The long read
The last Nazi hunters
Since 1958, a small department of Germany’s government has
sought to bring members of the Third Reich to trial. A handful of prosecutors
are still tracking down Nazis, but the world’s biggest cold-case investigation
will soon be shut down. By Linda Kinstler
Thursday 31 August 2017 06.00 BST
The Central Office for the Investigation of National
Socialist Crimes is an austere, pale-yellow prison building nestled into the
18th-century city wall of Ludwigsburg in southwestern Germany. Once used by the
Nazis to detain political prisoners, the building announces its contemporary
tenants obliquely, with a small, silver sign. Entering the Central Office still
feels like entering a jail; to gain access, one must pass through a white metal
gate and then through a second secure doorway.
Since it was created by the West German government in 1958,
the Central Office’s mission has been to deliver Nazis to justice. Every year,
its six investigative “departments,” each of which consists of a single
prosecutor, scour the globe looking for members of the Third Reich. Chief
prosecutor Jens Rommel, who heads the operation, is a sturdy, jovial
44-year-old with frameless glasses and a triangular goatee. The German press
calls him a Nazi hunter, but Rommel doesn’t like the term. “A hunter is looking
for a trophy,” he told me. “He has a rifle in his hand. I’m a prosecutor
looking for murderers and I have criminal code in my hand.”
Rommel and his staff visit the sites of former concentration
camps across Germany and eastern Europe to sift through records and walk the
grounds to determine what defendants might have witnessed from their posts.
Over the past decade, the office, which has an annual budget of €1.2m, has also
conducted more than 20 trips to archives in South America. The investigators
spend most days under an avalanche of bureaucratic documents, checking and
cross-checking names on German, Russian, British, French and Polish lists –
everything from SS papers documenting quotidian affairs such as the issuing of
new uniforms and marriage requests, to Allied inventories of prisoners of war.
Their goal is to find the last living Nazis who have yet to be indicted and
might still be able to stand trial.
When I visited Ludwigsburg in May, Rommel was preparing for
a trip to Moscow, where he would search an archive for names of perpetrators
from the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, which the Nazis operated near Berlin
from 1936 to 1945. Another Central Office prosecutor, Manuela Zeller, was
sorting through records from Auschwitz and Ravensbrück, looking for anyone
whose name hadn’t been checked by her predecessors. Her colleague Michael Otte
was doing the same for the Buchenwald and Stutthof concentration camps. Another
colleague was about to travel to Mauthausen, in Austria, where at least 95,000
people were murdered during the war.
“This is a giant cold-case operation,” Devin Pendas, a
historian of Nazi prosecutions at Boston College, said of the Central Office.
“It’s looking at crimes that happened a long time ago, with only the sketchiest
information about who the perpetrators might be.” Rommel, a former criminal
prosecutor, approaches the work the same way he used to investigate homicide
cases, treating the archives at his disposal as live crime scenes. “There are
crimes behind these words, but there’s no blood here,” he said.
Central Office prosecutors unearth the names of about 30
living perpetrators per year. Their cases are then handed over to regional
prosecutors, who usually spend another year conducting follow-up investigations
and deciding whether to take the individuals to court. Since the start of the
21st century, this work has led to six prosecutions, but in the media, every
case has been called “the last Nazi trial”, as if writers, editors and readers
all hope the label will finally prove to be true.
Today, the youngest suspects are 90 years old, and most were
low-level Nazi functionaries: guards, cooks, medics, telephone operators and
the like. The defendants tend to die during the lengthy judicial process, so
the odds of conviction are miniscule. Partly as a result, few Germans know the
Central Office exists, and many of those who do tend to view it with
ambivalence. “It is hard for people to see what exactly the point is of putting
a 90-year-old in jail,” Pendas said. Others view the office with reverence,
awed by what it has managed to achieve despite considerable odds.
Throughout its history, the condition of the Central Office
has been one important measure of Germany’s evolving relationship to its Nazi
past. After its founding in 1958, it enjoyed 10 years of robust activity before
receding from public view, amid widespread opposition to further investigations
of German war crimes. Now, every day that passes – separating the present from
the atrocities in question – further imperils the Central Office’s cause.
In Rommel’s corner office, on the second floor of the old
prison, 16 small flags, one for each German state, stand atop a wooden bureau.
