The Locket

by Evans, Mike

  * * *

  Four days later, I boarded a plane and flew to Linz. From the airport, I took a taxi to a hotel near the center of the city and deposited my luggage in the room. Then, briefcase in hand, I walked toward the street where we once lived. It wasn’t far and I had a few minutes to spare before I was to meet Wiesenthal. Seeing the sites again on foot, with the sounds and the smells around me, brought back many memories, not all of them unpleasant.

  As I crossed the corner and stepped onto our block, my heart sank. The house where we once lived was gone and in its place was an apartment building. I lingered out front, imagining the way things used to be and remembering many of the things that happened there. While I stood there, a woman walked past, then came back and asked if I was all right.

  “I’m fine,” I replied. “There used to be a house here years ago.”

  “Yes. It was ruined by all the Jews who lived here,” she said with a hint of disgust. “After the war they tore it down to build these apartments.”

  “Any idea what happened to the people who used to live in the house?”

  “Which ones? There were so many we couldn’t keep track.” “Before then. Before the Germans arrived.”

  “Oh.” She paused as if in thought. “I don’t know. I think they’re all gone.”

  “Gone?” “Dead.”

  “Did you know them?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Our neighbors did, though.” “Who were your neighbors?”

  “Rovina. Yardina Rovina.” A smile came to her face. “It rhymed, which made it easy to remember. Her son used to be friends with a girl who lived here.”

  “What happened to them?” “Yardina?”

  “Yes.”

  “She and her son died at Mauthausen. I think his name was Stephan. But that was a long time ago.” She touched my arm. “Sure you don’t need some help?”

  “I’m fine.” She turned to leave, but I called after her. “What about the Eichmanns?”

  She glanced back at me. “What about them?”

  “They used to live down there,” I said, pointing. “Three houses down.”

  “The mother and father are dead. He died a few years ago. She passed away only recently. One of their sons lives there now. Otto.”

  I walked in that direction and stared at the house, thinking about the day Karl yelled at me while I was talking to Adolf on the porch. For an instant, I considered knocking on the door to say hello and let them know that in spite of their hatred of me I was still alive. Then I thought better of it and walked back to the corner, where I hailed a taxi.

  A few minutes later I arrived outside an apartment building not far from the hotel where I was staying. On the third floor I came to a door with a plaque on the wall next to it that read Jewish Historical Documentation Center. I pushed open the door and went inside.

  Like Friedman’s office in Haifa, Wiesenthal’s office in Linz was crammed with file cabinets and boxes. An assistant turned from an open file drawer to face me as I came inside. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Simon Wiesenthal.”

  Before she could answer, a man appeared in the doorway behind her. He looked to be about fifty years old with thinning hair and a thick mustache. Dressed in a rumpled gray suit he seemed more like a college professor than an investigator. He spoke gruffly, “I am Simon Wiesenthal. And you are?”

  “Sarah Cohen. Nathan Metzger sent me.”

  “Yes,” Wiesenthal nodded. “We were expecting you earlier.”

  “I apologize. I grew up here as a child and stopped by our street to see the house. It took longer than I expected.”

  “Those trips often do.” The look on his face changed to a pleasant smile. “Was the house still there?”

  “No. It was torn down and replaced with an apartment building.” “That must have been sad.”

  “Somewhat, but not as sad as I would have expected.”

  “Tuviah Friedman called me.” Wiesenthal gestured with a wave of his hand for me to follow. I crossed the room toward him as he continued to talk. “He told me you would probably be coming my way. I’ve tried to get people interested in finding Eichmann, but no one cares anymore.” By then he had reached a desk in his private office. He moved behind it and took a seat. I sat in a chair across from him, put the briefcase on the floor beside me, and listened as Wiesenthal expounded on his frustration. “I’m not sure if they ever understood what we were trying to do. But now they are oblivious. No one in America can be bothered. Jews in Germany have moved on. Not even in Israel.” He looked over at me. “So what brings you here?”

  “We’re interested now.”

  “I see,” he replied with a hint of sarcasm. “Someone in Jerusalem with a sense of the historic?”

  “Reuven Shiloah and Isser Harel have created a special unit within Mossad to track down those who are responsible for the murder of our people during the war.”

  “You are after Eichmann.” He spoke with a flat, unaffected tone that made the words sound like an indictment.

  “Not just Eichmann,” I offered, trying to anticipate what he might be thinking, “but others as well.”

  “You think they will do it?” “Find Eichmann?”

  “No. Continue looking for others after they find him.”

  “That is the goal. I certainly hope they do. I should like to continue this work for the rest of my career.”

  “Career?” he scoffed.

  “I am a lawyer. This is what I want to do.”

  “I see,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Metzger is in charge?” “Yes.”

  “He’s a good man. Used to be in charge of Shin Bet. Internal security, and all that.” Wiesenthal sat up straight in his chair. “How can I help?”

