THE LITTLE AIRPORT in La Paz is located thirteen thousand feet above sea level. I am herded by about twenty photographers, cameramen, and journalists into a small office that is normally used as an infirmary. There, I give an improvised press conference while a doctor treats a young woman whose plane has just landed.
When the press has left, I am taken to another office, where three plainclothes policemen make me fill out forms. I do not have a Bolivian tourist visa, and I am not here as a tourist. They keep my passport, promising me that I will get it back when I reach the hotel. In fact, it is another three days before I see it again.
I was expecting summer heat, but it is cold in La Paz. Loud music blares from a stadium behind the hotel where I’m staying: cymbals, trumpets, a repetitive rhythm. Added to the altitude, this racket gives me a violent migraine. But I continue speaking to the parade of journalists that files through my first-floor hotel room.
The next morning, reading the newspapers, I come upon the headline: “No Es Altmann, Es Barbie!” The proof of this statement is printed over several pages.
The next day is Monday. I go to the French embassy in the morning, but the ambassador refuses to see me. I head to the building next door, which houses the Ministry of the Interior. A soldier prevents me from entering and keeps repeating, “Mañana.” In the hotel, some journalists arrange a meeting for me with Rodolfo Greminger, the immigration secretary, and try to get me a meeting with Colonel Hugo Banzer, Bolivia’s head of state (and dictator). I meet Greminger that afternoon, a European-looking man in his early thirties. He seems guarded. I leave him my dossier so that he can photocopy it.
At my hotel, I see the famous French TV journalist Ladislas de Hoyos and his crew.
I still have a headache and not much appetite—and the meals served in the hotel restaurant do nothing to whet it. I settle for a few avocados and some fruit puree.
I talk to journalists in my room until late at night. I explain to them the truth about the Gestapo, Nazism, the French Resistance, the death camps. This seems to me an essential task in La Paz, irrespective of the issue of extradition. I have heard and read a lot about the Banzer regime in Bolivia; by denouncing the fascism of the past, I feel as if I am helping the Bolivians to connect what is happening now under Banzer with what happened in the thirties and forties under Hitler.
On Tuesday morning, I go to see Greminger, the immigration secretary, who gives me back my passport and my documents. Then he hands me a newspaper in which he has underlined in red pen some of my declarations to the press. He tells me I should not be talking to journalists when I have come to Bolivia on a tourist visa, which had eventually been granted, even though the authorities knew I had come for the Barbie case. And yet I sense that he is more sympathetic toward my cause than he was before. He tells me that he is preparing the Barbie dossier for the committee he heads and that he will pass on his report to the supreme court, which will decide Barbie’s fate. Greminger takes Altmann’s passport from a drawer and shows it to me. I read the date of birth: October 25, 1913, the same as Barbie, not October 15, as “Altmann” claimed in Lima. Greminger asks me to bring him certain official documents from Munich concerning Barbie’s life and Nazi career. I promise I will.
As I am coming out of Greminger’s office, I am accosted by a policeman, who takes me to see Major Dito Vargas, the head of the Bolivian intelligence services, who is notorious for his cruelty. I have heard that he tortures people himself and summarily executes guerrillas after first chopping off their hands. He is not yet forty, and I silently hope, when I see him, that he never will be. He is well dressed and has a large, fat face and slicked-back black hair. Our interview is translated by a policeman who speaks English. Smirking sarcastically, Major Vargas informs me that, as a foreign tourist, I am not entitled to use the Bolivian press to mount a campaign.
I reply with equal sarcasm, “I don’t need to see the press anymore because I’ve already seen them all and they’ve informed the Bolivian people of almost everything I had to say.” He brings the interview to a swift end. Presumably he is not used to women standing up to him.
In the lobby, I am told there is a phone call for me. It is a member of the French embassy, arranging to meet me at my hotel; as a precaution, we will not meet in my room. This diplomat, who is Jewish, has followed my previous protests. He confirms that I was not seen by the ambassador because I am not here on an official visit. But the embassy employees are curious to study my documents.
