More than two decades ago I came to the old imperial city of Vienna with a mission. The weather was hot and humid, and I felt uneasy. I was there to meet a man I thought I knew – after reading all of his memoirs, tons of newspaper articles and movies depicting his incredible life.
On the threshold of his famed office I succumbed to self doubt – and a fear of not rising to the occasion.
The stifling heat was the least of my worries.
I made my way along the cobbled streets until I found the entrance to his office close to the Donau. «Documentationszentrum» it plainly read on the yellowed doorbell label. An officer in a blue shirt, beaded with sweat and a pistol on his hip, opened the door slowly, looked me over and beckoned me inside.
– Third floor, the stoic policeman said calmly as he slowly with his eyes fixed on me retreated back to his chair in a corner next to the surprisingly decrepit entryway.
«It’s for show», I thought as I stumbled up the stairs.
The 91 year old man I was meeting for an interview was at the tail end of a lifetime in pursuit. He was still at it on his never ending crusade, but age was taking its toll. When I entered the room I spotted the man behind the myth cringing in his office chair, where so many of his cases had been initiated.
He was smaller than I had anticipated. His fatigued, chiseled face was haggard. The somewhat translucent skin had an ominous greyish tint – and the piercing eyes were watery and alert.
– Do you mind If we converse in German? he asked politely in English in a coarse voice and a heavy eastern European accent.
– We could try, I responded – hesitantly.
My high school German is at best a means to order a beer.
The reason for my visit was the deadly stabbing of Benjamin Hermansen – a 15 year old boy of mixed color in Oslo. The slaying by two neo nazis in late January that year sent shock waves through Norwegian society, and as a reporter of a respected mens magazine* at the time I wanted to bring the incident into a broader context.
To the reasons behind the surge of extremism, and its potential to flourish if it evolve unfettered.
The heat in his study, which was stocked to the brim with books and documents, made me sweat profusely. Clouds of dust danced in the sunlight coming in through the grimy windows. Then the old man started to speak, luckily in English since he – without a word being said about it – understood that my understanding of German would not suffice for what he was about to tell me.
«I’ll tell you a story, Mr. Moholdt», he said, leaning back in his heavy lounge chair.
A flicker of light had come to his eyes. As if something had jogged his memory. A last force of will to tell the tale that he’d probably been voicing so many times before, and that had given him countless sleepless nights.
«I was at the end of my tether, just wanted to die. So many of my family members had perished. I felt alone, unimaginably tired – and was so sick from dysentery and malnutrition that I could barely move.
I’d found a small piece of scrap metal with a dull edge, and had crawled into a corner of the camp where skeleton ghosts moved passed me mechanically in slow motion. They just kept moving, to no end. Maybe just to feel that they were still alive, like a gesture. I don’t know…
And didn’t care really. All wanted was to die. I was barely able to move my arm to finish myself off. But I managed, and when I saw blood gushing from my wrists I felt a kind of blissful relief.
Finally…
Then someone kicked me in the back. An imposing, stern looking man hovered over me.The sun was beating down on the two us from behind him.
The officer had some dirty rags in his hands, that he threw into my lap.
– Here, stitch yourself up, Mr. Wiesenthal, he commanded.
His voice was calm, almost respectful. Old ways die hard. But the harsh tone in his voice was that of a man who – with total abandon – ruled over life and death. Of a calculating individual who could extinguish a human life like you kill a bug on your neck.
You don’t decide when you die, I do, the offiser then said coldly.
Maybe it was at that moment I decided to live, and to dedicate my life to make people like him held accountable, and in the process also root out all the structures that had lead to the inferno around me».
When his story came to an end Mr. Wiesenthal was visibly exhausted. He had put all his storytelling skills and physical efforts into the terrifying tale. I was numb – and completely lost for words. I’d read many of his books about the ordeals in the camps and the more than 50 year long hunt for the criminals that almost eradicated all of European jewry. But none like this. It felt personal – like an unburdening
– We must never forget, and always be vigilant, the old man professed – now in an automated, slightly remote manner. His tired voice was almost inaudible – it was time for me to leave.
Mr. Wiesenthal leaned back with a long sigh, his eyes seemingly trying to focus on something beyond me.
Like an incarcerated looking out, free to go, but never really free. A prisoner of an utterly gruesome past that had possessed and haunted him until this day – and would do so until the end of his days.
Outside a cooling breeze grazed the pavement. I took a deep breath and gave out a sigh of emotion. There and then I knew the meeting with Mr. Wiesenthal and his story would become a part of me – a constant personal reminder of ultimate tragedy, but also of hope – that goodness ultimately will prevail, but only if we aspire to make it so.
– Never forget, he repeated when I left and very slowly as to savor the moment descended the stairs – to be engulfed by the bustling city.
The admonishing two words bouncing off the walls in the stairwell are as clear in my head today as they were 35 years ago. ©
In memory of Simon Wiesenthal and Benjamin Hermansen
* The full interview with Simon Wiesenthal was conducted in the spring of 2001, and published in several Norwegian periodicals – among them Vi Menn. (Foto: Bjørn Moholdt)