“My bosses,” he said. The 16 regional ministers of justice will soon determine
when Rommel’s investigative operation will shut down, ending this global effort
to bring Nazi perpetrators to justice. One regional minister told the press
that 2025 is a possible deadline for the Central Office to complete its
investigations – “‘deadline’ being almost literal,” Rommel told me. Others view
that as an optimistic estimate, predicting that the end of the Central Office
is much nearer.
The question of whether Nazi trials should continue in spite
of the increasingly unrealistic odds of success – whether the work of the
Central Office remains essential, or if it needlessly litigates crimes that
belong to the past – lingers over the Ludwigsburg headquarters. “How much does
Germany need to do to render justice on its own prior crimes?” Pendas said.
“And how long does it need to make those kinds of efforts?” These questions
have haunted Germany since the war’s end, but have gained renewed currency with
the rise of rightwing populist movements such as Alternative for Germany, which
may become the third-largest party in the German parliament after the country’s
upcoming September election, though the party’s support has declined in recent
months. Earlier this year, an AfD politician called for Germany to stop atoning
for its Nazi crimes.
Yet the very fact of the Central Office’s continued
existence is a testament to the gravity and extent of Nazi crimes, a reminder
of just how much is threatened by the rise of reactionary nationalism both in
Germany and abroad. In the US, parallel institutions are under threat of
closure. The Trump administration has plans to close the State Department’s
modest Office of Global Criminal Justice, which is tasked with supporting
international prosecutions for perpetrators of war crimes, crimes against
humanity, and genocide; its director, Todd F Buchwald, has already been
reassigned. As his predecessor, Stephen J Rapp, told the New York Times earlier
this year, “The promise of ‘never again’ has proven hard to keep.”
Behind a vault door in the basement of Ludwigsburg’s old
prison building lies the Central Office’s “treasure,” as Rommel calls it. In
row upon row of beige file cabinets, an ever-expanding archive of 1.7m yellow
and green index cards records the names of massacres, battles, concentration
camps, victims, witnesses and perpetrators. It is the world’s most
comprehensive repository of Nazi crimes and postwar attempts to bring the
regime to justice. Anyone who has ever testified or even been mentioned during
a Nazi trial has a card, filed in alphabetical order. But the record is not yet
complete, and part of the Central Office’s job is to fill in the blanks. “Every
day, we add new cards, we change cards,” Rommel said.
Only one copy of the Ludwigsburg archive exists, stored in
microfilm at an undisclosed location. Protecting the index is paramount to
ensuring war crimes can be tried, and that nothing is forgotten or undocumented
– a relatively new undertaking in the history of warfare. For centuries, most
peace treaties sought to obliterate the memory of war, a practice stretching
back to the 1648 Treaty of Westphalia, which called for “perpetua oblivio et
amnestia”, or “perpetual oblivion and amnesty” on both sides. It was only after
the 1919 Treaty of Versailles assigned guilt to Germany for igniting the first
world war, and demanded the arrest and trial of German officials, that the
promise of oblivio et amnestia was abandoned.
Versailles laid the groundwork for the prosecution of war
criminals after the second world war, an effort that was well underway even
before the Nazis surrendered to allied forces in Reims, France, on 7 May 1945.
At the time of his death, a week before the surrender, Adolf Hitler was under
indictment by the UN War Crimes Commission, whose members produced hundreds of
files documenting his crimes. The commission, which was established in 1943 to
investigate offences by the axis powers, also supported indictments against
36,000 German and Japanese personnel, of whom at least 10,000 were convicted in
roughly 2,000 trials over the next five years.
These efforts were not universally applauded. Some
international participants felt the year-long Nuremberg trials, which
culminated in 1946, were a “shocking waste of time”, in the words of Sir Norman
Birkett, a British judge who served at the trials. In Germany, the press portrayed
the hearings as an attempt to humiliate the country. “If you want to understand
why the Central Office was created in the first place, you can see this as a
counter-project against Nuremberg,” says Annette Weinke, a historian of
post-war prosecutions. “We wanted to take the past into our own hands.”
