Instinctively Jacob felt for the thin leather strap around his neck, at the end of which dangled the brass key that could open the box. It was still there, still safe. It was not the only key they had. Luc had one as well, wrapped around his left ankle, hidden by a sock and a boot. If something happened to one of them, whoever had the backpack could break away from the other and never look back, knowing he could open the strongbox to the right people at the right time.
Jacob put his hand on the box and felt the coolness of the steel. Then he patted it and kept digging.
A moment later, he fished out Abby’s package. When he held it in his hands, he stared at it for a while, hardly believing it was real, wanting to simply savor this curious moment. How could he have imagined when he had first arrived at the death camp that someone would give him a gift? How could he have imagined that that someone would be a girl who had such a profound effect on him? Was it only because he hadn’t really met any other girls in the camp? Jacob didn’t think so. There was something about Abby that was special.
He had not anticipated receiving a gift from her. It was an unexpected act of kindness in a place that engendered very few. And yet as he reflected on the horror of his time behind the barbed wire, he couldn’t help but be struck by how many small yet significant acts of kindness he had experienced. He had done nothing to deserve any expressions of kindness or favor from Leszek or from Max. He certainly hadn’t done anything to merit them from Josef or Steinberger or Frenkel, much less Abby. Or Luc, for that matter. Why had they all been so kind? Why had they chosen him and helped him to escape? It was almost as though someone were looking out for him, as though someone were watching his back and leading him out.
The package was wrapped in brown paper and bound with a string that Abby had tied in a little bow. On the front, in the top right-hand corner, she had written his alias, Leonard J. Eliezer. Her handwriting was lovely, but it was strange to see the name written out.
He smiled at the middle initial, J. It was Abby’s way of winking at him, of using his real name, Jacob, without risking getting caught for it, and he adored her all the more for this little act of remembrance. His name was important to him. Yet the Nazis had tried to strip him of it. To the officials in the camp, he wasn’t even a name. He was known only by the number on his arm, 202502. It had all been part of the Nazis’ process of dehumanization. He wasn’t a person, just a head of cattle. He didn’t have a soul, just a number.
Jacob cocked his head and listened intently for no less than a full minute. When he sensed no one in the barn below or near enough to the barn to potentially overhear him or accidentally stumble upon him and Luc, he decided to proceed. Carefully removing the string, he set it aside, then slowly unwrapped the package and set aside the paper. In his hands now lay a cardboard box, similar to the kind a new pair of shoes might come in, though maybe half that size. Again he paused and listened for anything that could suggest he was in danger, but there was still no evidence of anyone close by.
With his heart pounding, he removed the top of the box.
Inside, Jacob saw not just one gift but two, each the size of a small book. Both were wrapped in white tissue paper. He was terrified by the prospect that removing the tissue might be overheard by someone walking past. But then he remonstrated with himself. It was one thing to be cautious; it was another thing to be paranoid. He had come this far and survived. He had to be willing to trust his judgment. So he unwrapped the first gift and was stunned by what he found.
In his hands now lay a small copy of the book of Psalms. It was a beautiful edition with a brown leather cover that was well-worn but still bore the faintest evidence of a Star of David on the front that looked as if it had once been embossed with gold leaf. He stroked the leather in his hands, and it felt wonderful. He closed his eyes and smelled the leather. The fragrance was heavenly. He opened the book and turned through the pages to a random spot in the middle, and a verse caught his eye. He read it to himself, mouthing the words but making no sound.
I will not die, but live, and tell of the works of the Lord.
He flipped back a few pages, toward the front, and another passage seemed to jump out at him.
I waited patiently for the Lord; and He inclined to me and heard my cry. He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay, and He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm.
Jacob realized his hands were trembling. He was not a religious man. He was not from a religious family. He had never owned his own copy of the Torah or the Tanakh. He had never read the Scriptures, except a brief passage during his bar mitzvah that he couldn’t even remember any longer. Nor could he remember his parents ever reading from the Psalms or any other portion of the Scriptures, except on Passover, and only briefly at that. He couldn’t even remember ever wanting to read such things. But now as he held this copy of the book of Psalms in his gaunt, bony fingers, knowing the last person to have touched this book was Abby Cohen, he was surprised at how moved he felt. Turning to the front of the book, curious to see where it had been printed and when, he came upon a brief inscription, written in Abby’s distinctly feminine penmanship.
May this book be a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path, a very present help to you in times of trouble. Oh, how I would love it if you would read a psalm every morning when you wake up. And not just to yourself—read it aloud. And when you do, would you say a prayer for me, and for all of us here, until you come back to set us free?
Love, Abby
(P.S.—My favorite is Psalm 23. When I see you again, please tell me yours!)
Jacob felt a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed hard and glanced over at Luc, relieved that he was still fast asleep. Then he flipped through the pages until he came upon the Twenty-Third Psalm, which he noted was described as a psalm of David.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. . . . He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.
He was struck by the beauty of the words. He had never read them before. He didn’t recall ever even hearing them before. But they captivated him in a way that surprised him. Why? he wondered.