That afternoon, I hear on the radio that the French ambassador has demanded Barbie be extradited. I am relieved. In the middle of the night, I am woken by a phone call from the correspondent of a U.S. press agency: I will be expelled the next day for breaking the rules of tourist behavior.
The next day, Greminger asks me to leave that same day for Paris, via Lima. He books me a seat and tells me to return to see him at 2:00 p.m. In the meantime, Ladislas de Hoyos interviews me on the main road overlooking La Paz. I am told that Colonel Mario Zamora, the minister of the interior, has just announced that I have been expelled. But when I see Greminger again at 2:00 p.m., he denies this. “You have not been expelled, but I need those new documents. Only you can bring them to me. I have decided to work with you, and I have just explained that to the press.”
His press release that afternoon makes clear that “Mrs. Klarsfeld has left of her own free will.” Two policemen take me to the French embassy, where I pick up my dossiers. Back at my hotel, I call a few journalists and take a reel of film given to me by Ladislas de Hoyos, so that I can bring it to Paris. He feared that if the police found the film in his possession, it would be confiscated—or worse.
In Lima later that afternoon, two police detectives take me to an office. The order has been given not to admit me to the city: “We are here to ensure your safety, because there is a risk you might be killed by neo-Nazi organizations if you enter the city.” Herbert John confirms to me that Fritz Schwend, with whom Mrs. Barbie is staying, has declared that, if I return, they will “take care of” me. But I want to sleep in a bed, not on a chair in a muggy airport. “Give me a revolver,” I tell the policemen, “if you’re really worried about me. I know how to look after myself.” They refuse, and I spend a long, sleepless night in a glass-walled office.
The next morning, I board an Air France jet. When the captain is informed of my presence, he invites me into the cockpit and opens a bottle of champagne in my honor.
* * *
DURING THE DAYS that follow, I enjoy a few moments of relaxation with Serge and Arno. I also do a lot of housework. Whenever I go away, I am always obsessed with the problem of my men’s laundry. They are both rather careless when it comes to looking after themselves. It may seem absurd that such considerations preoccupy me while I am hunting SS killers on the other side of the world, but it’s true: I constantly worry about whether Arno will have clean underwear, whether Serge’s shoes are dusty, whether Raïssa will be able to find the dry-cleaning ticket that I left next to the television set … It is a source of joy and relief to be able to catch up on these tasks.
I call Dr. Ludolph to tell him I am back in France, and he informs me soon afterward that the French military court is going to take over for me: the West German foreign minister has just been in touch to ask him to speak with two French judges on Monday. All the same, I go to see him because I have just learned that Barbie has been arrested in Bolivia for fraud; the state development agency claims that he owes them a large sum of money. If a minority of Bolivian leaders are hostile to Barbie, we must help them by providing the Bolivian police with as much evidence as possible. Unfortunately, the French justice system is a slow-moving machine, so it is better if I return to La Paz myself, taking the documents I have just been given by the Munich prosecutor’s office, documents that will prove beyond doubt that Altmann is Barbie.
* * *
FOR THE PEOPLE of Peru and Bolivia at the time, the reality of what the Nazis did was practically unknown. I had to show them that Barbie was not, as he claimed, merely “a soldier doing his duty.” He had told a reporter from Pueblo: “During the war, I acted as any army officer acts in such circumstances. I acted the way Bolivian officers acted when they were fighting Che Guevara’s guerrillas.” I had to highlight the mass murder of civilians and the liquidation of the Jews. The Bolivians needed to see more than just documents and photographs; they had to be brought face-to-face with the evil of Nazism through the words and tears of someone who had suffered directly at Barbie’s hands. All I needed now was to find enough money for the flight tickets and living expenses and then find the right person to accompany me—and convince him to make the trip.
The day I went to see Dr. Ludolph in Munich, I had food poisoning. I did not feel or look too good, but he showed me the evidence I had asked for, notably the four Barbie children’s birth certificates, the proof that Barbie was classified as a police officer during the war, rather than a soldier, and specimens of Barbie’s handwriting. We worked until 7:00 p.m. Unfortunately, Dr. Ludolph no longer had the right to give me photocopies of this evidence, as he had to pass it on officially to the French military judges. Otherwise, I could have been in La Paz with those documents by Thursday, February 10. Going through official channels, the documents would take at least ten days to reach Bolivia.
