I’m a German. You can put me … If, at all, if I did commit any crime, I should be judged in Germany. Or in Argentina, I am a citizen here. But not in Israel.”

  “You know that nobody will put you on trial except the Israelis,” Aharoni said. “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.”

  Eichmann hesitated, then said, “I will think about it.”

  On May 12, Nick Eichmann was putting in an elevator control box at an apartment building in Buenos Aires when his younger brother Dieter rushed toward him. Short of breath, Dieter said, “The old man is gone!”

  The screwdriver in Nick’s hand fell to the floor. In a rush of words, Dieter explained their father had not come home the night before. The brothers immediately agreed that he must have been assaulted, probably by Jews — maybe even by Israelis.

  They went to see one of the leading figures in the expatriate German community, Carlos Fuldner, the man who had helped their father get into Argentina. They feared that whoever had taken their father might also want to abduct their mother and youngest brother. Their other brother, Horst, was away with the merchant navy, so it was down to the two of them.

  Fuldner calmed Dieter and Nick, explaining coolly, reasonably, that there were three plausible reasons why their father failed to come home. First, the police might have arrested him for drunkenness or some other infraction and kept him overnight in jail. Second, he might have been involved in an accident and taken to the hospital — or even to the mortuary. Third, his pursuers might have caught up with him, as his sons suspected, and, whether they were vigilantes or state-sponsored, they could have kidnapped or even killed him. Fuldner said they would launch a search immediately, starting with the hospitals and police stations around San Fernando. The area around the house would also be examined for any clues or signs of a struggle.

  Inquiries at the San Fernando police station and nearby hospitals came up with nothing. Vera Eichmann went to Mercedes-Benz, where she learned that Ricardo Klement had worked the previous day and then stayed late for a union meeting. He had not shown up for work that morning.

  Then a search around Garibaldi Street turned up Eichmann’s broken glasses in the ditch, pressed into the mud. There was no doubt now: He had been taken.

  Nick and Dieter pawned some gold rings and watches for three guns — a .22-caliber pistol, a .38, and a .45. Despite Fuldner’s assurances, they very quickly realized that the German community would not help them. Most of their father’s associates wanted nothing to do with them. Nor could they ask for police help without revealing their father’s true identity, which might place him in even more danger. Instead, they decided to turn to their connections in a radical nationalist organization called Tacuara.

  Tacuara had been founded a few years previously by a group of young, mostly upper-middle-class, high school and university students. They took their name from the makeshift weapon used by gauchos in the fight for Argentine independence — essentially a knife tied to the end of a sugarcane. Fiercely Catholic, Tacuara was militant, fascist, and anti-Semitic. Its aims included freeing Argentina from liberal democracy, capitalism, and Jewish influence. New members swore an oath of allegiance in a graveyard, wore gray shirts and armbands stitched with the Maltese cross, idolized Hitler and Mussolini, and used the Nazi salute. They were often seen roaming the city on motorcycles. Though not in Tacuara themselves, Nick and Dieter shared similar political views and had friends who were members.

  The
idea of a group of Jews, possibly Israelis, operating illegally inside Argentina inflamed Tacuara, and some of its members rallied to hunt them down.

  Neo-Nazis rally at a theater in Buenos Aires in 1964.

  Peter Malkin was on guard when Eichmann turned to him, still wearing the blacked-out goggles. “Are you the man who captured me?” Eichmann said.

  “Yes, my name is Maxim,” Malkin answered hesitatingly, giving his alias.

  Rafi Eitan had given direct orders not to speak to the prisoner, but Malkin wanted to know why Eichmann had managed the slaughter of the Jewish people and how he had been capable of doing so. With Eichmann speaking in German and Malkin in Yiddish, the conversation was rough and stumbling.

  Malkin remembered when he had watched Eichmann playing with his young son outside his home. “Your boy, he reminds me so much of my sister’s son,” Malkin said.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Nothing happened,” Malkin answered bitterly. But then he continued, “There is only one thing I know: Your boy is alive, and the boy of my sister is dead.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Eichmann asked.

