Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

I ordered some mint tea and remained immersed in my newspaper: a man idling away the afternoon. When the Dorfmans eventually paid their bill and left, I quietly placed a wad of notes on the table, enough to cover my meal with plenty over, grabbed my bag and made my own exit.

I kept a fair distance behind them, much further than those who have never done such work would imagine. I let them disappear out of sight, turning left or right, knowing that I would catch up with them again. I had the great advantage of knowing where Dorfman, at least, was heading.

I watched the couple part, she giving him a light peck on his cheek, her right heel kicking up coquettishly, and I wondered what words she had used, whether she had said goodbye to her husband or merely au revoir. My heart was beginning to pound in a way I did not like.

I let her meander down one of the narrow, sloping passageways before picking up the pace. Dorfman was walking briskly now, the seafront to his right, the water a sparkling blue. Had the sun carried on shining in places like this when my sisters and I lived in the ghetto? I had always assumed that the skies had darkened across the whole world.

Dorfman crossed the promenade, waiting for a group of teenage boys to cycle past, before entering the hotel through one of the sliding doors facing the sea. I decided not to follow him but to go around to the street entrance.

With a purposeful walk I had perfected back on that train trip from Kovno to Warsaw, I strode past the reception desk, ignored the lift and climbed the stairs. Our informant had even supplied the room number. Before I touched the handrail, I pulled on a pair of tight leather gloves.

I paused halfway between the second and third floors. Looking upwards, I could see Dorfman emerge from the lift and watch his feet pad down the carpeted corridor. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock.

Outside Room 212, I did not give myself a moment to hesitate. I knocked twice and called out, in Spanish, ‘Servicio de habitaciones!’ Room Service!

I reached for the holster under my left shoulder and withdrew my Beretta 1951, so that its barrel became visible just as the door opened. It would be the first thing Dorfman would see.

I gave him no time to react. I used my left hand to shove him back into the room, just in case he had any ideas about trying to slam the door on me. With the gun held steady in my right hand, I closed the door with my foot.

‘Guten Tag , Herr Dorfman,’ I began, swiftly moving to the telephone at the side of the bed, yanking its cord out of the wall with a single tug. ‘Don't scream or I will kill you instantly.’ I was relieved my voice gave nothing away, no treacherous wobble. ‘You are SS Lieutenant Joshcka Dorfman of the Treblinka death camp and previously of the Ninth Fort at Kovno where you were personally responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Jews. I act in the name of the Jews and I have come to administer justice.’

There had been much discussion in the group about this stage in the process. Some believed it entailed an unnecessary risk, that any delay was foolish. I did not argue with that: in some cases, it was indeed impossible. I had had no chance, for example, to address Fritz Kramer when I smashed him off the road, nor to speak to the others who had wound up in road-side ditches or in flaming cars on the autobahn. But where it was possible, as it was now, then it was worthwhile. The leader of our group – Aron, the same grave, intense man who had sent me on my first mission as a messenger, from that candlelit cellar in Kovno – had argued it with great passion. ‘Those who are guilty of the greatest crime in human history should know, even as they draw their last breath, that their victims did not let this crime go unavenged. That Jews cannot be murdered with impunity. That the Jews will fight back.’

Dorfman's tan vanished, the sight of the gun draining the blood from his face. There was also, I noticed, a glint of confusion in his eye, a perplexed expression which I had seen more than once. Why are you, a young, strong Aryan man, saying these things?

‘No. You have made a mistake, I am-’ ‘I am a Jew and I am here to avenge my people.’ ‘But I have done nothing wrong. You have the wrong-’

‘Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you.’ At that, Dorfman slumped in relief. He tottered backwards and sank onto the edge of the bed. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Thank God.’

I kept the gun trained on him and said nothing.

‘You want money, yes? That's what it is. Of course. You want money. How much money do you want, to keep this information, er, confidential? Name your price. There are plenty of people who could arrange a wire transfer, you need only-’

‘I am not going to shoot you because that would be too quick. I have in my bag two syringes and a small tank of gasoline. I am going to inject the gasoline into your heart. Death takes at least – but you know how long it takes. From the experiments of Aribert Heim at Mauthausen. He ran this particular experiment many times. Surely he shared the results with you?’

‘Please, don't do this to me. Please. Whatever you want, you can have it. Names. I can give you names.’

This, too, was part of our procedure. The plea for mercy, in return for information on other war criminals in hiding – their whereabouts, their new identities – we always listened to that patiently.

I opened my bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. I wrote down what Dorfman told me. Occasionally I told him to slow down. The stream of words, powered by his fear, was flowing too fast for me to keep up, a pen in my right hand, the revolver in my left.

But I was also aware of the time. I knew that Frau Dorfman would soon tire of her shopping. I closed my notebook and returned it to the bag. The Nazi exhaled deeply, believing his ordeal was coming to an end.

‘Now, where were we?’ I said. ‘Oh yes. I was explaining how I am going to kill you.’

‘You dirty Jew! We made a bargain!’

‘You'd better call your lawyer.’

At that, Dorfman lunged for the gun. But he miscalculated. I was still holding the weapon in my left hand, freeing my right hand to deliver a swift, but meaty right hook to his jaw.

For a moment, I was worried that I had knocked him out. That would be no good. Dorfman was flat out on the bed, his hands clasped to his face – but he was conscious.

‘As I was saying, the gasoline will go straight to your heart. Fortunately, I have two syringes. One for each of you.’

There was a stirring from the bed and a low grunt.

‘Sorry, I can't hear you.’

His voice slurred, the blood bubbling in his mouth, Dorfman tried again. ‘What do you mean, each of you?’

‘For you and your wife, of course. We will wait for her to come back and you can die together. Though, as you know thanks to Dr Heim, it may take some time.’

With mammoth effort, Dorfman pulled himself upright. His eyes were fierce with fear. I noticed a patch of damp spreading across the Nazi's trousers; he had soiled himself.

He began to beg. At first he pleaded for both their lives, his wife's and his, repeating his offer of money until he could see it was futile. He promised he could give more names, if only he had more time. Eventually, I heard what I was waiting to hear. ‘Take me, but not her. And allow me to die like a man.’

He wanted the revolver, but I refused: too noisy. Instead, I opened my bag and pulled out a long rope. Our source had told me there were ceiling beams in this hotel and that the height was good enough.

I, a Jew, handed him, a Nazi, the rope. I positioned a chair. I watched as Dorfman made the noose around his neck then tied it, and I kept watching as he tightened it. My gaze did not waver when he kicked away the chair: I watched his weight fall. I showed no expression as SS Lieutenant Joschka Dorfman of the Ninth Fort gasped, his body convulsing in the last spasms of life, until his legs were swinging, as dumb and fleshy as the hams on Puerto Street.