Message Received, John Demjanjuk

Last Friday morning, I picked up the three newspapers in our driveway and found the face of one man dominating the front pages.

I spread the papers across the kitchen counter and stared at the images of the all-too-familiar face. I was searching for clues, I suppose, looking for even the slightest indication that perhaps John Demjanjuk has finally surrendered.

Here in Cleveland, we all know this man — or we don't, depending on whom you ask. After all these years, who he is remains a matter of opinion, and no amount of facts leading to the horrific crimes attached to his name will dissuade those who believe he is innocent.

His face, however, we all know only too well. On this, we can agree.

In Friday's Wall Street Journal, he looked to be staring straight ahead. On the cover of The Plain Dealer, the paper of his adopted hometown, his face was shown in three-quarter profile, his eyes cast downward. The New York Times photo captured him looking straight at the camera, grim and defiant.

All three photos were taken in the same short window of time, after Demjanjuk rolled in a wheelchair out of the Munich courtroom and into the gathering of photographers. He had just been convicted — again. This time, it was as an accessory in the murder of more than 28,000 people, most of them Jews, during his time as a Nazi death camp guard in 1943.

For many, he is defined by his past. He is the former prison guard, the former Ohio autoworker, the former U.S. citizen.

For others, particularly those who love him, it is who he is now that matters. He is a husband, a father and a grandfather — falsely accused or rightfully convicted — and very old.

To Clevelanders, he is the man whose name never needs the phonetic assist provided in national coverage: dem-YAHN-yek.

Yes. We could say his name in our sleep. In our nightmares, too.

For three decades, Cleveland has played an unwilling role in the serpentine narrative of Demjanjuk's life.

This is where he ended up, in a nearby suburb, after he emigrated to the U.S. with his wife and the first of his three children.

This is where his life began to unravel in 1978, after death camp survivors identified the native Ukrainian as "Ivan the Terrible."

This is where he returned in 1992 after the Israeli Supreme Court overturned his conviction, where he was living when he lost his U.S. citizenship in 2002, where he was wheeled out of his home in 2009 by federal authorities and sent to Germany to stand trial.

This is where he is finally gone.

Reporters covering last week's daylong proceeding in the German courtroom described Demjanjuk as nearly motionless, lying in a bed near the judge's bench, occasionally moving a leg or arm but showing no reaction. Most of his face was hidden behind a ball cap and dark glasses.

He reportedly showed no reaction, even as the judge read aloud the horrific details when thousands of innocent adults and children were murdered under Demjanjuk's supervision. He barely moved. His arrogance is breathtaking.

Demjanjuk was sentenced to five years in prison — and released while he files an appeal. In determining the length of the sentence, the judge took into consideration Demjanjuk's advanced age and showed mercy.

Can we just consider that for a moment?

For years, Demjanjuk's family and lawyers have insisted that he is frail, that his health was in constant peril from the relentless stress of false accusations, deportations and lengthy trials.

And yet, he just recently turned 91. He has outlived those 28,000 victims by more than half a century. His stamina is confounding.

We believers are not supposed to question God, but I long to ask the question.

For all his supposed frailty, and Demjanjuk's machinations to remain cloaked from public view, the convicted murdered engaged in a bit of theater as he left the courtroom last week.

Times reporters Jack Ewing and Alan Cowell described him pausing briefly for the cameras, "saying nothing but removing the dark glasses he had worn throughout the proceedings." The photos show that he also removed his cap.

For a few moments, John Demjanjuk just sat there and stared, stone-faced.

Message received.

There will be no apology from John Demjanjuk.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and an essayist for Parade magazine. To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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