  “No. We’re going to bring you to trial, to a fair trial — a chance you never gave your victims.”

  Then Malkin asked Eichmann, “How did you come to do what you did?”

  “It was an order. I had a job to do.”

  “Just a job?” Malkin said.

  “Are you not a soldier? Don’t you have your orders? You captured me. Why did you do it? Because of an order.”

  “Yes, I got an order to capture you, but there’s a big difference between you and me. I had an order to catch a criminal. But you went after innocent people. They had done nothing wrong at all. You followed those orders because you hated these people.”

  “No … I, in a way, I love Jews.”

  Malkin could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You love Jews? Then what were you doing in the SS?”

  “I wanted them to have their own country. I wanted to send them away. We didn’t want to do anything to the Jews. At first, we just talked about cleaning the Jews from Germany. But there was no nation that would accept them. We talked about Madagascar and all kinds of other plans. I even went to Palestine in 1936.”

  It sounded to Malkin like Eichmann was already preparing his defense. As they talked over the course of many of the nights that followed, he was sickened by Eichmann’s denials and by his inability to view his actions against the Jews through anything other than the Nazi mind-set — even after fifteen years.

  The agents had mentally prepared themselves for the risks of holing up at the house — possibly even having to face an assault from the police or from Eichmann’s sons and associates if they were located. But not one of them had anticipated the soul-hollowing effect of inhabiting the same space as Adolf Eichmann.

  They had to feed him, dress him, shave him, and bring him to the toilet. Too scared to attempt any resistance, Eichmann was obedient to the point of subservience. He asked permission before having a bowel movement, and when he was finished he asked for some toilet paper. This was the man who had sent many of their own families to their deaths. It would have been easier had they felt only hatred toward him, but he seemed barely worthy of the emotion.

  At Ezeiza Airport, Yosef Klein had secured all the clearances and permissions for the El Al flight. He was now finalizing the fuel, catering, and cleaning services. He continued to charm the airport staff, who now allowed him to walk unchallenged through security and around the airport. He had also introduced them to Avraham Shalom, who was posing as a diplomatic official, and the recently arrived El Al security chief, Adi Peleg. Together, the three men reconnoitered the airport for the most discreet way to get Eichmann onto the plane.

  The day after Eichmann’s capture, Klein joined Harel at one of his cafés. Using Klein’s information, they came up with three possibilities for bringing the prisoner on board. The first was putting him in a crate stamped as diplomatic cargo; the second, hiding him in a caterer’s cart to be forklifted on board before departure; the third, dressing him in an El Al uniform and passing him through inspection with the crew.

  All three plans had their strengths and weaknesses.

  Shalom had no intention of leaving this part of the operation in the hands of a civilian, even one as competent as Klein. He tried to pass through security every few hours so that the guards got used to seeing him. He determined that the guards watching the side entrance to the maintenance area would be the easiest to deceive. They were more concerned about theft than any other kind of security breach.

  If Eichmann were dressed in an El Al uniform, perhaps sedated by the doctor, Shalom thought they should be able to get him past these guards without difficulty. Smuggling him on board in a caterer’s cart or a diplomatic crate would be too complicated. Shalom liked simple and straightforward.

  Next was the question of how soon the plane could take off after Eichmann was on board, who would give permission for it to leave, and what to do if there was a delay. Shalom thoroughly interrogated Klein and Peleg about every eventuality. The escape from Argentina had to be planned as meticulously as the capture itself.

  On May 15, sensing he was making strides in his interrogation of Eichmann, Aharoni again asked him to sign a statement declaring he would go of his own accord to Israel and stand trial. Aharoni had already written a draft text for him to copy. To his frustration, Eichmann refused, at one point suggesting that he might go to Austria instead.

  “Stop insulting me!” Aharoni snapped. “It will be either Israel or nowhere at all. Either you agree or you refuse. But do not cloud the issue. If you have committed no wrong, then you have nothing to fear. Think about it. We have lots of time.”

