Hunting Eichmann

There is a book I read once called, “Hunting Eichmann.” About the Jewish secret service agent who tracked down and executed a top Nazi official, responsible for the terrors of the Nazi death camps. 

A few scenes stand out to me from that book. 

From behind bushes, he spied on Eichmann. There was no doubt it was him: he had studied his face for months. There he was: a happy family man, children playing with him on the living room floor.

The scene was disturbingly idyllic. Am I sure this is him? But there was no doubt. He seemed so happy. Playing trains with his young son. 

“Damn you!” The spy cursed, “it always was about the trains for you, wasn’t it?”

Did his son know what a mobster his father was? How many children he had put on trains, to be gassed like animals? Likely, he had received nothing but love from him. 

When cornered, Eichmann came willingly. He showed no effort to flee or fight, and seemed to completely understand why this was happening. 

The spy reports having a very “normal” conversation with him in the backseat of the car, as he held a gun on him. Eichmann was a very pleasant man who did not at all seem distressed that he had been captured, and would likely soon die. He was personable and showed human courtesy and interest in the spy. 

The spy, somewhat bothered by what he was hearing, and by what he was about to do (somehow, he was expecting a monster who would have put up a fight, evoked disgust, and been satisfying to kill...) brought up his own family. He pulled out some pictures. Nieces, cousins, fathers, mothers...some of the precious people this man had killed. He showed them to Eichmann. 

He listened patiently to the stories of their lives, their brutal deaths, and the agony that do many were still living as a result. 

“Yes, but they’re Jews, aren’t they?” He asked with absolutely no emotion. 

The conversation was over, and they soon executed Eichmann. He was a monster after all.

What this story speaks to me is the sense of surprise the psychopathy evokes in people. Usually, we expect evil deeds to be done by overtly evil people: sociopaths. Those angry, dangerous people that are tormented by so many demons that you can see and avoid them a mile away. But the reality is...many of the worst acts are done by psychopaths: those who feel almost nothing at all. 

No doubt, the “ultimate solution” of Naziism was such a logical conclusion, to the cold logic of the psychopaths that forged and instituted it. 

And what about his young son? The boy who felt nothing but love from this man. The boy left hurting, confused by his fathers abduction?

But on some level, did he always know something wasn’t quite right about his dad?

Did he always know...”I love you son... but don’t you dare ever cross me...” 

Though he stared up adoringly at his father, somehow he knew that he had the feet of a werewolf.