* * *
IN PARIS, BARBIE was front-page news again. Ladislas de Hoyos had managed to interview Barbie in prison. Confronted with the image of their torturer, Barbie’s victims recognized him despite the passage of so many years.
From now on, for the French people, there was no longer any doubt: Altmann was Barbie. I felt simultaneously happy and furious: indisputable evidence was more or less ignored, while questionable witness testimony won the argument. I do not have a good memory for faces, even those I have seen a short time before, so I tend to doubt the claims of those who can be certain after twenty-seven years. All the more so, as it was perfectly feasible that the outcome might have been different: what if those witnesses had not recognized him, despite the fact that Altmann really was Barbie and that the Munich prosecutor general had stated that he believed “with a 100 percent certainty that would convince any German court”? In that case, what would have happened?
Among the witnesses who came forward was Mrs. Simone Lagrange, who was interrogated by Barbie in June 1944, when her name was Simone Kadousche:
I was thirteen years old. When we arrived at the Gestapo building in Place Bellecour, they put us in a fourth-floor room—and that was where I saw Barbie for the first time. He walked toward my parents and me, delicately stroking a large gray cat, and—without raising his voice—asked my mother if I was her only child. Mama replied that she had two younger children, but she didn’t know where they were. Barbie then approached me and politely asked me for my little brothers’ address. I told him I didn’t know. He gently placed his cat on the table, then suddenly slapped my face twice, telling me that he would find them himself. On June 7, I was taken back to Place Bellecour, where Barbie was waiting for me. Another interrogation began. He said to me in a kind voice that, if I gave him the boys’ address, he would send the three of us together to the hospital in Antiquaille, that we would be well cared for and we would not be deported. Again, I told him that I didn’t know where they were, so he moved closer to me. I had very long hair at the time. He rolled this around his hand, then abruptly yanked me toward him. Then he started slapping me, for about fifteen minutes. It hurt a lot, but I didn’t want to cry. Finally he let go of me and I found myself on the floor. He kicked me in the belly until I got up, and escorted me to prison himself. He told my mother that she was heartless, letting her daughter be hit like that, and that, if she talked, there would be no more interrogations. Then he slapped her a few times. We saw each other again on June 23, 1944, the date when we were transferred to Drancy, along with our mother, prior to our departure for the concentration camp in Auschwitz, where Mama was killed on August 23, 1944. As for my father, he was murdered on January 19, 1945, as the camp was being evacuated.
Serge met Mrs. Lagrange during a protest outside the Bolivian embassy. She immediately expressed her interest in going to Bolivia with me.
On February 12, 1972, Barbie was released. Le Figaro stated optimistically: “Barbie is not about to be tried in a French court, but Altmann is suffering trials of another kind. For him, from now on, every hour of the night will be like that first hour of dawn dreaded by all those men he sent to be executed.”
This article was a mistake, because its subtext was “Reader, don’t worry, the criminal will not get away. He won’t have long to enjoy his villa, his swimming pool, his family. The inexorable machine of justice has been set in motion, and Barbie will eventually receive his due punishment, so there is no need to make any effort at all.” By confusing our desires with reality, we lead the public astray, silence their demands, and earn the contempt of those smirking Nazi monsters.
In reality, Klaus Barbie regularly went to the bar of Lima’s Crillon Hotel to savor a few whiskies in peace. No one was trying to kill or kidnap him.
* * *
THE ROLE I PLAY is much bigger than I am. Inside me, there is the black of a Barbie or a Kiesinger; there is the gray of those who, out of indifference or cowardice, resign themselves to the impunity of Nazi war criminals or the repression in Prague; and there is also the off-white of those who, though they are not resigned to such horrors, are content to sign petitions in order to appease their troubled consciences. And yet, what count are acts—black or white—and the choice of principles that lead one inexorably to act in a way that is black or white. Each man’s fate is determined by his acts. He becomes white, black, or gray, no matter what shade his soul originally might have been.
