by Don Jacobson
“This is von Winterlich? The man whose file you sent me? He looks much younger than his reputed 69 years.” he wondered.
Eileen’s reply as Rose struggled to keep her composure, so near they stood to their tormentor, was terse, “Indeed. Surgery and drugs may account for this. Von Winterlich or Winters was one of the men the Reichsführer entrusted to exact his and Hitler’s revenge. Now you may have yours…and ours.
“I would ask that you keep us apprised of the way you wish to dispose of his case.”
Harel nodded and directed his men to gather Winters up from the floor. Ever creative, the cleaners grabbed the fraying carpet, unrolled it, and bundled Winters up in it. Then they hefted it onto their shoulders and marched from the house, giving the impression that they were rag pickers collecting a worn, but still saleable antique.
Eileen stood at the top of the stairs, arms wrapped around her middle, and watched as Harel climbed back into the truck. The lights were flashed in silent salute as the vehicle executed a U-turn.
Rest now, Rose. He can harm us no longer.
בית סוהר איילון, Ramla Prison, Ramla, Israel, May 31, 1962
The flickering fluorescent tubes in the ceiling cast the men in the nondescript and windowless concrete holding room in a weirdly greenish hue. The young warriors of Hativat HaTzanhanim[cxxi] were conscious of the momentous event soon to happen on their watch. While they had been trained over the years to dispatch Israel’s enemies using any of 100 different methods, not a single man considered his singular role as watcher this night as being of a lesser calling.
On the contrary, they were acutely aware that they were observers as history was being made—when the Jewish people would rise and deliver righteous justice to one of their historical persecutors.
Adolf Eichmann.
While each of the five burly men at the former SD Obersturmbannführer’s elbows and back could have dispatched him in mere seconds, none chose to raise a hand against the slightly built, bespectacled man; the personification of the banality of evil.[cxxii] On the contrary, each soldier studiously ignored Eichmann as he stood awaiting his date with Israeli justice. Not a man would sully Israel’s escutcheon by engaging in, however satisfying, petty revenge.
For his part, Eichmann was preternaturally calm. Wearing dark slacks, a white dress shirt, and prison slippers, the man had not offered any resistance to his captors, maintaining the attitude that had been his nature since his capture in Buenos Aires two years ago. He stood stock still, his unbound hands clasped in front of his waist.
The architect of the Jews’ destruction betrayed minimal impatience: his eyes flicked from time to time to the wall-mounted clock, its sweep hand wiping away the remaining minutes of his life. The prison’s governor, while delivering the final death warrant issued after the President had denied a last-minute clemency bid, had told him that he could expect to have his meeting with the hangman at about five minutes before midnight.
All was on schedule, appealing to the vestiges of his trainmaster’s vaunted sense of Teutonic efficiency. Only a few minutes remained.
Then the entry door was yanked open. Five other paratroopers dragged in a manacled and shackled man wearing filthy and torn prison stripes. He was spewing a torrent of words, all muffled by a filthy gag. His eyes widened when he beheld Eichmann…both in recognition of the man and the certainty of his fate—for if he was in the same room with Heydrich’s lieutenant in the hands of the verdammt Jüden, then his own death was imminent.
This awareness only served to inflame the second condemned man. He redoubled his struggles…all for nothing. The young men dropped him to the floor like a large sack of Jaffa Oranges. There he flopped resembling a rather large, pale fish spasming on the deck after being hauled aboard by an angler’s gaff. His hazel eyes flashed madly above the gag. His unintelligible cries filled the room.
Eichmann recognized the other as one with whom he had interacted in Argentina. At the time, he had not really considered the nature of the being. The German had been one final means to an end as Eichmann completed his escape from Allied clutches. Now, the Obersturmbannführer recalled this man as having a character about which even the hardest SS men had whispered. Eichmann—even at this late moment in his own existence—still counted himself to be a cultured individual who had performed his work logically and rationally.
