The Gestapo man was screaming at him again. But Luc could barely hear him. The most vile obscenities were being hurled at him, but rather than recoil, Luc felt an involuntary smile slowly spread across his bloodied face. How was it possible that he, of all people, was worthy of being cursed and beaten like his Savior? It made no sense, but it gave him a strange, unspeakable joy.
It was then that the heavy blows started raining down on him again, and before he realized what was happening, he had blacked out once more.
26
APRIL 19, 1943
AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU CONCENTRATION CAMP, POLAND
Colonel Klaus Von Strassen nodded, and the deed was done.
Upon seeing the “go” sign from Von Strassen, the prison guard pulled the lever, the trapdoor immediately opened, and another Jew twisted and writhed in the cold night air.
Von Strassen watched as the young boy—no more than fifteen or sixteen years old—kicked violently and strained at the ropes wound tightly about his hands until his eyes bulged and then rolled back in his head and the life drained out of him.
“What did this one do?” the guard on the platform asked as he cut the boy down.
“He was a Jew,” Von Strassen said, lighting up a cigarette. “Does it really matter?”
Just then, Von Strassen’s adjutant came running up to him and breathlessly announced he had a phone call in the operations center.
Von Strassen strode quickly down the street and ran up the stairs to his corner office on the third floor, where he took the call.
“Yes, this is he. . . . Yes. . . . What? . . . How is that possible? When? . . . How many? . . . You’re certain? . . . What time? . . . Yes, yes; I will inform him at once.”
Von Strassen told his young aide to stay close to the phone and to inform him of any updates. In the meantime, he was heading for the commandant’s office and would be right back.
“You mean his home?” the aide asked.
“No, his office.”
“Would he still be there?”
“You’re new, aren’t you?” Von Strassen asked.
The young man nodded.
“I suggest you learn not to ask stupid questions.”
Internally, Von Strassen was seething. He had no interest in helping to run a prison camp. He wanted to be on the front lines. He wanted to be leading a panzer division. He longed to have raced across the North African deserts with Field Marshal Rommel, the Desert Fox. He was desperate to get a forward command, but here he was, stuck in southern Poland, on the most godforsaken spit of land he could possibly imagine.
On the outside, however, he willed himself to maintain his composure and do the tasks set before him with such excellence that his worth to the Third Reich would not be overlooked much longer.
He headed back downstairs and across the courtyard. For now, he had to be content as the chief of security for the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp and its adjacent complex of forty-five subcamps.
Two minutes later, Von Strassen stood outside the commandant’s office and knocked sharply on the door.
“Ja—come,” came the irritated reply.
Von Strassen picked some lint from his uniform, slicked back his hair, arched his back, and took a deep breath. Then he opened the door, entered, and—standing erect—gave the Nazi salute and a hearty “Heil Hitler!”
Rudolf Hoess did not look up from the mountain of papers on his desk. It was late, and he looked weary and annoyed. Von Strassen knew the forty-two-year-old camp commander had no desire to be working by flickering candlelight on the insatiable requests coming from Berlin for more-detailed reports. Von Strassen had no doubt that Hoess certainly would have preferred to be around the corner, back home with his five sleeping children, in bed with his wife, Hedwig. But orders were orders, and Hoess prided himself on being loyal to der Führer above all. The fit, stern-looking Baden native with close-cropped black hair seemed driven to continue impressing his superiors as he had for the past several years since being personally directed by Heinrich Himmler to turn this old Polish army base into “the largest extermination center of all time.” Von Strassen, in turn, felt driven to help Hoess in every way he could, assuming that success for the camp commandant would undoubtedly redound in his favor.
“Heil Hitler,” came Hoess’s perfunctory reply. His attention was still riveted on the reports he was preparing. “Why the urgency, Colonel? Surely you have better things to do than bother me at such an hour.”
“I beg your pardon, Herr Commandant,” Von Strassen replied. “I would not interrupt you if it was not urgent, but I just spoke to Commander Asche in Brussels.”
“And?” Hoess continued signing forms and putting them in his out-box for his secretary to handle first thing in the morning.
“He has troubling news to report, I’m afraid.”
“Get to your point, Colonel,” Hoess ordered. “You’re trying my patience.”
“Yes, sir,” Von Strassen said and then delivered the disturbing news as succinctly as he could. “It would appear that train 801 was attacked by a small group of Resistance members not long after it left Boortmeerbeek.”
Hoess stopped writing and looked up. Von Strassen certainly had his attention now.
“Commander Asche says more than two hundred prisoners escaped,” the colonel continued.
“Two hundred, you say?” Hoess asked. “How is that possible? Wasn’t there any security on that train?”
“There was, Herr Commandant,” Von Strassen replied. “They returned fire. At least one of the Resistance members was killed. The rest fled into the woods. The police in the area are on full alert, as is the army. They are doing a massive search of the city. Roadblocks are up. Troops are covering every bridge and rail station. Local citizens are being notified that if they harbor any of the fugitives, they will be hanged. Commander Asche is confident all the escapees—and the criminals responsible, no doubt all Jewish vermin—will be caught and shot. The rest of the Jews, he said, are still on their way.”
