Fatal Lies

48

Professor Eichmann was seated behind his desk, staring at the photograph of himself as a youthful artillery officer. As a child, he had dreamed of wearing such a uniform, distinguishing himself in battle, and becoming a celebrated general. But in real life his precocious fantasies had come to nothing. His career in the army had not been very remarkable-although this was through no fault of his own. He had been honorably discharged in his early twenties due to ill health. The doctor had attributed his breathlessness to a congenital heart defect. At the time, Eichmann had been devastated; however, he was an intelligent, resourceful young man, and soon turned this misfortune to his advantage. He excelled at university, wrote a modestly succesful history of the Austrian land forces, and won the respect of his academic peer group.

Yet, in spite of his achievements, the disappointment of his early discharge from the artillery lingered.

He had wanted to be a man of action, and academia was-for him-far too distant from the battlefield. In due course, he trained as a teacher and sought a more direct relationship with the world. Although he had been denied glory, he could still influence those destined to take his place.

While still in his thirties, he had written an impressive article on the importance of military schools. It had become commonplace in coffeehouses to hear patrons bemoaning the state of the army. Who could deny that it was underfunded, ill-equipped, and in need of modernization? Eichmann, however, had argued that the significance of these factors had been exaggerated. What really mattered was “character.” If the army-and in particular the Austrian army-was going to meet the challenges of the new century, then it should be supplied with soldiers of a certain “type.” Thus, military schools had a key role to play in determining the destiny of the dual monarchy. Moreover, Eichmann had proposed that this right sort of character should be modeled on a vision of man described in recent philosophi cal writings. Such works might introduce teachers to some very useful principles.

It was an argument that had attracted the interest of the headmaster of a military school situated in the Vienna woods. The school was called Saint Florian's. Eichmann was immediately offered a teaching post. Five years later he became deputy headmaster, and three years after that, the headmaster had died and Eichmann had stepped into his shoes.

On the whole, Eichmann s project had been successful. The school now had a fine reputation. In addition, old boys occupied significant positions in the military hierarchy. The survival of the empire wasto a greater or lesser extent-dependent on these men of character whose thinking he had shaped. Thus, in a sense, he had inveigled his way back onto the battlefield. Some of their glory-at least in partbelonged to him.

There was a knock at the door.

Eichmann turned the photograph of his younger self aside.

“Come in.” It was the deputy headmaster. “Ah… Becker,” said the headmaster, gesturing toward a chair. “Well?”

Becker advanced, but did not sit.

“He didn't attend any classes yesterday-and he hasn't been seen all day today. The prefects have undertaken a thorough search of the school, including the outbuildings.”

“Have you spoken to any of his friends?”

“Perger doesn't have friends-as such.”

“All right, then-classmates?”

“A boy called Schoeps claims to have seen him in the dormitory on Tuesday night. That, I believe, was the last time anyone saw him.”

“He must have absconded.”

“Yes, sir, that seems to be the most likely explanation.”

The headmaster shook his head. “This is all we need.”

“Quite. Most inopportune.”

“Thank you, Deputy Headmaster,” said Eichmann.

Becker bowed and left the room.

The headmaster opened a drawer, took out a sheet of headed notepaper, and began writing.

Dear Herr Perger,

I regret to inform you that your son Isidor appears to have absconded from the school. This is a very serious matter.

The headmaster paused and bit the end of his pen. He recalled his talk with Wolf. For a moment, it crossed his mind that the boy might have misundertsood him.

No, he thought. Surely not.

Returning his attention to the letter, he continued to write.