WASHINGTON — For
half a century he lived in the United States, finally settling
at the end of a cul-de-sac in Panama City, a short drive
from the beach.
But one spring day in 2002, history
caught up with Michael Gorshkow. Federal authorities said
he was more than an aging Florida retiree:
He was a Nazi war criminal.
Gorshkow, 78 at the time, was accused
of participating in the murder of 3,000 Jewish residents
of a ghetto known as Slutsk in Belarus in February 1943.
It may surprise many to know there
are still Nazis hiding in the United States. But for the
past 30 years a little-known branch of the Justice Department
has been tracking them down, seeking to bring some of history's
most heinous criminals to justice before they die of natural
causes.
Walking into the Human Rights and
Special Prosecution division, one might expect to find high-tech
surveillance equipment and undercover agents getting ready
to go out into the field.
"There is this Hollywood
conception of how these cases originate. You know — a survivor recognizes her former tormentor on the street," Eli Rosenbaum of HRSP says.
But it's not secret agents or former
victims. It's historians who are exposing them.
They have combed through Nazi personnel
records and accumulated more than 70,000 names. From these
lists Justice Department attorneys have won cases against
107 individuals out of 137, with nine losses (in the remainder
of cases, the defendant died before the trial). They have
also prevented an additional 180 from entering the United
States.
Until recently HRSP, formerly known
as the Office of Special Investigations, was the only law
enforcement agency in the world to employ historians, according
to Rosenbaum. The national security division of U.S. Immigration
and Customs Enforcement now also employs historians.
• • •
HRSP has seven full-time historians,
along with 30 attorneys, who work on Nazi prosecutions and
contemporary human rights violations.
In the case of Gorshkow, an HRSP historian
looking through files in 2001 identified him as a person
of interest. His name was cross-checked with U.S. domestic
records and a match was found. Then came the hard part.
Even if HRSP could show that Gorshkow
was in the Minsk Gestapo and the unit committed war crimes,
it still had to prove that he participated. For this they
turned to a 1943 German detachment order listing Gorshkow
as an interpreter involved with the liquidation of a Slutsk
ghetto.
"There are two pits in
the resettlement area," reads the order. Rosenbaum flips to another page, which outlines how ammunition
would be transported to the pits, where two officers "will be responsible for the distribution of cartridges."
On a bitterly cold day in February
1943, the Minsk Gestapo traveled to the Slutsk ghetto to
carry out the gruesome orders, according to court documents.
Members of Gorshkow's unit loaded Jewish men, women and children
onto trucks and drove to a nearby forest, shot them and threw
them into the pits.
As residents saw more of their shivering
neighbors loaded onto trucks that came back empty, they began
to resist. Gorshkow's unit set the ghetto on fire and guarded
the exits. When the shooting stopped, around 3,000 people
were dead.
Nicholas Masseo lived next door to
Gorshkow in Panama City. He said Gorshkow spoke with surprising
frankness of his contempt for Jewish people. He recalled
giving him a ride one day.
"All he could talk about
was how bad the Jews were," Masseo said. "It was really upsetting."
Becky Palmer, another neighbor, said
she was shocked at first, because Gorshkow seemed to be very
nice, but there were troubling signs, like an exchange between
the old man and a German exchange student she hosted. When
the student dated a black man, Gorshkow approached, speaking
German. Palmer asked what he said, and the student replied, "Oh, he's just an old Nazi."
Rosenbaum says such behavior is not
typical. "Usually these guys keep a much lower profile."
• • •
In all of its war crimes cases, the
events occurred outside United States jurisdiction, so the
most that HRSP can do is compile evidence and extradite the
accused to a country where they can be prosecuted.
"It's frustrating, yes,
but on the other hand the alternative would be to do nothing," says Holocaust survivor Abe Foxman, director of the Anti-Defamation League. "Look how hard they had to fight Demjanjuk, who claimed to be an innocent lamb
and victim himself."