“How many?”
“About 1,400, sir.”
Hoess glared at Von Strassen. “In ancient times, you would have been shot for such news,” the commandant fumed. He stood and began pacing his spacious office, its walls lined with bookshelves filled with volumes on history and military strategy that Von Strassen privately doubted Hoess had ever read. “You should thank der Führer that we run such an enlightened empire.”
“Yes, Herr Commandant,” said Von Strassen, undeterred, at full attention, his back ramrod straight, ready to do whatever Hoess requested.
The commandant of Auschwitz-Birkenau walked to the window. “When I began in the SS, there were no escapes, or nearly none,” he said in a melancholy, almost-wistful manner. “When I was the deputy at Dachau, escapes were exceedingly rare. And why was that?”
“I don’t know, Herr Commandant,” Von Strassen said. He was in no mood to play twenty questions with his superior.
“Because the head of security and the guards he commanded knew they would be severely punished if anyone got away,” Hoess explained. “When I ran Sachsenhausen, we cracked down even more. An escape was considered the most serious crime there was, and I treated it as such. I insisted that absolutely everything be done to prevent an escape, and I was merciless with those who refused to take this point seriously. That’s why I brought you in last year, Colonel. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoess now turned and faced Von Strassen. “You must close the gaps, or there will be hell to pay. You must improve the discipline of your men to always stay sharp and never let their guard down, even for a split second. You must also instill the fear of God into the prisoners so that they do not think even for one moment that an escape will be tolerated. And you know why, right? You know why we can never allow any of these prisoners to make it out alive, do you not?”
“Yes, sir,” Von Strassen said. “Absolutely, sir.”
Hoess locked his g
aze on his security chief and walked directly to him, stopping only inches from his face. “The world must never know the things we do here, Colonel. Never. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Herr Commandant. I shall do my best. You have my word.”
27
“Who are you?” someone asked.
It was still pitch-black. Jacob was still bracing himself against the cattle car door, trying to maintain his balance and process the magnitude of what had just happened, when someone called out in the darkness. It was the voice of an old man. He sounded scared.
Just then the train came out of the shadows and moonlight again filtered into the car. Jacob saw that the cattle car—which had been packed with as many as eighty or ninety people—was now only about half-full. Most of those who were left were sitting on their trunks or suitcases or on the floor, which was covered in hay. A putrid odor suddenly caught his attention, and he noticed a bucket in one corner, overflowing with feces.
He scanned the faces of the forty or so souls around him. Most appeared at least sixty or older. There was one family—a father, a trembling mother, and three small, pale, shell-shocked children, a boy and twin girls.
“Who are you, young man?” an older man’s voice asked again.
To his left, Jacob saw the man who was speaking to him. He was standing, leaning against one of the walls of the car, and looking straight into Jacob’s eyes. Jacob figured him to be in his seventies, at least. He was thin, of medium height, and wore rumpled slacks, a shirt, a gray cardigan sweater, and gold wire-rimmed glasses. He had a weathered but gentle face and kindly blue eyes, and he wore a dark-brown felt homburg that made him look a bit distinguished but also somewhat like the grandpa Jacob always wished he had known. Jacob tried to determine why the man was asking and how he should reply. His first instinct was to lie, but what good would that do him? These were not his enemies. Indeed, these might become his only friends.
“Jacob,” he said at last. “My name is Jacob.”
“Jacob what?” the man asked over the monotonous clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity-clack of the tracks rushing below them and the whistle of the wind whipping by outside and occasionally finding its way into the car.
“Weisz, sir—Jacob Weisz.”
“Are you Jewish?”
Jacob hesitated a moment but finally nodded.
“And you’re with the Resistance?”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence. Jacob looked around at all the faces staring at him. He wondered what they were all thinking, but in the shadows they were inscrutable.
“Well, Jacob Weisz, that was a brave thing you just did,” the old man said. “Brave, indeed.”
Several people nodded at that, but none of them relaxed. None of them smiled or grinned or even looked appreciative. Then again, why should they? They hadn’t escaped. Their friends and relatives and complete strangers had, and they were left behind.
“Are you of the Weisz family in Antwerp?” another man asked, this one off to his right.
“No, sir,” Jacob said. “I’m from Germany—Siegen, to be precise.”
“I would stop that,” the first old man said.
“What?”
“Precision.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t follow,” Jacob said.
“Stop answering questions with precision, young man,” the older man repeated. “It’s not going to help you where you’re going. In fact, I’d lose your name entirely. From this moment forward, you’re no longer Jacob Weisz.”
“Why not?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
Jacob said nothing.
“The SS has paperwork. They know the names of everyone on this train and everyone in this car. And there’s no Jacob Weisz on their list, is there?”
“No, sir.”