  “I’m trying to pick up the trail on Eichmann. There have been numerous reports of people seeing him in various locations, some of which seem like they might be helpful but many of which are mutually exclusive. Rather than chasing after all of them, I would like to go back to his last known location and build from there. I know that after the war he was confirmed to be in at least one prisoner-of-war camp and I know hat he used the name of Adolf Barth and then Adolf Eckmann when he was being held by the Allies.”

  “That was the name he was using when he was captured at Ulm. Then he was transferred to several POW camps and escaped. When they recaptured him, he gave the name of Eckmann. Worked around Germany under several names. Otto Henninger was one you did not mention. That was the last name he used in Germany for which we have hard evidence.”

  “Hard evidence?”

  “We have copies of identity papers using that name and his photograph.”

  I took a notepad from my briefcase and scribbled down the name. “From what I’ve read so far, about the time he escaped from the Allies, the trail gets thin, and then it goes cold.”

  “I like you,” he smiled. “And I like your methodology of beginning. Grasp the key points and keep moving forward, pressing into what you don’t know. There are many details in between, but you have gleaned the high points.” Wiesenthal cleared his throat. “The last known confirmed location for Adolf Eichmann is in Rome, Italy, shortly after he left Germany. From there, the trail goes cold because that is when he left Europe.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “I have a sworn statement from Vincent Tradini, now an official at the Vatican. At the end of the war he was an assistant to a Catholic bishop named Hudal. Under the auspices of Bishop Hudal, Tradini issued official church documents that were forwarded to the International Red Cross and used by that organization to issue a passport to Eichmann. He said the passport was issued under a different name but he was certain they were one and the same person.”

  “What name did he use for the passport?”

  “He would not say.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think he felt bad about his participation but was concerned that he might lose his appointment to the Vatican if his involvement became pu
blic. And I think he was worried that this would reflect poorly on the Holy See.”

  “I heard a version of this from Friedman, but he had no evidence to support it and didn’t think anyone did.”

  “Good,” Wiesenthal grinned. “I wanted to keep it from him.” “You don’t trust him?”

  “Not with everything.”

  “So Eichmann was helped by a priest?”

  “The church was instrumental in helping to resettle many refugees after the war. Genuine refugees who had nowhere to go. But some of their priests also helped many Nazis. Hudal was a supporter and defender of Hitler.”

  “What else do you have that might help?”

  Wiesenthal rose from his seat behind the desk and moved across the room to a file cabinet. I turned to watch as he stood with his hand on the handle of a drawer. “This is my Eichmann file.”

  “That entire file drawer?”

  “No. The entire cabinet. Four drawers full of information I have collected about him over the years. In here are hundreds of statements, eyewitness accounts given by survivors, all of them about Adolf Eichmann. Does Nathan Metzger intend to put Eichmann on trial?”

  “Yes. That is our intention, though Mr. Metzger won’t be the prosecutor. I assume the Attorney General will do that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He laid his hand atop the file cabinet. “The witness statements in these files will be invaluable in proving his case.”

  “I’ll need a lifetime to sort through all of that.”

  “Yes,” Wiesenthal agreed, “but that is not necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have me. I will supply the lifetime of information. You supply the operatives to capture him.”

  “Okay. To do that, we have to build a case from Italy forward. Where do we begin?”

  He returned to his desk, opened the top drawer, and took out a letter still in its envelope. “This is where we begin.” He dropped the letter on the desktop in front of me. “Notice the return address and the postmark on the front—Buenos Aires, Argentina.”

  “Right.”

  “The letter is from a friend of mine who lives there.”

  I slipped the letter from the envelope, glanced over it, and was astounded to read a report of someone sighting Eichmann in Buenos Aires. I rechecked the postmark and looked over at Wiesenthal. “This was sent to you last year. Why didn’t you tell someone?”

  “I tried, but no one was interested.”

  “I thought you said you had no documents to prove where he was.” “This is anecdotal.” Wiesenthal collapsed onto the chair behind the desk. “It proves that my friend was in Argentina. It doesn’t prove Eichmann was there.”

  “Still, you should have told someone. We could have sent agents to find him.”

  “I gave this information to the World Jewish Congress and they said,

  ‘Give us the complete address.’ I said, ‘I don’t have the complete address. I’m asking you to send someone to verify that it is really him.’ They said, ‘Without the complete address we cannot verify your information.’” Wiesenthal leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Sometimes even smart people are stupid.”

  “I believe he’s in South America, too. And I’ve told them that myself.

  That’s why they sent me to see you.”

  “I have a sworn statement, a letter, and an educated guess that tells me he’s there. What information do you have?”

  “Only a memory.”

  “A memory? Of what?”

  “I remember one day when I was a little girl, sitting on the steps outside Eichmann’s house, talking to him. He was reading a pamphlet about opportunities in South America. He was particularly interested in pictures of young cowboys in Argentina.”

  “See!” Wiesenthal shouted. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I’ve been searching for all these years. Someone from Israel who understands the nature of the man we are dealing with. Someone who is paying attention.”

  “But what do we do next?”

  “The first thing is, you need one of these.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a photograph, which he handed to me. “This is Eichmann. You can’t find him if you don’t know what he looks like. This one was taken in Italy. After the war. It’s the most recent one available to anyone.”