He read the entire psalm again and then a third time. What was it that touched him? He wasn’t sure. He felt a range of conflicting thoughts and emotions he couldn’t quite sift through and categorize at the moment. But one question did echo in his heart. Who was this “shepherd” David knew so intimately?
Uncomfortable with the question, Jacob shifted gears.
He set down the book of Psalms and turned to the other gift in the box. Again he carefully removed the tissue paper, and again he was stunned by what he found.
This gift, too, was from the Bible, but not the Jewish Bible. It was not a book of Psalms. It was, instead, a small German New Testament.
Suddenly all of Jacob’s warm feelings toward Abby evaporated like the morning dew under the heat of the sun. He felt a surge of anger like he had not experienced in quite some time. A New Testament? The book of the Christians? How could Abby have possibly thought he would want or appreciate such a thing? His deeply offended heart raced as a wave of powerful emotions came rushing over him.
Luc shifted in his sleep, startling Jacob. He did not awaken, however, and when he had settled and it was quiet once more, a thought came to Jacob that embarrassed him with its simplicity and its obviousness. The second gift wasn’t for him. Abby had sent it for Luc.
He quickly opened the leather-bound book and, sure enough, found an inscription on the inside cover, written again in Abby’s now-unmistakable style.
To Luc—
Thank you for your kindness and all the ways you helped me in the brief time I knew you. I had no idea how to thank you properly, but perhaps this Bible will comfort you on your journey. I know you cherish your faith, and I can see it has made you different. I have just one request. Would you read a passage from your Bible to your companion each d
ay you’re together and let him read to you some of his? And when you do, would you both say a prayer for me, and for all of us here, until you come back to set us free?
Gratefully, Abigail Cohen
As Abby’s words entered Jacob’s head and heart, all the anger and bitterness he had just felt drained away. She wasn’t trying to provoke him. To the contrary, she had simply sought to show some kindness to Luc. Everything suddenly made sense again, and the relief he felt was palpable. Abby was a good soul. The very thought made him miss her all the more.
Looking across to the facing page, Jacob saw another inscription, one not in Abby’s hand.
To Yens, on the occasion of your tenth birthday.
May you remember the words of Jesus all the days of your life, dear Son. “If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free” (John 8:31-32). Go with God.
Love, Papa and Mama
May 9, 1904
Jacob had no idea who Yens was. Clearly he was no longer a child; he was a full-grown man and evidently a Christian who for some reason had wound up in Auschwitz. Judging by the date of the inscription, he had recently turned fifty—that is, if he was still alive. Was he? Jacob wondered. It wasn’t easy for men that age to endure the hardships of the camps. Indeed, it was very likely that he was dead. But either way, for whatever reason he had been condemned to Auschwitz, this man apparently had clung to his faith strongly enough to have brought his childhood Bible with him.
Jacob mulled this as he flipped through the pages of the New Testament, as well-worn as those of the book of Psalms, if not more so. He was quickly struck by how many verses were underlined in pencil and how many notes were in the margins. Whoever this Yens was, he had obviously cherished this book dearly and studied it extensively. It must have been stripped from him upon arrival at Auschwitz, Jacob realized, as everything else of value was taken and cataloged and categorized and stored in the giant warehouse of the Canada command.
How hard it must have been to part with something so precious to him. Yet the very thought led to a separate question: why in the world would a Gentile—a Christian—wind up in Auschwitz? It made no sense. And yet here was Luc, too. Jacob had never imagined meeting a Christian in a concentration camp. But he had, and apparently there were others.
84
“I’m not going to ask you again, Miss Cohen.”
What little patience Colonel Von Strassen possessed was quickly fading.
“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Abby replied. “I keep telling you, they were Bibles, just Bibles—a book of Psalms for Leonard and a New Testament for Luc. I didn’t give them any maps. I didn’t give them any contacts outside the camp. I don’t have any contacts like that. I have no idea where they were going. Yes, I knew they were going to escape. And yes, I was happy for them, and a little scared. But I wasn’t involved in the planning.”
“You just keep saying the same thing over and over again,” Von Strassen fumed.
“Because it’s the truth.”
“Because it’s a lie! Because you’ve got your cover story, and you’re sticking to it. But that’s only because you think there aren’t consequences. How long have you been here in Auschwitz, Miss Cohen? Do you really believe you can lie to der Führer and his representatives with impunity?”
Von Strassen motioned with his right hand, and Fat Louie opened the cell door. Two guards now dragged in the battered body of Josef Starwolski and dumped it in front of her. Abby gasped and looked away, but Von Strassen grabbed her head from behind and forcibly turned it toward the man lying in a heap before them.
Josef was still breathing.
Von Strassen nodded again, and one of the guards pulled Josef’s head up so she could see his battered, bloodied, disfigured face.
“Last chance, Miss Cohen,” Von Strassen said, whispering in her ear like a lover.