“Of course not, because you didn’t come with us. So if there’s no Jacob Weisz on their list, then that means you’re with the Resistance. And if you’re with the Resistance, that means they’re going to shoot you or hang you the second they figure that out. Do you understand where I’m going with this?”
Jacob nodded as the dreadful reality of what was happening began to sink in.
“My son was on this train,” the old man continued. “When you opened the door and told us all to flee, I pushed him out before he could say no. I pray to God that he got away safely. His name was Lenny . . .” The man began to choke up, his eyes filling with tears. “. . . Leonard Eliezer. He was about your age. And now that’s your name. I’ll be your father, and you’ll be my son, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll get through this thing together.”
Jacob was deeply moved by this unexpected act of kindness, and he thanked the man profusely.
But the old man was not finished. “Do you have papers?”
“Yes, of course,” Jacob said. “My wallet, my ID.”
“Dispose of them immediately.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Right now. You need to purge yourself of everything that ties you to your past.”
Jacob knew the man was right, but still he hesitated. In his wallet weren’t just wads of fifty-franc notes. His most precious possessions in the world were the pictures he had of his mother and father and Ruthie and his uncle. They were the only ones he had. How could he throw them away?
“Do you want to live or die, my son?” the man asked bluntly. “Keep it all, and you die. Get rid of it all, and who knows—you might die, but perhaps you will live.”
The people around him were clutching their most valuable possessions, their family heirlooms and keepsakes, all tucked away in their trunks and their bags. They didn’t have to part with theirs. How was it fair that he had to part with his? Yet what choice did he have? Nothing about this war was fair. Nothing about being Jewish was fair. The only question that counted was whether he wanted to live or not, and he did.
Jacob pulled out his wallet, kept the money he had on him, and tossed everything else out the slit at the top of the train door.
“Now the pliers,” the old man said.
Jacob reluctantly pushed them through a crack and watched them disappear.
“Now, come over here, and I’ll teach you everything you’ll need to know about being my son. First of all, my name is Marvin. Marvin Eliezer.”
With that, the man stuck out his hand. It was wrinkled and thin, but Jacob took it gratefully. He was surprised by the warmth and the strength of the man’s handshake and by the lump forming in his own throat.
“Mr. Eliezer, it is an honor to meet you,” Jacob said.
“Not Mr. Eliezer,” the man corrected. “From now on you call me Papa.”
28
For the next sixty-one hours, they rode in near silence.
Some hummed or sang quietly to themselves. Others talked in low whispers. Some recited their ritual prayers. But all Jacob could do was think about escaping the nightmare to come.
He remonstrated with himself for throwing away his wire cutters so quickly. In the end, Mr. Eliezer might turn out to be right, but Jacob berated himself for acting rashly. He hadn’t done what Avi and Maurice Tulek had taught him during their Resistance training. He hadn’t remained calm. He hadn’t carefully thought through every move and countermove and then taken decisive, considered action. Instead he had panicked, and it might cost him—cost all of them—dearly.
As they rode the nearly 1,300 kilometers from Brussels to the small Polish town of Oświęcim and the concentration camp known as Auschwitz, the people in the train car who had food with them graciously shared it with those who did not, Jacob among them. Their water supply, however, was used up quickly. Occasionally train 801 stopped and the cattle car door noisily slid open. One man was selected from among the prisoners and forced out of the car at gunpoint. Surrounded by SS guards with machine guns, the chosen man from each car was told he had three minutes to fill up a bucket with water.
During one stop, that man was Jacob.
The mome
nt he stepped out of the car and onto the train station platform, his first thought wasn’t water but escape. As he stood in line behind two dozen other men, he nervously eyed the guards and the growling German shepherds straining at their leashes. He calculated his odds of breaking free. But after only sixteen of the men ahead of him had had time to fill up their buckets from the tap, one of the men suddenly jumped from the platform. He bolted for a nearby field but was cut down in a hail of gunfire. As bad as that was, Jacob noticed the man was not yet dead. He writhed in agony until an officer walked over to him, pulled out a Luger, and shot him in the face.
At once, the SS guards on the platform began beating the men with wooden sticks to get them back in their cars. Not trying to protect a bucket filled with water, Jacob was able to shield himself from the worst of the blows and made it quickly back into his car. Then the door was slammed shut and locked behind him. The whistle shrieked twice, and Jacob had to apologize to all the dehydrated people in his car who had been expecting him to bring them water. But at least he was still alive, he told himself.
And now, cold and thirsty, Jacob felt the train begin moving again, out of Belgium, across Germany, and into the heart of darkness, and all the while the thought of escape slowly faded away.
29
“Has anyone gotten a letter?”
Jacob woke abruptly, realizing he had dozed off and must have been asleep for several hours. The question had been asked by a grossly overweight but pleasant-enough-sounding middle-aged woman.
“Did anyone receive a letter in recent months from friends or relatives who have been sent to a camp?”
At first no one answered the woman. The lack of responses, however, did not dissuade her.
“Listen,” she said. “I got this letter from my sister. She was sent to Auschwitz several months ago.”