  “I can take this?”

  “You may keep it. I have other copies.”

  “Is there some way to confirm he is actually there in Buenos Aires?” “Send someone to see if it’s really him.” He pointed to the photograph. “Give them that photograph. Tell them to use it to confirm it’s him.”

  “Others have suggested that very thing, but Metzger says we need more than just a hunch.”

  “I will give you a copy of the letter and a copy of the statement from my contact at the Vatican.”

  “A little more would help.”

  “More? We could convict him in court on less.”

  “But I’m not dealing with a judge. I’m dealing with a government agency.”

  “Bureaucracy,” he grumbled. “Always feeding the bureaucracy.” “Well, that’s where we are and that’s why I’m here. Metzger thinks we’ll get only one chance at catching him and this is our best shot. He wants to have enough information to make it work on a single try. Otherwise, he’s afraid if we get down there and just ramble around, we’ll end up scaring Eichmann away and then we’ll never find him.” I took a deep breath. “So, someone from the neighborhood says his brother Otto lives in the family home. Any of his other relatives still live around here?” “Otto, who lives in the house, has children living here. Some cousins.

  They operate the store.” “Store?”

  “After the war, the father opened an electrical appliance store. Electric Eichmann. It’s just a few blocks away. Want to see it?”

  “Not really. Have you had any success getting information from any of them?”

  “Nah.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “They all stand up for him. I questioned them but they refused to cooperate. I still go around there from time to time, just to let them know I haven’t forgotten about Adolf. They know me by sight and from the way they react, I’m sure none of them likes me. But he has several mistresses who live near here, and his wife’s family lives in Waldegg, just at the edge of town. They might be helpful, but I haven’t found a way to approach them.”

  “Who did he marry?” “Veronika Liebl.”

  “I don’t know the name. Did they have children?”

  “Three boys. But they are all gone now. Veronika, the children, they all moved away. Disappeared. I think they have gone to join Eichmann. But come on,” Wiesenthal said with a mischievous smile. “I’ll show you where her mother lives.” He stood and straightened his jacket. “You can at least see that much.”

  With Wiesenthal behind the steering wheel, we rode to Waldegg, a neighborhood that lay near the river, south of the city center. There we turned onto a residential street and rode quietly past well-kept houses. A few blocks later the scene began to change and we passed into an area that looked tired and rundown. At one house, I saw an elderly woman standing on the front steps. Paint peeled from the eaves and the roof was patched and worn. A rug lay over the banister of the porch and the woman beat it with a broom.

  “That’s her,” Wiesenthal pointed at the woman. “That’s Eichmann’s mother-in-law. Maria Liebl.”

  “You’re positive?” “Yes.”

  “And you’ve never found a way to talk to her?”

  “I tried the direct approach with his siblings but it didn’t work very well. I didn’t want to burn her as a source by using the same approach.”

  “Think she would talk to me?” “What would you say?”

  “I could ask about Adolf, I suppose. Or the children.”

  He shook his head. “Not a good idea. If you ask about Eichmann, I’m afraid they will mention it to someone and word will get back to him that someone is looking for him. He
has stayed alive because of his wits. If he hears that someone is asking about him, it will spook him and he will run again. We’ll lose him and have to start all over.” He continued to shake his head. “Not a good idea.”

  “What about her?”

  “Maria? The mother?” His voice had a hint of frustration. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “No,” I corrected. “Veronika. Eichmann’s wife. What if I asked the mother about Veronika? Say I’m an old friend.”

  “I don’t know,” Wiesenthal shrugged. “Might work. Maybe it’s worth a try. We are running out of options.”

  Wiesenthal dropped me at the corner and I started back toward the house on foot. When I reached the walkway to the porch, I looked up at Maria and gave a friendly greeting. “Mrs. Liebl,” I smiled, “so good to see you. I was just passing through town and wondered if Veronika was still around.”

  She responded while continuing to swat the rug with the broom, “And who are you?”

  “I’m Ellen. Veronika and I were acquainted through a mutual friend.” “Vera don’t live here no more.”

  “Oh,” I said with mock disappointment. “That’s too bad. I was just passing through and thought I’d catch up with her. Where is she? What’s she doing now?”

  “She ran off to South America.” “South America?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a change. What brought that on?”

  “Love.” She put down the broom and looked at me. “She did it for love.”

  I wrinkled my forehead in a frown. “She found someone from South America?”

  “Yes. Ricardo Klement.” She said the name as if making fun of the whole ordeal. “Can you believe it? I don’t understand it.” She lifted the broom in the air and gave the rug a whack. “First she takes up with that Eichmann. And now a South American.” Then she stopped in mid-swing and looked over at me again. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Ellen Krupp.”

  “I don’t recall her mentioning any Ellen.” “Some people called me Sarah.”

  “Oh,” she mused. “Sounds familiar, maybe.” “Well, sorry to bother you.”

  I turned away and started toward the street. As I reached the sidewalk, she called after me, “I’ll tell her you were asking about her.”