On February 15, Georges Pompidou wrote to Hugo Banzer: “Time erases many things, but not all. So the French people cannot accept that crimes and sacrifices be forgotten, because if they are, then justice is tarnished.” I agree entirely with these words.
* * *
I WAS GIVEN two plane tickets to Bolivia by Francine Lazurick, the manager of L’Aurore. Mrs. Lagrange, on the other hand, would not go with me: “I was asked not to go there yet, so as not to compromise the course of justice.”
I decided to ask Mrs. Halaunbrenner instead. She was nearly seventy years old, and Barbie had ruined her life. She still had a son, Alexandre, and a daughter, Monique, but her husband, her eldest son, and her two other daughters had all been exterminated by Barbie. I took a statement from Alexandre:
In 1943, our family consisted of my father, Jakob; my mother, Itta-Rosa; my elder brother, Léon (thirteen); my three sisters, Mina (eight), Claudine (four), and Monique (three). Between 1941 and 1943, we were held in several camps in the southern zone. On August 26, 1943, we were put in a residence under surveillance in Lyon. At 11:00 a.m. on October 24 of that year, the Gestapo knocked on our door. There were three men: two of them tall and in their forties, the third younger (he looked about thirty to my child’s eyes) but obviously their boss. His face has remained engraved in my memory ever since that moment; it has haunted my dreams and my sleepless nights. When I saw the photograph published by Die Weltwoche on September 10, 1971, I recognized him instantly, as did my mother, who was sitting next to me.
My brother Léon, who was very tall for his age, came home about 6:00 p.m. When he walked into the apartment, they searched him, then decided to take him along with my father. My mother began to howl in Yiddish that they should let my brother go. We were all crying and shouting, but in vain. When my mother tried to stop them from being taken away, Barbie took out his revolver and struck my mother’s hand with it. The next day, we stood in the street waiting for our brother and father to return, my sisters clinging to my mother’s dress. We then saw a German army van stopping outside our house, presumably to take us away. So we pretended to be just passing, and left everything behind us. A few weeks later, on December 14, we learned through a friend that my father was dead in the hospital. My mother and I went around to all the hospitals in the city but found nothing. Then I thought of looking in the morgue, and that was where we found my father. He had been shot by a firing squad at the Gestapo’s headquarters: seventeen machine-gun bullets in his neck and chest. My brother Léon was deported. He worked in the Polish mines until he died of exhaustion. Two of my younger sisters, Mina and Claudine, were placed by the UGIF in the Jewish orphanage at Izieu. We thought they would be safe there. But Barbie did not spare them. My sisters were deported on June 30, 1944, and were killed upon arrival in Auschwitz.
I persuaded Dr. Ludolph to give me a copy of the photographs of Mrs. Barbie in 1940 that he had just discovered. While I was in Munich, I also met my informer, Peter Nischk, who would die soon afterward—he was found drowned in an Italian lake. Herbert John, his friend, was certain that this was no accident.
I took the plane back to Paris that evening. On the flight, I examined the photographs of Mrs. Barbie, comparing them with one taken in 1972. She had not changed in thirty years: a few wrinkles, nothing more. The resemblance left no room for doubt. When I showed the pictures to Serge at Orly Airport, he ushered me into a taxi. It was nearly midnight when we arrived at L’Aurore. The page layout was changed at the last minute. The two photographs were inserted, followed by a long article headlined “The Final Proof.”
I returned to La Paz only a few weeks later, this time accompanied by Mrs. Halaunbrenner.
* * *
WE LEAVE PARIS on Sunday, February 20, 1972, and spend one day in Lima. I fear that we will be turned away from Bolivia. There will be less risk of this if the Peruvian press prints this latest proof and Mrs. Halaunbrenner’s story. Sending us away would be equivalent to refusing to hear what we have to say. The French consul is at the airport with a group of journalists, eager to see the photographs and hear our words. Mrs. Halaunbrenner responds with dignity and simplicity to the reporters’ questions. The consul takes us to the Savoy, where he tells us that the ambassador is in Europe. In spite of Schwend’s threats, I do not really fear any reprisals by the neo-Nazis here; attacking me would provoke a major campaign against them. The next day, our story is front-page news in the papers of Lima.
