CLEVELAND - Convicted of Nazi war crimes, in failing health
at age 91 and lacking a country to call home, John Demjanjuk
lives in a world with few allies, save for the fellow Ukrainians
who are determined to help a man many of them say was a
victim.
Supporters of Demjanjuk — who lived for years in suburban Cleveland and worked
in an auto plant before accusations arose that he hid his
past as a Nazi death camp guard — have spoken out against
his conviction, nudged Ukraine to help, promised to lobby
Congress and hope to see his U.S. citizenship restored.
"If there's any way that
we can help him get his citizenship reinstated, we will do
anything that we possibly can," said Tamara Olexy, president of the Ukrainian Congress Committee of America,
an umbrella group of Ukrainian-American organizations.
"He should be with his
family," she said. "Our heart goes out to him and his family being separate. It's terrible."
His son, John Demjanjuk Jr., said
such support has been important.
"My father is and has always been very grateful for the support of the Ukrainian
community here and abroad," he told The Associated Press in an email. "Indeed, if it were not for the unwavering support of the Ukrainian community
seeking fairness and justice, Israel would most likely have
executed an innocent man years ago."
Demjanjuk was convicted in Munich on May 12 of 28,060 counts of accessory to
murder as a guard at the Sobibor death camp. He was sentenced
to five years in prison but was released to await an appeal
that could take years. He's since been living in a nursing
home on the German dime.
Pending the appeal, one of Demjanjuk's
few options appears to be fighting to regain his U.S. citizenship
based on a 1985 FBI document, uncovered in April by the AP,
calling into question the authenticity of a Nazi ID card
used against the Ukraine native at his trial.
The German trial and U.S. citizenship issue are separate, and the federal judge
in Cleveland who might handle the citizenship matter has
said Demjanjuk must serve his sentence in Germany.
Olexy said her organization will lobby Congress on Demjanjuk's behalf, possibly
for help regaining his citizenship, and urged Ukraine to
help him with a May 18 statement calling his trial a case
of selective prosecution that left him stateless.
No immediate help seems forthcoming
from Demjanjuk's Ukrainian homeland. One official's comments
are open to interpretation.
"Ukraine as a state that
suffered huge human losses in World War II of course cannot
remain indifferent to the case of Ivan Demjanjuk," said Hanna Herman, deputy chief of staff to Ukrainian President Viktor Yanukovych,
using the Ukrainian version of Demjanjuk's first name.
Demjanjuk lost his U.S. citizenship
twice before, the first time after the Justice Department
alleged in 1977 that he hid his past as a Nazi death camp
guard known as "Ivan the Terrible." He ultimately was convicted in Israel and sentenced to die, but the case was
overturned.
Demjanjuk has always maintained he
was a victim of the Nazis — first wounded as a Soviet soldier
and then captured and held as a prisoner of war.
Frustration among Demjanjuk's backers
is partly fueled by a common feeling in the Ukrainian community
that their native land was oppressed in succession by Stalin,
Hitler and then the Soviets.
"Ukraine was ravaged by
the Second World War," said Askold Lozynskyj, former president of the Ukrainian World Congress. "Russia wrote our history, so as a result, we've been scapegoats for a lot."
From his vantage point after decades
of legal proceedings, Demjanjuk must know any resolution
is years away. The Ukrainian community has been a steadfast
source of moral support and financial help, but considering
his age and multiple health problems, interest in helping
him this time around is somewhat tempered.
Since the conviction in Germany, neither
Demjanjuk nor his family has asked for help from the Ukrainian
community, Lozynskyj said.
With Demjanjuk ensconced in the nursing
home, Lozynskyj said, it's not clear how much help he really
needs.
Demjanjuk's stateless status is a
rarity. Some detainees at the U.S. naval base at Guantanamo
Bay, Cuba, have been described as stateless, and modern-day
pirates have operated as stateless individuals, marauding
the high seas outside national borders.
Immigration attorneys in the U.S.
said it was doubtful that Demjanjuk would be allowed back
in the country unless he regains his citizenship.
An American judge has suggested that
a public defender recently appointed in Cleveland to represent
Demjanjuk's interests could revive his U.S. denaturalization
case using the FBI report that challenged the authenticity
of the ID card that was trial evidence.
The file indicated the FBI believed
the card, purportedly showing that Demjanjuk served as a
death camp guard, was a Soviet-made fake.
Dr. Efraim Zuroff, the chief Nazi
hunter of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, said it was disturbing
to hear about support for Demjanjuk.
"I think this is a very
upsetting phenomenon because the Ukrainian community has
consistently supported Demjanjuk even though there was serious
evidence from the very beginning that he was a participant
in the Final Solution," he said.
Reaction was mixed in the Ukrainian
community in Munich. Some pointed out that higher-ranking
Germans have been acquitted.
"He was a victim himself
and had to react in this way, because he needed to survive," said Rosalia Pankiewicz, a 64-year-old of Ukrainian heritage.
Minutes from Demjanjuk's neat ranch-style
home in Seven Hills, Ohio, his ordeal hasn't been a big topic
in Parma's Ukrainian Village, a quaint neighbourhood of ethnic
shops, cathedrals and Ukrainian gathering spots, according
to butcher George Salo.
Among his Ukrainian-American friends
and customers, Salo said there's a sense that the decades-long
saga "is what it is," with little to be done on Demjanuk's behalf.
"The guy is 91," Salo
said, noting that Germany was the architect of the Holocaust
and continues to allow former Nazis to live there: "They're having a double standard."
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