Once we got started, it didn't take long to get down to the very heart of the
matter.
"How did it happen?" I asked. "How did you come to do what you
did?"
Eichmann didn't seem taken aback in the least. "Es war den Auftrag
den ich hatte," he said evenly. "Ich hatte den Auftrag zu
erfüllen." (It was a job I had. I had a job to do.)
"Just a job?"
He hesitated, perhaps surprised by the vehemence of the reaction. "You
must believe me, it wasn't something I planned, nor anything I'd have
chosen."
"But why you? Tell me exactly how it happened."
So he went on to relate the story of his early rise within the SS, describing
how at first he was assigned deadly boring clerical tasks, and so leapt at the
chance for a position at the new "Jewish Museum" being set up at
headquarters.
It did not take long to see that Eichmann loved talking, particularly about
himself, and that he had a sharp mind. Though his tone was respectful, sometimes
frankly obsequious, the obedient child eager to please, he was also canny. He
knew exactly what he was doing. Here I was, likely the first soul he had ever
encountered–certainly the first Jew–to whom he felt obliged to defend
himself, yet he was going about it with cool aplomb. Apparently straightforward,
yet subtly shading things to his advantage, he distanced himself from real
responsibility, even as he confirmed the record in every particular.
Yes, he acknowledged, matters had gotten out of control. But that hadn't been
the intention at the beginning, not his immediate superiors' and certainly not
his. Working from within, he had always argued for moderation. But he was a
soldier–in this he took enormous pride–and a soldier is never entirely his
own man. When decisions were made by those above, and orders issued, they had to
be obeyed. This was duty. For him, this was a matter of moral
responsibility.
Listening, it was not quite so easy as I had supposed it would be to frame
cogent replies. I had imagined he would be defensive, that he would express at
least token remorse. Instead he talked as if he had spent those years working as
a grocery clerk.
As he put it, "I thought to myself 'Why not?' I'd have done anything to
get away from those files."
When he finished I made no reply.
"You must believe me," he added suddenly. "I had nothing
against the Jews."
"Then what were you doing in the SS in the first place? The ideology was
not exactly a secret."
"But it wasn't only me. Everyone knew a change was necessary in Germany;
it was only a question of what form it would take. Times were terrible. I had a
job myself, selling gasoline products in Upper Austria, and for me things were
not so bad. It was one of the most beautiful places on earth. I was moved and
inspired every day by its glorious mountain forests. But a man does not live
only for himself. Hitler was the only one who could rally the people against the
Communists. He brought hope of jobs and bread. I freely admit it; I was inspired
as much as anyone."
We conversed with surprising ease. If we had met, say, as seat mates on a
long plane ride, we'd certainly have found enough in common–a shared love of
nature and the wild, a common appreciation of certain kinds of music, a similar
interest in world events–to make the trip pass more quickly. Both of us were
social by nature and gave every appearance of accessibility.
Already, though, I was seeing in him qualities that I would have found
oppressive even in an ordinary man: an utter lack of humor and an even more
striking inflexibility of mind. Indeed, as time went on, it would become more
and more apparent that not only was the man incapable of viewing the world from
any perspective but his own, but he was impatient with the notion that any
reasonable soul should expect him to do so.
But there was something else. Though I did not yet have access to the
complete record of his duplicities (the tapes he had made with Sassen had yet to
come to light and witnesses at his trial would further confirm his extraordinary
talent for deception), I sensed he was being less than entirely straightforward.
That, indeed, the very appearance of candor–his seeming vulnerability, the
strategic admissions of error, even his refusal to back away from what he
regarded as principle–might be aspects of a calculated self-presentation for
my benefit. This was, after all, a man who had risen to immense power on the
underestimation of others.
"As time passed," I asked now, "did your opinion of the
Führer change? What did you think of him?"
"Der Führer was unfehlbar," he answered instantly. (The
Führer was infallible.) "My oath as an SS officer was to Adolf Hitler
personally. And I was not released from that oath until May 1945."
"You both came from Austria," I observed. "In fact, I
understand you attended the same high school."
He allowed himself a small smile. "Ja. That is true."
"You even shared the same first name."
"Ja." He paused. "But he was the leader of the Reich. I
was only a functionary."
"Tell me, did you come from a political family? Tell me about your
father."
He shook his head. "He was a very strong personality, my father.
But his energies went toward religion."
"And you?"
I had meant the question to be about the strength of his own religious
conviction (later I would learn it was limited), but he took it entirely
otherwise. "I was a good son. It was not my place to question him." He
went on to note that for a time worked for his father in a mining enterprise.
"I was treated no better or worse than the others."
"Did that bother you?" I asked.
Momentarily he seemed genuinely baffled by this. "I was a young man. I
was accustomed to being led."
In the years after, I would more than occasionally think back on that
response. And, by extension, to the larger question of what it is that molds an
individual's sense of moral responsibility. Why is it that one person comes of
age profoundly humane while someone else, of the same culture and social
background is seemingly impervious to the needs of others?
The conclusion I reached, though hardly original, nonetheless still seems far
too little appreciated. It has everything to do with how one is regarded as a
child. Those who as children are valued and nurtured, loved without expectation
and listened to and heard, are likely to become compassionate adults who think
for themselves and make moral choices. Those many others around whom
regimentation is the norm and unconventionality is taken as aberrant are quickly
made to understand–by parents, by teachers, by almost everyone in their
universe–that they are of worth only as part of the larger whole. As second
nature they learn passivity and obedience, not conscience.
Such an insight would prove useful in my work, helping me understand those
whose behavior sometimes seemed unfathomable. It would come in even handier
later, in my own life, when I became a
father.