On Tuesday morning, at the airport, we are stopped at the check-in desk and told that a dispatch has arrived from La Paz: we do not have the right to leave and must contact the Bolivian embassy. We pick up our suitcases and catch a taxi to the embassy. The ambassador informs us that we must ask the foreign minister and the minister of the interior for an entry visa, and we must pay for the telex ourselves.
Back at the Savoy, I send two telexes—and another one to Rodolfo Greminger, reminding him that he had asked me to return to La Paz. Now we must wait—and hope. The press supports us: “The Bolivians protect Barbie by preventing his accusers from seeking justice.”
Around 5:00 p.m. the next day, I receive a phone call from the AFP press agency: the Bolivian minister of the interior has sent out a press release announcing that Colonel Banzer has personally granted us an entry visa; the Altmann dossier is currently being studied at the Foreign Ministry (and not the Ministry of the Interior anymore), and the legal authorities will make their verdict in due course. I take the telex from the AFP to the Bolivian consulate, where I am told that they have not received any such notification. The consul, Ricardo Rios, is a close friend of Barbie, and he grins as he gives me this news. I have barely made it back to the hotel when Rios calls me again: the consulate has just received our authorization.
On Thursday, at noon, we arrive in La Paz.
I worry about the effects of the altitude on Mrs. Halaunbrenner, but she seems to cope with it better than I do. A young man enters the airplane just after it lands and warns me that I will be repatriated immediately if I make any press statements. I try to get hold of Greminger, but apparently he has had his wrist slapped: “I am no longer involved in the Barbie case; you should talk to the vice–foreign minister, Mr. Tapia, instead.” I arrange a meeting with Mr. Tapia for Friday afternoon.
Everything seems to be in Barbie’s favor here. A government spokesman announces, “There is no need to extradite Klaus Altmann. President Banzer believes that he has sufficient evidence to consider the problem settled.” A few days before this, a renowned Bolivian lawyer (and Foreign Ministry adviser), Constancio Carrion, proclaimed, “Bolivia is an inviolable asylum. Even the worst crimes, in Bolivia, have a statute of limitations of eight years. So Altmann-Barbie’s crimes are ancient history.” Carrion is also one of the lawyers defending Barbie.
On Friday morning, we are invited to lunch at the city’s finest restaurant by the Los Angeles Times reporter. “When I interviewed Colonel Banzer on Wednesday,” he tells us, “I told him what a bad impression it would make internationally if he prevented two courageous women from entering Bolivia. That is why he changed his mind. He is very sensitive to American opinion; apparently, the CIA pays him seven dollars per day for each prisoner incarcerated for political reasons.”
That afternoon, we meet the vice–foreign minister, Jaime Tapia, and submit the new evidence to him. Mrs. Halaunbrenner tells him her family’s story; he warmly pats her shoulder and promises to do everything he can, but we know not to expect too much from the country’s legal system.
On Saturday, February 26, I make some discreet inquiries of journalists and discover that they have been told not to mention our presence in Bolivia. When I suggest that I hold a press conference, they are delighted, particularly when I bring up the idea of confronting Barbie’s victims with the filmed interview of “Altmann” produced by Ladislas de Hoyos.
On Monday morning, I phone all the journalists I know to invite them to a press conference at 11:00 a.m. I have to act quickly. At 10:15, half a dozen plainclothes policemen enter the hotel. Two of them approach me in the lobby and ask me to follow them. I ask if I can pick up a few things from my room, and two other policemen stand guard outside my door. Inside my hotel room, I call our Jewish friends so they will come and look after Mrs. Halaunbrenner, who is worried about this new incident. I also talk to Albert Brun and ask him to explain the situation to the journalists if I am not back by 11:00 a.m. Major Dito Vargas gives me a formal warning: if I give that press conference, I will be expelled immediately.