This creature enjoyed the killing, finding satisfaction and empowerment in the ending of life—even that of sub-humans. Had not Reichsführer Himmler himself counseled the SS that our task was necessarily unpleasant and should not be enjoyed? Were we not engaged in a Holy Crusade? Yet, there were those, like this slug worm, who gravitated to our sides because they could bathe themselves in blood?
To his warders’ shock, Eichmann reacted viscerally: disgust and displeasure reshaped his normally milquetoast features as he watched the other man writhe on the floor. His mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed before he slowly, so as not to aggravate his minders, turned his back on the other.
Into this tableau another Israeli, one of those grey men with dark eyes who lived at the back tables of darkened restaurants or upon the jump seats of unmarked aircraft flying unnamed flight plans, inserted himself. He was neither old nor young. His greying hair was cropped closely to his skull betraying, perhaps, a military background. The men throughout the room accorded him looks of great respect, only knowing him by reputation, never by name.
He answered to one man—Ben-Gurion, the Prime Minister. Mossad was his home, and the security of the Jewish people was his remit.
With quiet efficiency of movement, he noiselessly padded to the side of the struggling man, gripped his handcuffs and flipped him on his back. He swiftly delivered two vicious slaps, silencing any further cries.
He addressed the prisoner in a voice that whispered like fine grit sandpaper smoothing out a few rough spots on a delicate cabinet before the final application of oil.
In accented English, he breathed into the man’s ear, “You are being accorded a singular honor. I will have you know that Albert Pierrepoint has come out of retirement specifically to end you.[cxxiii]
“It seems that his attachment to the House of Matlock outweighed his weariness and moral ambivalence. He contacted the Earl and begged to be allowed to apply his special talents to stretching your neck.
“How could the Earl refuse? His personal interest in your fate extends one generation in both directions from his august self. Perhaps he wanted to see the job done right, although I doubt if our homegrown neck crockers[cxxiv] would botch it. Maybe he felt the need to have someone known to his family attend to you; for if his own hand could not exact his revenge for your outrages to his mother and son, then why not Britain’s best hangman? After all, dear Pierrepoint has sent hundreds of your sick friends to the Hell they so justly deserved.
“Albert has not lost his touch, I imagine. I doubt if his professional scruples will allow him to offer you anything but the quickest exit. However, I would wish that he would muddle the knot just enough so that you would have several minutes to reflect upon those you have wronged: names known to Bennet and Matlock as well as those etched upon Jewish hearts.
“I would pray that their shades would taunt you as you danced the Tyburn Hornpipe. I would wish that they would shout their names to deafen you as you slid away into the darkness; so that the echoes of their unjust ends would plague you for eternity.
“But, I cannot…as I could never offer a prayer that would involve you.
“So, lest we unduly delay Herr Eichmann’s more dignified and manly departure, I take no leave of you, Winters. As you are the last branch of your diseased tree, I have no need to send my compliments to any of your family, nor would I wish to offer you any notice now or in the future.
“You deserve no such attention.”
With that, he straightened, ran his gnarled hands over his pant legs to remove any residual wrinkles. Then he nodded to the five commandoes who happily hoisted t
he condemned from the floor, carefully avoiding the wet darkness spreading across the front and back of his leggings. A quick march had them through the chipped enameled doorway into the execution chamber.
The steel door clanged shut with a sonorous finality.
Through it all, Eichmann never moved a muscle except to flip a silver shekel through his fingers. This coin, a traditional gift to be passed to the hangman, lately had been given to him by one of his acolytes; an astonishing breach by the young soldier noted and then ignored by his superiors. The officers recognized that the quiet poise that the monster exhibited was redolent of that mute acceptance exhibited by the multitude of victims. Perhaps t’was also a silent admission that he had, at the very last, understood that his coming execution was only a tiny down-payment on a bill that would take eternity to pay.
The Associated Press’ teletype bells clanged 10 times and the machine clattered its news, spewing a coil of yellow paper onto the floors of newsrooms around the globe.
