Frameshift (UC), page 4
Avi, a compact, homely man with a face like a bulldog, was an agent with the Office of Special Investigations, the division °f the United States Department of Justice devoted to hunting down Nazi war criminals. He and his colleagues at the OSI had identified a Cleveland autoworker named John Demjanjuk as Ivan the Terrible.
Oh, Demjanjuk didn't seem evil now. He was a bald, tubby Ukrainian in his late sixties, with protruding ears and almond-shaped eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. And, true, he seemed not nearly as cunning as some reports had made out Ivan the Terrible to be, but, then again, he was hardly the first man to have had his intellect dulled by the passing decades.
The OSI agents had shown photo spreads containing pictures of Demjanjuk and others to Treblinka survivors. Based on their identifications, and an SS identity card recovered from the Soviets, Demjanjuk's U.S. citizenship had been revoked in 1981. He'd been extradited to Israel, and now was standing trial for the one capital crime in all of Israeli law.
The courtroom in Jerusalem's Binyanei Ha'uma convention center was large—indeed, it was actually Hall Two, a theater rented for this trial, the most important one since Eichmann's, so that as many spectators as possible could see history being made. Much of the audience consisted of Holocaust survivors and their families. The survivors were an ever dwindling number: since Demjanjuk's denaturalization trial in Cleveland, three of those who had identified him as Ivan the Terrible had passed away.
The judges' bench was on the stage—three high-back leather chairs, with the one in the center even taller than the other two. The bench was flanked on either side by a blue-and-white Israeli flag. To stage left, the prosecution's table and the witness box; to stage right, the table for the defense attorneys and, just behind them, the dock where Demjanjuk, wearing an open-necked shirt and blue sports jacket, sat with his interpreter and guard. All the furnishings were of polished blond wood. The stage was raised a full meter above the general audience seating. Television crews lined the back of the theater; the trial was being broadcast live.
The trial had been under way for a week. Avi Meyer, there as an OSI observer, whiled away the time waiting for the court to be called to order by rereading a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird. Harper Lee's tale had affected him profoundly the first time he'd read it in university. Not that the experiences of Scout—Miss Jean Louise Finch, that is—growing up in the Deep South bore any resemblance to his own upbringing in Chicago. But the story—of the truths we hide, of the search for justice— was timeless.
In fact, maybe that book had as much to do with him joining the OSI as did the ghosts of the family he had never known. Tom Robinson, a black man, was charged with raping a white girl name of Mayella Ewell. The only physical evidence was Mayella's badly bruised face: she'd been punched repeatedly by a man who had led with his left. Her father, a nasty impoverished drunk, was left-handed. Tom Robinson was a cripple; his left arm was twelve inches shorter than his right, and ended in a tiny shriveled hand. Tom testified that Mayella had thrown herself at him, that he'd rejected her advances, and that her father had beaten her for tempting a black man. There was not one shred of evidence to support the rape charge, and Tom Robinson was physically incapable of inflicting the beating.
But in that sleepy Southern town of Maycomb, Alabama, the all-male, all-white jury had found Tom Robinson guilty as charged. A white girl's testimony had to be taken over a black man's and, well, even if Robinson wasn't guilty of this particular crime, he was a shiftless nigger and doubtless guilty of something else.
That justice needed righteous guardians there could be no doubt. And there had been one in To Kill a Mockingbird: Jean Louise's lawyer father, Atticus Finch, who represented Tom despite the calumny of the townsfolk, who gave a spirited, intelligent, dignified defense.
Back then, in the thirties, the courthouse, like everything else, had been segregated. The blacks had to sit in the balcony. Jean Louise and her brother Jem had snuck into the courthouse and found a place to watch from up there, near the kindly Reverend Sykes.
When the case was over, when Tom Robinson was taken off to jail, when all the whites had ambled out, the blacks waited in silence until Atticus Finch gathered up his law books. As he made his way out, the black men and women, knowing in their bones that Tom was innocent, that this was their lot, that Atticus had done his best, rose to their feet and stood in silent salute. The Reverend Sykes spoke to Atticus's young daughter. "Miss Jean Louise," he said, "stand up. Your father's passin'."
