The Human Pool (22 page)

BUDAPEST, 1944

I MET EICHMANN FOR THE
first time, summoned to a private meeting set up by Willi, who told me that he ‘wasn't such a bad fellow if a bit dull'. Eichmann was looking for a third party, such as the Red Cross, to act as a referee in Jewish negotiations. At first I wondered about the accuracy of Willi's information, as he seemed unaware that the deportations were about to start again. Then I wondered about his sincerity. Acting as Eichmann's broker suggested his role was not straightforward. Willi had opted for Eichmann over Karl-Heinz. But his motives beyond that remained clouded.

Willi's eyes were starting to deaden, and he was popping American Benzedrine courtesy of his Istanbul contacts. ‘Much better than the local stuff. Try some. We're all going to need it before too long.'

Eichmann's downtown office was in an arts faculty building on the university compound, a strange, round affair with a rustic appearance more appropriate to woodland than a centre of learning. The location was significantly close to the headquarters of the Jewish Council. The place retained its tatty institutional air despite the presence of several fine pieces, presumably ‘gifts' or confiscations.

‘You know who I am,' Eichmann liked to say. He enjoyed his notoriety. ‘There isn't much else for him to enjoy' was Karl-Heinz's tart verdict. Eichmann talked of the worthwhile work being done by the Red Cross, up to a point. He was annoyed by the establishment of safe houses for Jews at a time when there was a need for ‘more team effort between respective organisations', with ‘everyone pulling together'. ‘No ambiguity,' he said on several occasions, giving me a measured look.

Sometimes he seemed surprised by his authority, and then he looked like the travelling salesman he had started out as. He was keen to discuss his transportation problems, which he thought gave us a shared interest. He complained how few people could appreciate the difficulties of his job, and treated me to a cameo of his rage regarding the inefficiency of everyone else. ‘I have made my position quite clear throughout—on behalf of my superiors—yet nobody takes me seriously. How stupid are these Jews? We sat at the same table. Normally they are the first to drive a bargain. And now they are all bleating.' He put on an effeminate voice. ‘“Please, mister, don't start the trains again.”'

But the real point of the meeting was to frighten me.

‘Obersturmbannführer Strasse is off somewhere,' he said, ‘and unless you tell me what he is doing I shall have you on the first train out.' He grinned at the prospect.

I told him I had no idea where Karl-Heinz was.

‘You must know. You are his spy!' He looked pleased with himself as he fiddled with his cigarettes. ‘Are you familiar with Kafka's fable of the cat and the mouse? No? It's very short, and this is how it goes. “Alas,” said the mouse, “the world is growing smaller every day.”' He put on a high falsetto for the mouse's voice. ‘“At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when at last I saw walls far away to the right and the left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap I must run into.”' He looked at me, relishing his performance, knowing I had his full attention and was uncomfortably aware that the story was of personal significance and had been told by him many times before. ‘Now can you guess the punchline?' I shook my head. ‘“You only need to change direction,” said the cat, and ate the mouse up.'

Eichmann gave one of his practised thin smiles and insisted we drink a glass of schnapps together. ‘That story always goes down very well with the Jewish Council,' he said. ‘They seem to appreciate its allegorical significance, its sense of what we might call historic destiny.'

He gave me my schnapps and insisted on touching glasses. Karl-Heinz had always dismissed Eichmann as a lackey and a jobsworth, but that day he seemed like the man with the cards. ‘Cheers! You will be reporting directly to me now. You will inform me of all Obersturmbannführer Strasse's moves. But the choice remains yours—historical destiny or some maverick who, my spies tell me, can't find a Jew to talk to. Think of the mouse, think of all the one-way tickets waiting to be issued in this town. So, now you have a personal stake in my delaying the deportations, you and a lot of Jews. Spy well, my friend.'