BULLETIN…BULLETIN…BULLETIN
1 June 1962 (00:35 Local)
Jerusalem
Eichmann Executed
Adolf Eichmann, one of the last major Nazi war criminals to be apprehended, was put to death by hanging at Ramla Prison in Israel today according to Israeli government sources. The execution had originally been scheduled for 23:55 local on 31 May. However, those sources reported an unaccountable delay in the proceedings. The trap dropped beneath Eichmann 20 minutes late at 00:15 local 1 June 1962.
He was pronounced dead of a broken neck by prison doctors at 00:18 local. His body was immediately dispatched to a specially-built crematorium. His ashes will be scattered on the Mediterranean Sea outside of Israel’s 12-mile limit by an Israeli gunboat in what a government official noted was a final act of “poetic justice.”
###30### (Duncan)
Chapter LV
The Master’s Chamber, Longbourn Estate, January 17, 1815
As the room began to grey and flatten around Thomas, his mother approached the bed and held out her hand to him.
Come my darling boy, t’is past time for you to go. The others have been waiting overlong for you to make your appearance.
Thomas was loath now to leave behind those beloved faces who had crowded around, their worried expressions and reddened eyes showing the depth of their anguish. Rather, he demurred, addressing his parent’s wraith and, unknowingly, those surrounding him whether with Bennet Eyes or without, “No Mama, I cannot leave them. Not now. Not when I have truly become the head of our family. I cannot abandon them as I have done for so long, not when I know how to be there for them.”
Elizabeth Johnson Bennet blew out an exasperated huff and turned to call over her shoulder, Sam, please attend me. Talk some sense into your son. I declare that he has grown more like you as he has aged—stubborn and thoroughly willful!
Bennet watched as another spectral figure, one that quickly brought a small twitch of happiness to his bluing lips, limped into his vision, his arm looped for support through that of one who had always stood by him. Papa and old Mr. Silas Hill! And there is Mrs. Sally Hill by Mama!
Sam cast a loving glance at his frustrated lady and gently tossed back, Now, Lizzie, you know how our boy Tom gets when he sees his family in need. After all, did he not just spend four-odd years tracking that spawn of Collins’ seed who hurt our beloved granddaughter? You cannot rush the boy. He will come when he is ready.
With that, the four companions moved away for there were rituals to be observed and solemnities to be undertaken.
Those who would bid their pater familias farewell came closer to the mattress cum bier.
Bingley and Darcy stepped forward to bend over him, one on Bennet’s right, and one to his left. They softly gripped his hands as he passed on some whispered concerns for the wellbeing of Fanny, Jane, and Lizzy. He also worried into, in part for form because he knew that which they could not, their attentive ears about Mary and Lydia. Their assurances made and given, the two gentlemen pulled back.
Then his four girls—all grown ladies now—made their way to his increasingly quiescent form.
Jane and Lizzy came to him as the Irish twins they were: together. As both were so well settled in their Derbyshire holdings, he offered them little except his softly spoken blessing. His hazel green orbs, seeking to pour a lifetime’s measure of his love into their hearts, caressed their eyes; now beheld for the last time, one pair sky-blue to the nearly purple, the other the richest chocolate.
Over the past weeks as the family had gathered from the far-flung reaches of the kingdom, Jane and Lizzy had been delegated to commiserate with the steady stream of visitors sitting in Longbourn’s parlors and drinking Longbourn’s legendary Gardiner et Cie tea. Only Sir William Lucas and Mr. Goulding had successfully breached their velvet-covered stockade and ascended to their old friend’s bedside, having known the ladies before they had donned their imposing Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy tabards: indeed, from their days in leading strings.
Then Bennet’s eldest gave way to allow his ever-practical and quiet middle child to take her place before his bier. Mary’s light brown—I never knew how close they are to caramel—eyes, shining with unshed tears, bored deeply into his soul.
How you have grown and changed in three years, my darling girl. Would that I had not wasted all that time in my indolence!