Even in defeat, a righteous man is honored by those who know he did his best in an honorable cause. Your father's pas-sin'…
Supreme court justice Dov Levin and Jerusalem district court judges Zvi Tal and Dalia Dorner—the tribunal that would decide John Demjanjuk's fate—came into the theater. As soon as the three were seated, the clerk rose and announced, "Beit Hamishpat! State of Israel versus Ivan 'John,' son of Nikolai Demjanjuk, criminal file 373/86 at the Jerusalem District Court, sitting as the Special Court under the Law for the Punishment of Nazis and Their Collaborators. Court session of 24 Shevat 5747, 23 February 1987, morning session."
Avi Meyer folded down a page corner to mark his place.
"My name is Epstein, Pinhas, the son of Dov and Sara. I was born in Czestochowa, Poland, on March third, 1925. I lived there with my parents until the day we were taken to Tre-blinka."
Avi Meyer, who had just turned forty and so was particularly conscious of the signs of aging, thought Epstein looked ten years younger than sixty-two. He was tall, with a full head of reddish brown hair combed straight back from his forehead.
The panel of three judges listened intently: bearded Zvi Tal, a yarmulke crowning his thick gray hair; Dov Levin, dour, balding, wearing horn-rimmed glasses; and Dalia Dorner, her hair cropped short, wearing a jacket and tie just like her male colleagues.
"Your Honors," said Epstein, turning to them, "I remember an incident—I have nightmares about it still. One day, a little girl managed to escape alive from the gas chamber. She was twelve or fourteen. Like Jubas Meyer, Shlomo Malamud, and others, I was forced to be a corpse bearer, removing the dead from the chambers." Avi Meyer sat up straight at the mention of his father's name. "The girl's words still ring in my ears," said Epstein: " 'Mother! Mother!' " He paused for a moment and wiped tears from his eyes. "Well, Ivan went after Jubas, and…"
Avi Meyer felt his heart pounding. Epstein had trailed off, and was now looking again from judge to judge, lingering longest on Dalia Dorner, as if intimidated by the female presence. "I'm sorry," said the witness. "I'm too ashamed to repeat the words Ivan used next."
Dov Levin frowned and removed his glasses. "If it's important that we hear the words, then say them."
Epstein sucked in breath, then: "He beat Jubas, then shouted, 'Davay yebatsa'…"
Levin raised his shaggy black eyebrows. "Which means?"
Epstein squirmed in his chair. " 'Come fuck,' in Russian. He was saying to Jubas, take off your pants and come fuck. And he pointed at the terrified girl."
Avi Meyer tasted bile at the back of his throat. He'd thought he'd heard all the horrors twenty-seven years ago, after his bar mitzvah. His mother was dead now; he hoped she had never known.
Mickey Shaked, one of the three Israeli prosecutors, had a full head of curly hair and sad, soulful eyes. He placed the cardboard photo spread in front of Epstein. It was a sheet with eight Photographs on it: two rows of three pictures and a final row °f two. All were of Ukrainian men suspected of war crimes. The nrst five photos were passport shots; the sixth was clipped from some other document. Only the seventh and eighth were regular snapshots—almost twice as big as the others. Of the eight Photos, only the seventh showed an almost totally bald man; only the seventh showed a round-faced man.
"Do you see anyone whose face you recognize among these pictures?" asked Shaked.
Epstein nodded, but at first was unable to give voice to his thoughts. He finally placed a finger on the seventh picture. "I recognize him," he said.
"In what way?"
"The forehead, the round face, the very short neck, the broad shoulders, the ears that stick out. This is Ivan the Terrible as I remember him from Treblinka."
"And do you see this same man anywhere in this court today?" asked Shaked, looking around the vast theater as if he himself had no idea where the monster might be.
Epstein raised his voice as he pointed at Demjanjuk. "Yes, he's sitting right there!"
Spectators actually applauded. Demjanjuk's Israeli lawyer, Yoram Sheftel, spread his arms imploringly at the bench. Judge Levin scowled, as if reluctant to interrupt good theater, but finally called the room to order.
Another witness was on the stand now: Eliahu Rosenberg, a short, stocky man with gray hair and dark bushy eyebrows.
"I ask you to look at the accused," said Prosecutor Mickey Shaked. "Scrutinize him."
Rosenberg turned to the three judges. "Will you ask the accused to take off his glasses?"
Demjanjuk immediately removed his glasses, but as Mark O'Connor, his American lawyer, rose to object, Demjanjuk put them back on.