 

Karl-Heinz didn't respond for three days to the message I left with the tailor. In the meantime, I kept thinking I would be lucky to survive the week. I threw myself into my work and at night wandered around town in a funk, drinking too much, looking in vain for Willi. I was angry with Willi. I was sure he was using me against Karl-Heinz, knowing very well what purpose Eichmann had in mind for me, and even discussing it with him (clinking glasses).

Everyone was saying, ‘The war will be over soon. What's the point of killing all those Jews now?' An unspoken belief grew up that a collective drunkenness would ward off disaster, that hedonism would subvert totalitarianism. In smart hotels the bar pianists' requests from customers grew more bittersweet.

My dilemma was how much to confide in Karl-Heinz, how much to trust to him having the upper hand. I only had his word that he had the Reichsführer's favour. It was possible that he was just another go-between, like me. At last I got word from him to meet him at the Rudas baths where he had bribed an attendant for us to have a room to ourselves, and there in the clammy heat I told him about my summons from Eichmann.

‘All right,' he said. ‘Tell him what he wants to hear.'

I found his coolness infuriating. ‘Is that it?'

‘Did he start quoting Kafka at you?'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Trust me. It's the best way. Whatever you do, do not for one second think of throwing in your lot with him. The man's days are numbered. Do not be afraid of him. Feel sorry for him, if anything. Eichmann is one of the ones who will end up taking the blame. Eichmann is what James Cagney would call the fall guy.'

 

The next time it was sweet liqueurs in Eichmann's office. Wisliceny put his head round the door to say hello. Eichmann, pleasantly surprised, asked, ‘Do you two know each other?' He took it for a good sign. ‘You will feel quite at home here.'

I still was not sure if Karl-Heinz's diagnosis was correct. It didn't seem like a good time to bet on either of them.

A city heat wave made Eichmann's offices uncomfortably sticky. Eichmann removed his jacket, with my permission. He said, ‘I think it is better if ours is an informal relationship. So, have you news for me on what that Jew-fucker Strasse is up to?'

I reported that Karl-Heinz had been in Switzerland pursuing Jewish negotiations through Swiss contacts. He was trying to arrange a lump-sum payment in exchange for Jewish lives. The earlier negotiations in Istanbul had come to nothing after details had been leaked to the
London Times
.

Mention of the newspaper article threw Eichmann into a tantrum. ‘The article was written by a Jew! It was all lies and inaccuracies. A hundred thousand Jews exterminated? Where do they get their figures? Do they have so little faith in our efficiency? We are talking millions. And I resent this little worm calling me a blackmailer because of my demands, and not even having the professional competence to name me. I am not ashamed. I am an official of the Third Reich undertaking state policies. I am underwritten by the law, and they make me sound like a cheap gangster.'

I told him Karl-Heinz seemed privately gloomy because the Jews were incapable of getting organised.

Eichmann snorted. ‘He doesn't need to go to Switzerland to find that out. He can come here any day of the week, and I will tell him to his face. The Jews have a death wish, it's as simple as that. The sooner everyone stops beating around the bush pretending to deny it, the better it will be for us all. What else?'

‘He said there might be a delay of two weeks to the deportations while the negotiations exhaust themselves.'

Eichmann grumbled. ‘Here I am having to rely on you to know my own timetable.'

 

Karl-Heinz described his trip as a ‘fucking farce'. He had found himself standing in the middle of a border bridge in the rain because the Jewish representative he had been meeting had failed to get him a temporary visa. Swiss customs had refused to let them use their building, and the Jewish representative had declined his offer of the German customs shed, so they had stood out in the open and got wet. The Jewish representative had proceeded to give Karl-Heinz a humanitarian lecture and denied all knowledge of German demands.