Thomas had little to say to Mary beyond that which had passed between them over the weeks of his final illness when she and Fanny had stood vigil in his room. She was both his amanuensis and heir. He had tasked her with final correspondence to his brothers Benton, Gardiner, and Philips. He had dispatched her on an oddly significant mission for the makings of a beverage unknown to this time. When he had husbanded enough breath, Bennet had schooled the young woman in all she would need to know about the Wardrobe. He had counseled her as best he could on life and love, although he preferred to leave the latter to her mother, a woman with a wise, as he had learned over the past seven years, and deep perspective on all things emotional.
As he gripped Mary’s hand, he motioned to Lawyer Philips, who stood in quiet communion with the younger men, to approach. Mrs. Bennet’s brother clutched a well-wrapped package festooned with numerous wax seals. At Bennet’s nod, he handed the parcel to Mary.
“Open this after Edward returns. I imagine that happy moment will not be too remote as the hostilities dividing the United States and Britain have been concluded. I already have given you my blessing on your union. Now I charge you both to hew to your faith as Christians and Keepers,” he concluded with a gasp.
Lydia replaced Mary at the bedside. She had lately made her way to Longbourn after seeing Wickham off at Dover for his return to the Congress in Vienna. The poor girl, quivering so mightily that it took all of Mrs. Wilson’s strength to keep her from collapsing to the well-worn, broad floorboards of Bennet’s chambers, came into the ken of her beloved nemesis.
How strange to see her so near to the beginning of her life when I know that which she is yet to be! I forget that she is not yet nine-and-ten years old. She has never encountered the demise of one dear to her. My heart bleeds with the knowledge that she will farewell everybody but one near to her heart before she, herself, is called Home.
He softly stroked her hand, her tears dripping onto his parchment-skinned member. T’was so difficult to talk, but he had thought to give her some comfort for the long road yet before her.
He found some deeper reserves and roused himself to address her with strength, “You must become the master gardener. Tend to your beds with care. Do not withhold your love for it is the vital elixir that will bring the brightest blooms.
“I ask little of you for much later will be demanded. Remember that you, the one earlier ordained to be the author of the family’s ruin, will yet become the ringer of salvation’s bell.
“Know that I have always loved you, and I beg that you would continue down that path you began on the Twelfth
Night.”
And, in a pronouncement that drove the tears from Lydia’s emerald green Bennet Eyes, Bennet forcefully concluded, “And the Countess would wish you to remember her.”
Thomas Bennet, Master of Longbourn, then subsided into the fluffy goose down pillows supporting his back and head and gave a long sigh. His eyes drifted shut. His way was nigh unto complete. There was little left to hold him in this world…except…
A pair of soft arms enveloped him as his wife embraced him, her hair, now full gray after all those years away, tickling his nose. Fanny implored him to stay with the salty sweetness of her tears. However, knowing in the core of her being that any spoken pleas would only prolong his final agony, Mrs. Bennet confined her physical urgings to a tightening hug as she fell across his chest. Her body quaked not from fear of the hedgerows, but from the realization that her greatest worry—that of being left alone after so many years by his side—was shortly to be realized.
Thus, from her lips came words that which only the tenderest of hearts filled with eternal love could produce.
“Oh, Tom, t’is far too soon for you to leave us. I would selfishly beg you for another day…or even an hour. And you—foolish man that you are—you would hang on just to oblige me.
“Now hear me, my love. Cease trying to ignore our Lord’s call for you to return to your heavenly Home. His will is always greater than our puny desires. Go now. Do that which you must and that which we all will have to do before we meet once again in the sweet by and by.”[cxxv]
Although his eyes were closed against the ineffable weakness sweeping over him, Bennet—he was still Bennet, was he not—could picture the rose-hued lips that had captured his heart over thirty years ago and were now gently kissing him round-the-clock.
And as his Fanny carefully held his face in her trembling hands, Bennet could feel another approaching him over the sound of the rushing waters.