  That night, Harel visited Tira to see Eichmann and congratulate his agents on the successful capture. When he had met with Rafi Eitan earlier, Harel had been shocked by his low spirits. Now he found the rest of the team equally depressed. Harel had always suspected that it would be stressful to guard Eichmann, but he did not understand the debilitating effect until he went upstairs to see the prisoner himself.

  Eichmann was lying on the bed in his pajamas, the goggles over his eyes. Harel was stunned at how ordinary and pathetic he looked. He later wrote about his agents’ mood: “The sight of that miserable runt, who had lost every vestige of his former superiority and arrogance the moment he was stripped of his uniform and powers of authority, gave them a feeling of insult and profound scorn. Was this the personification of evil? Was this the tool used by a diabolic government? This nonentity, devoid of human dignity and pride, was this the messenger of death for six million Jews?”

  Harel suggested Eitan give each agent a day’s leave, one at a time. While pulling on his overcoat, he rallied his team: “I know what you’ve all been through. All you have to do is hang on for a couple of days.” In truth, Harel feared that if something went wrong with the El Al plane, his team might be waiting for much longer than a couple of days.

  By May 17, the mood at the safe house had darkened, and the boredom was oppressive. Downstairs, they listened intently to the radio for mention of Klement or Eichmann — anything that might indicate his capture had gained the notice of the police.

  There was not much else they could do when not on guard duty. The house had a few books in English, but those who could read that language had long since exhausted the supply. They played chess, stared out the windows at the neighbors going about their lives, and even invented games, such as an apple-eating contest. Malkin spent time sketching pictures of Eichmann and also of his own family, from memory, including his sister, Fruma.

  A few tasks did offer some relief from the strain of idleness. Tabor built a large wooden crate with four leather straps inside to secure the prisoner’s arms and legs. He drilled fifty breathing holes into the wood and labeled the crate as diplomatic post: FROM: ISRAELI EMBASSY, BUENOS AIRES. TO: FOREIGN MINISTRY, JERUSALEM. He also constructed a concealed chambe
r in an airplane catering cart that Yosef Klein had smuggled out of the airport. Shalom planned to bring Eichmann on board as part of the El Al crew, but there was always the chance that they might need a backup plan.

  An Israeli passport, a visa, a driver’s license, health certifications, and an El Al badge were required to pass Eichmann off as “crewmate Zeev Zichroni.” Shalom Dani came to the safe house to prepare the documents. When he entered the cell to take new photographs of Eichmann, the color drained from his face and his hands began to tremble. Eichmann had been given a close shave and dressed in a suit. Makeup had been applied to his face, and he looked startlingly younger and more imposing — more like his wartime photograph.

  Dani said nothing to Eichmann other than to direct him how to pose for the photographs. The minute they were complete, he left the room. He had intended to confront Eichmann, to tell him what he had done to his family, but he had not expected such a rush of emotions. “To even be in the same room with him, I had to force myself not to feel anything,” he told the others before withdrawing into another room to work on his forgeries. When he emerged, he handed Eitan the documents and left Tira without saying good-bye. He had only one thing on his mind: getting some fresh air.

  The fake passport for “Zeev Zichroni,” created by Shalom Dani.

  The Bristol Britannia 4X-AGD used by El Al for the mission.

  On a clear, bright Tel Aviv afternoon, May 18, 1960, the delegation for the Argentine anniversary celebrations boarded their Bristol Britannia 4X-AGD at Lod Airport. Cameras snapped as the delegates climbed the mobile staircase to the long, sleek plane with the Israeli flag painted on its tail. At the top of the steps, Abba Eban, the head of the delegation, smiled for the cameras and waved good-bye to the dignitaries who had come to see them off. Though a member of Ben-Gurion’s cabinet, Eban was a “minister without portfolio,” which made him ideal for a diplomatic mission to Argentina.