"Mr. O'Connor," said Judge Levin, frowning, "what is your position?"
O'Connor looked at Demjanjuk, then at Rosenberg, then back again at Judge Levin. Finally, he shrugged. "My client has nothing to hide."
Demjanjuk stood up and took off his glasses again. He then leaned forward and spoke to O'Connor. "It's okay," Demjanjuk said. "Have him come closer." He pointed to the edge of his booth. "Have him come right here."
O'Connor at first shushed Demjanjuk, but then seemed to think that perhaps he did have a good idea. "Mar Rosenberg," he said, "why don't you come over for a closer look?"
Rosenberg left the witness stand and, without taking his eyes off Demjanjuk, closed the distance. Spectators whispered to themselves. Rosenberg placed a hand on the edge of Demjan-juk's dock to steady himself. "Posmotreef'he shouted. Look at me!
Demjanjuk met his eyes and stuck out his hand. "Shalom," he said.
Rosenberg stumbled backward. "Murderer!" he shouted. "How dare you offer me your hand?" Avi Meyer watched as Rosenberg's wife, Adina, who was seated in the third row, fainted. Her daughter caught her in her arms. Rosenberg stormed back to the witness stand.
"You were asked to come closer and have a look," said Judge Dov Levin. "What did you see?"
Rosenberg's voice was shaking. "He is Ivan." He swallowed, trying to gain composure. "I say that without hesitation or the slightest doubt. He is Ivan from Treblinka—Ivan from the gas chambers. I'll never forget those eyes—those murderous eyes."
Demjanjuk shouted something. Avi Meyer hadn't made it out clearly, and O'Connor, his hearing impaired by the translation headset, apparently also missed it. He took off the earphones and turned to face his client.
Avi strained to hear. "What did you say?" asked O'Connor.
Demjanjuk, red-faced, crossed his arms in front of his chest, said nothing. Demjanjuk's Israeli lawyer, Yoram Sheftel, leaned closer to O'Connor and spoke in English. "He said to Rosenberg, 'Atah shakran'—'You are a liar.' "
"I'm telling the truth!" shouted Rosenberg. "He is Ivan the Terrible!"
Chapter 6
Thirteen months later Minneapolis
Molly Bond felt—well, she wasn't sure how she felt. Cheap, but excited; full of fear, but full of hope.
She would turn twenty-six this summer, and was now well on her way to her Ph.D in behavioral psychology. But tonight she wasn't studying. Tonight, she sat in a bar a few blocks from the University of Minnesota campus, the smoky air stinging her eyes. She'd already had a Long Island iced tea, trying to build up her courage. She was wearing a tight-fitting red silk blouse, with no bra underneath. When she looked down at her chest, she could see the points made by her nipples pressing against the material. She'd already undone one button before entering, and now she reached down and undid a second one. She was also wearing a black leather skirt that went less than halfway down her thigh, dark stockings, and spike-heeled black shoes. Her blond hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders, and she had on green eye shadow, and lipstick as bright red as the silk top.
Molly looked up and saw a man enter the bar: a not-bad-looking guy in his mid-twenties, with brown eyes and lots of dark hair. Italian, maybe. He was wearing a UM jacket, with "MED" on one sleeve. Perfect.
She saw him looking her over. Molly's stomach was fluttering-She glanced at him, managed a small smile, then looked away.
It had been enough. The guy came over and took the barstool next to her, well within her zone.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.
Molly nodded. "Long Island iced tea," she said, indicating her empty glass. He motioned for the bartender.
His thoughts were pornographic. When he didn't think she was looking, Molly could see him peering down her front. She crossed her legs on the stool, bouncing her breasts as she did so.
It wasn't long before they were back at his place. Typical student apartment, not far from the campus: empty pizza boxes in the kitchen, textbooks spread out on the furniture. He apologized for the mess and started cleaning off the couch.
"No need for that," said Molly. There were only two doorways off the living room, and both were open; she moved over to stand in the one that led to the bedroom.
He came over to her, his hands finding her breasts through the blouse, then under the blouse, then quickly helping her remove the blouse altogether. Molly undid his belt buckle, and they shed the rest of their clothes on the way to the bed, plenty of light still spilling in from the living room. He opened his night-table drawer, took out a three-pack of condoms, and looked at Molly. "I hate these things," he said, testing the waters, hoping she'd agree. "Kills the sensation."