Foxman was referring to John Demjanjuk,
perhaps the most notorious case HRSP has pursued. The retired
Cleveland auto plant worker was originally accused of being "Ivan the Terrible," a sadistic guard at the Treblinka camp in Poland. Extradited to Israel in 1986,
he was tried and sentenced to death. But in 1993, the Israeli
Supreme Court overturned the conviction based on new evidence.
Demjanjuk returned to the United States.
Investigators delved deeper and concluded he was a guard
at other camps. He was extradited to Germany last year to
stand trial for complicity in the deaths of 27,900 inmates
at Sobibor in Poland.
"There is no question this
man was voluntarily involved with the Nazi final solution," said Rabbi Abraham Cooper of the Simon Wiesenthal Center. "He may not be 'Ivan the Terrible,' but the weight of the other evidence compiled
will convict him in German court," he predicted.
Meanwhile, Gorshkow is living freely
in Estonia. He fled the United States shortly after HRSP
filed to strip him of his citizenship. An Estonian embassy
official says he is still under investigation.
Gorshkow's attorney, reached by telephone,
had no comment.
"It's a joke," says
Efraim Zuroff, chief Nazi hunter at the Simon Wiesenthal
Center and a former contractor to the Office of Special Investigations. "He's been under investigation for five or six years, so what's the story? (Estonia
has) no political will to prosecute, let alone punish, Nazi
criminals."
The work has many frustrations, and "that's
one of them,'' Rosenbaum says. "You never really make peace with that idea."
Nevertheless, Zuroff praises the agency
for its diligence.
"The United States is the
only country which has consistently exhibited the political
will to ensure that as many Nazi criminals are brought to
justice as possible,'' he says.
• • •
As more and more Nazis begin to die
of old age (the youngest Nazi war criminal would most likely
be 83), Rosenbaum admits that "time is running out."
HRSP was formed by a merger of the
Office of Special Investigations and the Domestic Security
Section, and it addresses modern human rights violations
as well as Nazi atrocities. This year, for instance, a former
Guatemalan special forces soldier was arrested in Palm Beach
County and accused of participating in the massacre of a
Guatemalan village in 1982.
Rosenbaum remains committed to bringing
the last of the living Nazi war criminals to justice.
Just last month, a Pittsburgh-area
man was ordered to be extradited to Austria for his role
as a concentration camp guard.
Zuroff points out that for such monstrous
crimes, the age of the perpetrator is irrelevant.
"The passage of time in
no way diminishes the guilt of a killer," he says. "If it were in the '50s or '60s, no one would bat an eyelash.''
Asked what the threshold was for bringing
charges, Rosenbaum says HRSP doesn't focus on rank or position,
but on actions. A death camp guard could be culpable because
the sole purposes of the camp were terror, persecution and
genocide, and the guards helped keep it running.
Rosenbaum was director of the Office
of Special Investigations and is now director of human rights
enforcement strategy and policy for HRSP. He started as an
OSI intern in 1979.
He says a conversation with his father
while driving in a blizzard had a profound influence on him.
His father, who fled Germany in 1939 and served in the U.S.
Army, told his son he had been at the liberation of the Dachau
concentration camp in Germany.
Young Rosenbaum asked his father what
he had seen.
"I didn't hear any response … you
know we're both looking out at the snow on the road, so I
look over and his eyes are full of tears and his mouth is
open as though he were trying to respond but he couldn't
do it, he got all choked up," says Rosenbaum. "I never asked him again and he never told me. … I got his answer through his reaction."
For three decades, Rosenbaum has made
it his life's work to provide some measure of justice for
crimes so depraved they left his father speechless. Asked
what drives him, he says foremost is the gratitude expressed
by survivors. But the work serves the future as well as the
past, he says.
"It's of crucial importance
to the world," says Rosenbaum, "that people who would consider perpetrating such crimes understand that there's
a real chance that if they do, they'll be pursued for the
rest of their lives."
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