‘Standing in the rain, being made a fool of. One, this arsehole was supposed to be negotiating the release of his fellow people. Two, he was meant to bring an American with him so we could start trying to get this war to an end before those megalomaniacs running it bring the whole thing crashing down. And there I am with two other officers—a humiliation you cannot imagine—and three hundred people from the ransom train as a gesture of our good intentions, and this standing-in-the-middle-of-the-bridge arsehole admits he is in no position to negotiate, so I yell, “Then what the fuck are we all doing standing here getting rained on?” And I could see him thinking: big nasty Nazi. He was this little guy from Switzerland who did not have even half a clue, so I had to be nice and explain that many, many lives were in the balance, which we were trying to do something about. I gave him a week to go away and come up with some solid proposals. I told him I couldn't negotiate if he didn't bring anything to the table, and do you know what the little cocksucker said? “Not to the table, to the bridge.” And I realised he had meant for us to meet there all along! The little fucker was there just to score a point. So I lost my temper again and said if he didn't come up with something fast, he would have the fate of the Jews of Budapest on his conscience for the rest of his life, which left him with something to think about.'

Karl-Heinz recorded in one of his elegant notebooks: ‘The Rescue Committee was given three months to prepare for these negotiations and has done absolutely fuck-all. Unbelievable! It is not a difficult transaction. I did not tell the Reichsführer what a balls-up it was in the hope that he will still stop the deportations.'

•   •   •

Eichmann, greedy for scraps, kept summoning me to his downtown office. One time there was a big panic going on, with secretaries rushing in and out, and Eichmann taking several calls during which I had to leave the room. Eichmann under pressure, secretaries whispering in the outer office. I gathered there was a military flap and the Hungarians were being difficult about starting the deportations. Eichmann, enraged, came out of his office shouting that if no immediate action was going to be taken, then they might as well all pack up and go home. Seeing me, he screamed: ‘Out! And count yourself lucky.' Then to the secretary: ‘Get me Veesenmayer. Get me Wisliceny.' Then, as I was leaving: ‘Your friend Strasse won't be having his way for much longer if I have anything to do with it!'

The military development became clear. The Soviets had broken through German-Romanian lines, and the Romanian government had declared an armistice and kicked the Germans out. As a result, the Hungarians were refusing to authorise the deportations. Eichmann could not act without their approval. Karl-Heinz filled in the gaps. Eichmann, emboldened, had dispatched Wisliceny to Berlin with an ultimatum to Himmler saying he should be recalled if no immediate action was to be taken.

On the day the deportations were due to recommence, a message reached me from Karl-Heinz saying the order had been rescinded. Himmler had finally acted.

 

Through September the mood lightened. On the streets people clung to the semblance of normality. Food had got scarcer, but most people had country relations. Geese, eggs, cheese, and vegetables made their way into the city. The black market was a source of everything from forged papers to apartments. Pistols (Lugers) could be bought at the eastern railway station from soldiers back from the front. Characteristic Hungarian pessimism, a form of double bluff—expecting the worst while enjoying the best—became both more complex and straightforward. The general gloom was countered by people drinking in private to peace in the hope that civilisation would prevail. An architect explained his theory to me in a bar. The city was conditioned by the feminine curve of the river that ran through it: Budapest was ironic and civilised; Budapest got on with life regardless of government.

When Eichmann's department was disbanded there was a real feeling that the Germans had been seen off and the city would be safe. It became fashionable to be pro-Jewish.

Karl-Heinz, that astute reader of character, recommended Eichmann for an Iron Cross, to distract him from his sulk. Meanwhile, Karl-Heinz's Swiss negotiations dragged.

Elsewhere warning signs were there for those who wished to take note. Despite the recall of Eichmann's department, Wisliceny and the Gestapo had remained, and Eichmann hovered close to the Hungarian border as houseguest in a friend's castle. The petty bureaucrat grown used to high living, awaiting recall.

I am aware now of searching for evidence of some grand design, evidence, if you like, of Dulles in the ruins of history. Himmler and Dulles, it seemed, had vaulted ahead, abandoned the immediate unfolding for the endgame. Perhaps only Eichmann had the figures in his head and was keeping score. Himmler was playing for something else by then, with Karl-Heinz the adventurer still operating in the belief, just, that at some stage he could turn the situation to his advantage.