Molly slid her palm across his hairy chest, down his muscular arm, and onto his hand, taking the condoms from him, and putting them back in the still-open drawer. "Then why bother?" she said, smiling up at him. She moved her hand to his penis and stroked it into full erection.
5 years later
Washington, D.C.
Avi Meyer sat in his apartment, mouth hanging open.
Demjanjuk had been found guilty, of course, and sentenced to death. The outcome had been obvious from the beginning °* the trial. Still, there had to be an appeal: it was mandatory under Israeli law. Avi hadn't been sent to Israel for the second trial; his bosses at the OSI were confident nothing would change. Surely all the claims filtering info the press were just clever ploys by Demjanjuk's grandstanding attorneys. Surely the interview aired on CBS's 60 Minutes with Maria Dudek, a skinny woman now in her seventies, with white hair beneath a kerchief, ragged clothing, and only a few teeth left, a woman who had been a prostitute in the 1940s in Wolga Okralnik near Tre-blinka, a woman who had had a regular John—a regular ivan— who operated the gas chambers there, a woman who had screamed in bought passion for him—surely this old woman was mistaken when she said her client's name had not been Ivan Demjanjuk but rather Ivan Marchenko.
But no. Avi Meyer was watching all the OSI's work unravel on CNN. The Israeli Supreme Court, under Chief Justice Meir Shamgar, had just overturned the conviction of John Demjanjuk.
Demjanjuk had now been held prisoner in Israel for five and a half years. His appeal had been delayed three years due to a heart attack suffered by Judge Zvi Tal. And during those three years, the Soviet Union had fallen and formerly secret files had been made public.
Just as Maria Dudek had said, the man who had operated the gas chamber at Treblinka had been Ivan Marchenko, a Ukrainian who did bear a resemblance to Demjanjuk. But the resemblance was only passing. Demjanjuk had been born April 3, 1920, while Marchenko had been born February 2, 1911. Demjanjuk had blue eyes while Marchenko's were brown.
Marchenko had been married before the outbreak of World War II. Demjanjuk's son-in-law, Ed Nishnic, had gone to Russia and tracked down Marchenko's family in Seryovka, a village in the district of Dnepropetrovsk. The family had not seen Marchenko since he'd enlisted in the Red Army in July 1941. Marchenko's abandoned wife had died only a month before Nishnic's visit, and his daughter broke down and cried upon learning of the horrors her long-missing father had perpetrated at Treblinka. "It's good," she was reported to have said between sobs, "that mother died not knowing."
When those words had been relayed to him, Avi's heart had jumped. It was the same sentiment he'd felt upon learning that Ivan had forced his own father to rape a little girl.
The KGB files contained a sworn statement from Nikolai She-laiev, the other gas-chamber operator at Treblinka, the one who had been, quite literally, the lesser of two evils. Shelaiev had been captured by the Soviets in 1950, and tried and executed as a war criminal in 1952. His deposition contained the last recorded sighting by anyone anywhere of Ivan Marchenko, coming out of a brothel in Fiume in March 1945. He had told Nikolai he had no intention of returning home to his family.
Even before Maria Dudek had spoken to Mike Wallace, even before Demjanjuk was stripped of his U.S. citizenship, Avi had known that the last name used by Ivan the Terrible while at Treblinka might indeed have been Marchenko. But that was of no significance, Avi had assured himself: the name Marchenko was intimately linked to Demjanjuk, anyway. In a form Demjanjuk had filled out in 1948 to claim refugee status, he had given it as his mother's maiden name.
But before the first trial, the marriage license of Demjanjuk's parents, dated 24 January 1910, had come to light. It proved his mother's maiden name wasn't Marchenko at all; rather, it was Tabachuk. When Avi had questioned Demjanjuk about why he'd put "Marchenko" on the form, Demjanjuk had claimed he'd forgotten his mother's real maiden name and, considering the matter of no consequence, had simply inserted a common Ukrainian surname to complete the paperwork.
Right, Avi had thought. Sure.
But now it seemed it had been the truth. John Demjanjuk was not Ivan…
… and Avi Meyer and the rest of the OSI had come within inches of being responsible for the execution of an innocent man.
