Why Javier Milei is unlocking Argentina’s secret Nazi files

In a fleeting moment of levity in the Oscar-nominated film "The Holdovers," a character snaps, “I thought all the Nazis ran away to Argentina.” The line drew roars of laughter in Buenos Aires theaters last year, a dark nod to a chapter of history that Argentines can now afford to laugh at—however uneasily. But beneath the humor lies a grim truth: after World War II, Argentina became a sanctuary for thousands of Nazi war criminals, a past the country has long struggled to confront. Now, President Javier Milei is poised to peel back the shroud on this murky legacy, granting access to long-classified files that could illuminate how figures like Adolf Eichmann and Josef Mengele slipped into South America undetected.

Argentina’s role as a haven for Nazis—estimates range from 5,000 to as many as 12,000—has been an open secret, yet successive governments have shied away from full accountability. Milei, a libertarian firebrand who took office in December 2023, appears intent on changing that. The files, tied to the so-called “ratlines” that spirited Nazis out of Europe, promise to shed light on a network that involved Catholic Church officials, foreign governments, and, controversially, Argentina’s own leadership under Juan Perón.

The scale of this exodus is staggering. Eichmann, a chief orchestrator of the Holocaust, arrived in Buenos Aires on July 14, 1950, aboard a ferry from Genoa, traveling under a false identity with papers facilitated by Alois Hudal, an Austrian bishop in Rome sympathetic to the Nazi cause. Hudal’s 1948 letter to Perón, uncovered by an Italian researcher, begged for 5,000 visas for German and Austrian “soldiers”—a thinly veiled plea for war criminals. Mengele, the Auschwitz physician infamous for his grotesque experiments, followed a similar path, eventually dying in Brazil in 1979 after years in Argentina and Paraguay. These men were among the most notorious, but they were not alone; hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lesser-known Nazis found refuge in Argentina’s vast landscapes.

For decades, Argentina’s relationship with this history has been fraught. During the 1940s, as the country ramped up beef exports to the United States and Britain, it maintained diplomatic ties with Nazi Germany, rankling Allied powers. After the war, Perón’s government—ruling from 1946 to 1955—allegedly welcomed Nazis with open arms. Uki Goni’s 2003 book, The Real Odessa, dropped a bombshell, alleging that Perón’s administration issued entry permits to some 300 war criminals, a claim bolstered by declassified documents and eyewitness accounts. The Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Los Angeles-based organization dedicated to Holocaust remembrance, has pressed for records from Argentine agencies and the Catholic Church ever since, only to hit bureaucratic walls—until now.

Milei’s move comes with a swiftness that has stunned observers. Rabbi Abraham Cooper, a senior figure at the Wiesenthal Center, told The Times of Israel that while past Argentine leaders offered vague assurances, Milei acted “with lightning speed” after their February 18 meeting at the Casa Rosada, the presidential palace. The files, which detail the financing and logistics of the ratlines, could expose a web of complicity stretching from Buenos Aires to the Vatican and beyond. Historians hope they might reveal how Hudal and others collaborated with Peronist officials, and whether foreign governments turned a blind eye as Nazis fled justice.

What drives Milei to take this step? At 54, he has positioned himself as an outsider bent on dismantling Argentina’s entrenched political order, including the legacy of Peronism, which he despises. A self-described “anarcho-capitalist,” Milei has railed against the statist policies of Perón and his successors, blaming them for Argentina’s economic woes and moral drift. Releasing these files could serve as a political cudgel, amplifying scrutiny of Perón’s role in sheltering Nazis and further tarnishing the movement that still holds sway in Argentine politics. Posts on X suggest some of Milei’s supporters see this as a chance to “eliminate” Peronism’s influence altogether, though such outcomes remain speculative.

There’s also a geopolitical angle. Milei has forged a close bond with Israel, calling it a “natural ally” and expressing admiration for the Jewish people, who number about 200,000 in Argentina—the largest Jewish community in Latin America. Last week, he declared two days of national mourning after Hamas returned the bodies of two Israeli-Argentine hostages, Shiri Bibas and her sons, killed in captivity. His decision to open the Nazi files aligns with this stance, earning praise from Jewish groups like the Wiesenthal Center, which hailed it as “unequivocal allyship.” Jonathan Missner, a center official, told The Times of Israel that Milei’s actions signal a commitment to transparency and justice, both at home and abroad.

Yet the practical impact remains uncertain. Nearly eight decades after the war, the architects of the ratlines are almost certainly dead, leaving little chance for legal reckoning. Eichmann’s fate offers a rare exception: tracked by Wiesenthal after a 1953 tip in Buenos Aires, he was abducted by Mossad agents in 1960, tried in Jerusalem, and hanged in 1962. Most escapees, like Mengele, evaded such justice. The real value of Milei’s gambit may lie in the historical record—offering a fuller accounting of how Argentina became a postwar refuge for the Third Reich’s remnants.

For Argentines, the release of these files stirs a complex brew of emotions. The laughter at “The Holdovers” betrays a nation that has learned to cope with its past through dark humor, but the wounds linger. Milei’s decision, unveiled on the cusp of a funeral for the Bibas family tomorrow, lands at a moment of national mourning and reflection. As the country buries a mother and her children—victims of a different terror—it may find in these dusty archives a chance to face an older shame, one that "Hatikvah," Israel’s anthem of hope, still echoes against: a resolve to endure, to remember, and to seek truth, even when it hurts.

The Spectator contributed to this article.