Between 1945 and 1949, West German courts issued 4,600
convictions for Nazi crimes, but after the creation of the Federal Republic in
1949, a desire for amnesty and oblivion prevailed on both sides of the
Atlantic. The UN War Crimes Commission was shuttered and its records sealed, an
erasure propelled by the cold war and a rising tide of pro-Nazi sentiment in
the US and Germany. As Communists became the greater enemy, the public turned
away from reckoning with the Holocaust. Many of the Nazis convicted in the
trials that followed Nuremberg were released in the 1950s, when a series of
amnesty laws passed by the newly minted West German parliament reinstated the
pensions of Nazi soldiers and paroled 20,000 Nazis previously jailed for “deeds
against life”. According to the German historian Norbert Frei, nearly 800,000
people benefited from amnesty laws. By the end of the decade, thousands of
Nazis had been freed from German prisons and rehabilitated, taking up
comfortable posts in the judiciary, police and state administration.
At the same time, however, new trials were gradually opening
up the public’s eyes to the enormity of the crimes that had been committed,
particularly in eastern Europe. In 1958, during what is now known as the Ulm
trial, 10 former policemen from the same mobile killing unit were tried as
accessories in the murder of more than 5,000 Lithuanian Jews. Ulm was the first
major Nazi trial to take place under West German law, and it exploded “like a
bomb” on the German psyche, says Hans-Christian Jasch, director of the memorial
site and museum at Wannsee House, where the Nazi leadership discussed the
“final solution to the Jewish question” in 1942. Süddeutsche Zeitung, the
largest German daily newspaper, carried an opinion piece headlined “Noch sind
die Mörder unter uns” (“Murderers are still among us”), calling for more
trials. Eager to counter East German propaganda that claimed his government was
crawling with former Nazis, chancellor Konrad Adenauer created the Central
Office, which was to focus solely on bringing Nazis to justice.
The first index cards were logged at the Central Office when
it opened in December 1958. Yet, in truth, the office was never really meant to
revise the West German policy of amnesty and reintegration. Its function was
intended to be largely symbolic – a kind of alibi for a West German state that
wanted to appear as if it were pursuing postwar justice without actually
indicting the former Nazis who were once again part of the country’s
establishment. As such, the Central Office was denied the ability to prosecute
criminals itself. Its work was also hampered by the fact that German law
contained no special provision for war crimes, and by a statute of limitations
that made certain crimes nearly impossible to prosecute after 1960.
Central Office prosecutor Manuela Zeller.
Central Office prosecutor Manuela Zeller. Photograph: Peter
Bauza for the Guardian
When it became known that the office was delivering a spate
of names to regional prosecutors, the West German leadership, and the public,
was nonplussed. The Central Office’s work was “done against domestic opinion
rather than going with it,” Pendas said. Its staffers contributed evidence to
the Frankfurt Auschwitz trials, which lasted from 1963 to 1965 and attracted
unprecedented coverage in the domestic and international press, but were a
“matter of indifference, if not open hostility, for much of the German public,”
Pendas has written. When they concluded, pollsters asked the German public
whether further Nazi trials should be held. Fifty-seven percent said no.
In 1969, the German high court dealt a blow to the Central
Office, when it overturned the conviction of an Auschwitz dentist and former SS
member on the grounds that working at the concentration camp was not a crime in
itself. As a result, prosecutors were forced to drop an investigation into the
Reich Security Main Office, the primary organisation responsible for
implementing Hitler’s policy of mass murder. It was a “perpetrator-friendly
approach,” Weinke said. “In a way, they were exonerating these crimes.” It also
cast the Holocaust, legally and in the public imagination, as a sequence of
ordinary murders, replacing the narrative of systematic, state-sponsored
genocide with one of individually motivated killings.
After 1969, the work of the Central Office stalled, its
prosecutors reduced to chasing the few former Nazi officials whose murderous
acts had been recorded on paper. Even though a series of public debates in the
1960s and 70s led to the elimination of the statute of limitations for murder,
thousands of men and women who served as cogs in the machine of genocide – as
concentration camp guards, doctors, police, administrators and even radio
operators – were never forced to reckon publicly with their culpability. For
the next four decades, the Central Office largely receded from public view, and
many forgot it existed entirely. Then, starting in 2007, a series of landmark
cases changed everything.