I return to the hotel in the police Jeep at 10:50 and, in a large conference room, we give a press briefing to about thirty journalists. The film is projected. I hand out the photographs and the dossiers prepared by Serge. I review the case. Mrs. Halaunbrenner speaks next, and the journalists are visibly moved by her story. Just as she finishes speaking, at 12:15, the policemen who had escorted me before come back in and take me away again. I am locked in a small, grimy office, and I wait there for nearly five hours. Then the head of the Policía Internacional, Hernau Arteaga, releases me with the strong suggestion that I should keep my mouth shut from now on: “This is your last warning. Next time, you’ll be arrested.”
The next day’s press is full of Barbie stories: not only reports of our press conference, but entire pages devoted to the extermination camps, revealing the dark truth concealed by Altmann-Barbie’s ordinary-looking face.
Bolivian people swarm around us, offering their consolations to Mrs. Halaunbrenner, assuring us of their support, demanding that Barbie be extradited.
Just after breakfast, two familiar faces appear. I stand up, resigned, and am taken once again to the local police station. I spend the day in the same office. I keep asking why they are holding me, but in vain. Finally, a detective, who speaks a little bit of French, becomes exasperated by my repeated questions and replies in the language of Descartes, “You piss us off, so we piss you off! That way, you get the hell out of here!” Now that I know where I stand, all I have to do is patiently wait until the end of the working day. When the employees go home, they set me free, just like they did the previous day.
In the meantime, the French ambassador has made an official request—at our prompting—for a confrontation between Barbie and Mrs. Halaunbrenner. Of course, Barbie refuses this request. So Mrs. Halaunbrenner brings a civil case against him for murdering four members of her family. The second lawyer we contact, Manuel Morales Davila, begins legal proceedings. We file Mrs. Halaunbrenner’s charges with a notary, and then he tells us his fee: seven thousand dollars. Realizing that this is a deliberate tactic to prevent us from taking the case to court, I declare to the press that “Bolivian justice is too expensive for us.” I remember hearing a prescient proverb in La Paz: “Beware Chilean women, Peruvian friends, and Bolivian justice.”
On Saturday, we have a day of relaxation at Lake Titicaca before we begin a public protest. I buy some chains and two padlocks in preparation.
On Monday morning, I make sure everything is in order with our passports and exit visas, then book two seats on the La Paz–Lima flight for later that day. Around noon, we wrap the chains around our waists and wrists. We have two signs in Spanish. Mrs. Halaunbrenner’s has a photograph of her family and words that translate as: BOLIVIANS, LISTEN! AS A MOTHER, I DEMAND JUSTICE. BARBIE-ALTMANN, THE MURDERER OF MY HUSBAND AND THREE CHILDREN, MUST BE TRIED FOR HIS CRIMES! The other sign reads: IN THE NAME OF THE MILLIONS OF VICTIMS OF NAZISM, EXTRADITE BARBIE-ALTMANN. We walk over to the offices of Transmaritima Boliviana, where Barbie works as a manager. The building is located on the Prado, the busiest road in La Paz. We chain ourselves to a bench, opposite the offices, and hold up our signs. A crowd gathers; traffic slows to a crawl. A traffic jam develops. No one here has seen a public protest since Banzer’s police state clamped down on freedom of speech after last year’s August putsch. The news is broadcast on the radio. A police Jeep arrives; its occupants read the words on the signs, and then it drives off again. At 4:00 p.m., a van stops near our bench, and plainclothes police get out and push through the crowd of spectators. They confiscate our signs and then run off. Some young Bolivians and an Israeli man passing through La Paz make new signs for us, and we continue as before.
A journalist hands me a microphone and asks me to explain the significance of the chains. “These are the chains that link the Bolivian regime to Nazism,” I reply.
It starts to rain. We have been sitting on our bench for six hours now, and we have been seen by most of the city’s population, as well as the diplomatic corps. An employee from the French embassy stops by to tell us, “What you’re doing is pointless.” But he is wrong: this protest will have a major positive impact. We have raised people’s awareness of the situation, laid the groundwork. The Banzer regime is far from stable; perhaps its successors will see this case differently after the work we have done here.
When evening comes, we catch our plane and spend twenty-four hours in Lima, which is pleasantly warm after La Paz. We go to the hairdresser because we both want to look good for the television cameras that will await us at Orly Airport.
We land in Paris on the afternoon of Thursday, March 9, after eighteen days in South America.