In January 2007, Mounir el Motassadeq was sentenced by a
German court to 15 years in prison. While studying in Hamburg, Motassadeq, a
Moroccan national, had wired money to the 9/11 hijacker Marwan al-Shehhi. He
was convicted of 246 counts of being an accessory to murder, one for every
passenger aboard the four flights that were hijacked that day. The decision had
momentous implications for prosecuting Nazis. If Motassadeq could be guilty of
helping commit murder, so too could people like John Demjanjuk, a former guard
at the Sobibor extermination camp in Poland. Thomas Walther, a lawyer who was
working with the Central Office at the time, came up with a strategy to use the
same logic to challenge the precedent set in 1969.
Walther’s revelation came just in time for the 50th
anniversary of the establishment of the Central Office, which was teetering on
the brink of irrelevance, as victims, witnesses and perpetrators began to die
of old age. Pursuing Demjanjuk helped justify the office’s continued existence,
and Kurt Schrimm, the head of the Central Office at the time, used the case and
the anniversary to try to recast the office as a success of the postwar West
German government.
Die Zeit called the Demjanjuk trial a “premiere”, because it
promised to be the first of many attempts to hold former Nazis accountable for
serving in death camps, and the process was avidly covered in the international
and domestic media. In 2011, 91-year-old Demjanjuk was convicted of 28,060
counts of accessory to murder – the number of people slaughtered at Sobibor
during the four months he served there in 1943 – but the case was still under
appeal when Demjanjuk died in a Bavarian nursing home a year later, still a
free man. (In Germany, a conviction does not legally hold if an appeal is
pending.)
In 2013, a year after Demjanjuk’s death, the Central Office
prepared the “Auschwitz list”, consisting of 30 living former Auschwitz
personnel who could be immediately tried according to the logic of the
Motassadeq ruling. Of these, only five cases made it to court. (The others
died, or were deemed unfit to stand trial.) Ernst Tremmel, a former Auschwitz
guard, died in 2016, days before he was due to make his first court appearance
for 1,000 counts of accessory to murder. His fellow former guard, 95-year-old
Reinhold Hanning, was convicted in June 2016 of facilitating more than 170,000
murders, but died on 30 May of this year, days before Germany’s highest court
was expected to deny his final appeal. One trial, that of the 96-year-old
former Auschwitz medic Hubert Zafke, is still ongoing, but the proceedings have
been so poorly handled that the head judge has become the first jurist in
history to be dismissed from an Auschwitz trial because of accusations of bias.
Rommel arrived somewhat reluctantly at the Central Office in
2015, in the midst of these cases. He was leaving a comfortable position as a
public prosecutor in his hometown of Ravensburg, a stone’s throw from the Alps,
where he liked to ski on weekends. But the allure of approaching the past not
as history, but as crime, swayed Rommel to take the Central Office helm (that,
and the fact that the age of the average defendant meant the job would hardly
last for ever). According to Rommel, the government also wanted someone
relatively young to head the organisation, “to avoid the impression that they
were terminating the work”.
In 2016, Rommel sent 30 cases to prosecutors. That same
year, Oskar Groening became the first person on the Auschwitz list to be
successfully convicted using the precedent set by the Motassadeq case. The long
story of Groening’s belated sentencing captured something of the agonising
history of trying to bring Nazis to justice. Groening’s name was on the final
1948 UN War Crimes Commission list of Polish indictments concerning Auschwitz.
But after the commission was dissolved, none of the allied powers provided the
Central Office with a copy of the 36,000 indictments the commission processed.
(It received a digital copy sometime in the 1980s.)
For the rest of the 20th century, Groening’s guilt was not
widely known. Then, in 2005, the former “bookkeeper of Auschwitz” agreed to be
interviewed by Der Spiegel. Groening spoke at length about how he sorted
through Jewish inmates’ belongings, confiscated their money, and heard their
screams emanating from gas chambers. “I would describe my role as a ‘small cog
in the gears’,” he said. “If you can describe that as guilt, then I am guilty,
but not voluntarily. Legally speaking, I am innocent.”
At the time, the Central Office passed along the article to
local prosecutors, but neither law enforcement nor the courts were ready to
take on what appeared to be an improbable, and perhaps unpopular, battle. After
Motassadeq, however, sentencing Groening seemed not just possible, but prudent.
The final judgment against Groening bought the Central
Office a bit more time. Without Groening’s conviction, “our work would have
stopped,” Rommel said. Instead, the threshold for guilt had been substantially
lowered, and 70 years after the crimes in question, it was once again possible
to hold cogs accountable. Groening was 20 when he joined the SS; he is now 96,
and in August, prosecutors in Hanover, his home region, deemed him fit to serve
his four-year-prison sentence.
In March, I followed Manuela Zeller and Michael Otte, the
Central Office prosecutors, to Buenos Aires, where they were trying to complete
a database of Nazis who escaped to Argentina after the war. They went with
little hope of finding living suspects – no indictments have come out of more
than 20 expeditions to archives in Brazil, Peru, Chile, Argentina and Paraguay.
A few years ago, they identified a former concentration camp doctor who fled to
Peru, but it turned out he was already dead. Given the dismal track record,
Zeller and Otte’s trip was primed to be the organisation’s final mission to
South America, the culmination of more than a decade of scouring the continent.
“The point of the work is not always to put someone in front
of a judge, but also being able to close an archive and say, ‘OK, now we
know,’” Otte, a trim, bald prosecutor, explained to me over dinner in Buenos
Aires’s antique San Telmo district. “It’s for future generations to know what
happened.” The record will never be complete, nor will the Central Office get
the chance to check archives in every country where Nazis are known to have
fled. “We tried to get into Paraguay, but they said: ‘We have no Nazis here,’”
he told me.
The apparent fruitlessness of the Central Office’s
expeditions has not escaped scrutiny in the German press. Before Rommel took
over in 2015, Die Welt, a conservative broadsheet, ran an article criticising
the organisation’s expenditures, under the headline “German Nazi Hunters on
Holiday in South America?” It was accompanied by a stock photograph of
beachgoers in Rio de Janeiro.
Another common refrain among detractors is that the Central
Office’s work could have been completed decades ago. “What I started doing in
2008, they could have done 30 years before,” said Thomas Walther, the lawyer
who pressed the Central Office to take up the Demjanjuk case. Law is open to
constant reinterpretation and revision; someone could have challenged the high
bar for Nazi prosecutions long before the Motassadeq verdict, but,
astonishingly, no one thought of it, or dared to try. If they had, it might
still have been possible to find and try living offenders around the world;
these days, it’s almost certainly impossible.
Although the promise of prosecution has been virtually
extinguished, naming every as-yet-unknown name is not futile. Rommel is all too
aware of the belatedness of his efforts, and the fact that time is running out.
But he is also driven by a sense of finality – the knowledge that if the
Central Office does not complete its inventory of Nazi perpetrators, no one
will. Collecting the evidence is physically strenuous, mentally exhausting
work, but it is perhaps the only thing, short of a trial, that can approximate
justice. “Even if we don’t get a lot of perpetrators now, it’s important both
for the survivors and their relatives, and for German society as well,” he told
me in Ludwigsburg. “I think that’s why all of my colleagues are here, to try to
do what’s possible today.”
Two days after our dinner in Buenos Aires, I found Otte and
Zeller in an old dormitory on the top floor of the Hotel de Inmigrantes, a
sprawling, spare complex that opened in 1911 to accommodate thousands of
immigrants arriving from the Old World, and now also serves as a museum. The
dormitory had been converted into an archive and working immigration office,
its walls lined with 20th-century ship ledgers from around the world. Displayed
on one side of the room were European ship manifests from between 1939 and 1968
– a record of every individual who arrived at the port seeking asylum,
opportunity and, all too often, a place to hide.
Hugo Mouján, the museum’s press manager, laid out Adolf
Eichmann’s landing record. The logistical mind behind the Holocaust had arrived
at the Hotel de Inmigrantes in 1950, under the alias of Ricardo Klement. One
year prior, the Auschwitz physician Josef Mengele, who performed deadly
experiments on prisoners, had also passed through the hotel’s doors. Mouján
laid out Mengele’s landing record, browned and frayed, documenting his arrival
under the alias Helmut Gregor. The success of the Central Office’s current
expedition relied on a single, simple assumption: unlike high-ranking Nazi
officials such as Eichmann and Mengele, lower-ranking SS members did not expect
to be held accountable for their sins, so they did not bother concealing their
identities upon arriving in South America.
Zeller and Otte spent the next two weeks poring over
passenger lists from between 1959 and 1962, recording the names of every German
who could have served the Nazi regime and who could still be alive. Zeller, a
former Bavarian judge who has a short black bob and triple ear piercings, had
made herself a cheat sheet. The men and women she was looking for must have
been born between 1918 and 1931 (14 is the German threshold for criminal
culpability, and the Central Office will not open cases against anyone over
99), which means they would have been between 28 and 44 years old upon arriving
in Buenos Aires between 1959 and 1962. Every time she and Otte came across a German
name that fit those parameters, they wrote it down on a plain piece of A4
printer paper, noting the individual’s nationality, age and hometown.
Standing under a crucifix at the doorway to the archive,
arms folded, Zeller reflected on the prevailing public criticism of the Central
Office. “They say: ‘Why now, when we have only the little ones, and the others
have never been charged?’ But I think that’s no reason to let them all go
untouched.”
By the end of their trip, Otte and Zeller had collected more
than 1,000 names of potential perpetrators. It will take about 12 months for
the Central Office staff to cross-check them against the names in the basement
archive. If a name from Buenos Aires happens to match that of an SS officer,
Otte will open an investigation. But even if some suspects are alive today,
they may not be a year from now.
On their last work night in Buenos Aires, Otte and Zeller
seemed at peace with the limited nature of their mission. They said knowing
that they’re probably the last ones to do their work – the clean-up crew for
one of history’s darkest episodes – makes the job a little easier to bear; the
march of time lends it renewed urgency, the impending conclusion endows it with
heightened integrity.
“It’s all maybe for nothing – we know that,” Zeller said.
“The point now is to say we’ve left nothing out.”
In an 18th-century gatehouse next to the old prison building
in Ludwigsburg, a replica of the office of one of Rommel’s earliest
predecessors is visible beneath a transparent floor. The exhibit conveys the
slow, analogue nature of the postwar pursuit of justice. Stacks of files line
the walls; the desk is littered with books, paper and stamps; a binder lies
open to a page full of portraits of notable Nazi officers. Leather belts hang
from pegs on the wall, ready to be used in binding thousands of pages of
evidence. Today, boxes rather than belts are used to store files from the few
cases that see the inside of a courtroom. Their slow accumulation has begun to
transform the former prison into a labyrinthine memorial to the victims of the
Holocaust.
Despite its imperfect mandate and modest findings, the
Central Office provides a model for the expiation of national wrongs, acting as
a precedent for countries that might be compelled to re-evaluate the past not
as history, but as crime. A research institute and federal archive already
share the building with Rommel and his team; when it becomes impossible to
justify opening any further cases, they will likely subsume the investigative wing.
“Criminal justice will hand the baton over to history,” says Lawrence Douglas,
a professor of law and jurisprudence at Amherst College.
For the first time, the past will be past, the crime scene
will be closed, and Germany’s effort to convict its own criminals will come to
an end. Other nations, reckoning with their own wrongdoings, have been far
hastier to arrive at this point. As Dan Plesch, author of a new history on the
UN War Crimes Commission, put it, “Right now, you see a German chancellor and public
who are ironically more alive to the dangers, more willing to share the past,
than some of the countries that fought them.”
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Rommel and his staff are keenly aware that some in Germany
would like to see the Central Office’s closure expedited, including those who
think the office’s efforts to prosecute Nazi telephone and radio operators,
guards, chefs and medics strain the limits of propriety. The ambivalence with
which much of the public views their trials is understandable, Plesch said,
“until it becomes the thin end of the wedge for Holocaust denial, which it very
often does, and very quickly”. In 2015, when the refugee crisis ignited a wave
of xenophobic hate crimes against asylum seekers in Germany, the Central Office
received emails and letters from Nazi sympathisers protesting its work.
For now, though, there’s still so much left to be done:
“There are still documents which haven’t been put together, there are still
matches that can be found,” Hans-Christian Jasch told me after a recent
fact-finding trip to Auschwitz. For Rommel, continuing to scour the world for
new evidence is “a question of personal guilt and responsibility”, he said. “A
lot of my compatriots have preferred to look into the future instead of into
the dark past.”
Main image: the Hotel de Inmigrantes museum and archive in
Buenos Aires, Argentina, photographed by Peter Bauza for the Guardian
Support for this article was provided by a grant from the
Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.
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