Abby began to cry. “I don’t know what else to say,” she said, unable to wipe away the tears streaming down her cheeks because of the chains on her hands. “I’ve told you the truth. Please . . .”
Von Strassen circled her twice more like a shark preparing to attack. Then he pulled out his Luger and pressed it to Josef’s right temple. “You have five seconds, Miss Cohen. Tell me where your friends are going. Tell me who their contacts are. Tell me the truth, or I’m going to shoot your friend—your accomplice—and blow his brains out, right before your eyes. And then I’m going to bring in each nurse who works in the clinic and shoot them before you, and then each doctor and then everyone in the Canada command, until you tell me what I want to hear.”
“Don’t do it,” Josef said in a barely audible voice. “Not for me. God will judge them. All of them.”
“One . . .”
Abby broke down sobbing. “I can’t,” she cried. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“Two . . .”
“Please, stop,” she begged.
“Three . . .”
She pleaded with Von Strassen to have mercy. “Don’t punish Josef, please. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I can’t help you. I—”
“Four . . .”
And with that, Abby Cohen did a one-eighty. “Okay, okay!” she cried. “Leszek. They are going to link up with Leszek.”
“No!” Josef cried.
“Where?” Von Strassen demanded, lowering the pistol. “Where are they meeting?”
“Płońsk,” she said.
“Near Warsaw?”
“Yes, yes, there is a farmhouse there, not far from the old monastery. I don’t know the road. But that’s where they’re going. Leszek is running a cell group of the Resistance movement from there. They’re gathering weapons to come here, to try to take this place. But please, Josef doesn’t know anything about it. Please, let him go.”
“You had better be telling me the truth, Miss Cohen,” Von Strassen said.
“I am,” she insisted. “Now, please, don’t hurt Josef anymore. Let him go. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“We will know the truth soon enough,” Von Strassen replied. “I will radio the Gestapo in Warsaw and have them investigate. And if you’re lying, you will hang in front of the entire camp. Do you understand me?”
Abby was sobbing uncontrollably now, but she nodded.
“Good,” Von Strassen said. “Now, just to be sure there are no misunderstandings . . .”
He raised the Luger again, pressed it against Josef’s head, and pulled the trigger anyway.
85
Night fell, finally.
One by one the lights in the farmhouse went out. It was time to get moving again. Jacob gently woke Luc up around eleven o’clock. He gave his friend the last bit of bread they had with them, stale and hardened though it was. Luc protested, indicating that Jacob should really eat it, but Jacob would not take no for an answer. Luc finally ended his protest, expressed his thanks to Jacob, and hungrily devoured the few dry morsels.
When they were convinced the coast was clear, the two men slipped out of the barn and began running through fields. Unfortunately, it was a full moon, making it more possible for them to be seen. Yet they knew they could not stay still. They had to keep moving toward the Slovakian border and maintain a rigorous pace.
They would not be safe even there, they knew. The Nazis fully occupied all of Central Europe. But Steinberger and Frenkel had been clear that they must not stay in southern Poland a minute more than necessary. The Nazi presence was too strong, and the chances of their being discovered and rearrested were far too high.
They were desperate to find more food, but there were not many options. The farm they had just come from was a dairy farm, but there were acres upon acres of cornstalks stretching out as far as the eye could see. The problem was that it was June, and the corn would not be ready to eat until August, at the earliest. So they kept running. Eventually they passed through a potato farm and scooped up a handful of potatoes they hoped they could b
oil and eat very soon.
In terms of water, they were in much better shape. When they came, as expected, to the Soła River, they stopped for a few minutes to plunge their heads in the chilly waters and to soothe their parched tongues. When they had drunk their fill, topped off their canteens, and washed the sweat and stench off their arms and chests, they continued on their way.
They followed the river southward, upstream. They had learned from Steinberger and Frenkel that the Soła’s origin was about ninety kilometers away, somewhere in the mountain range known as the Beskids, near the border. Under ideal conditions, they could have hugged the riverbank and let it guide them south toward Žilina. The problem was that there were towns and villages nestled along those banks, places where soldiers and policemen and ordinary townsfolk could spot them. And even when there were long stretches of unpopulated territory, there were still boats making their way up and down the river, some for pleasure and some carrying various types of cargo from town to town. So Jacob and Luc knew they needed to keep some distance between themselves and the gently flowing current while still using it as a road map and a source of water.
Given Luc’s weakened condition, they were not moving as fast as Jacob would have liked, but it couldn’t be helped. And so, as they settled on a manageable pace through the darkened forests, they actually began talking to each other for the first time since their escape.
Uncharacteristically, Jacob initiated the conversation. He began by giving Luc the New Testament from Abby and apologizing for opening it, saying he hadn’t realized the gift was for Luc and not for him. Luc wasn’t bothered in the slightest. To the contrary, he said he was touched by Abby’s thoughtfulness.
“Luc, can I ask you a question?” Jacob said as they emerged from a forest and began to hike up the side of a large grassy hill.
“Of course,” Luc replied, winded and weak but somehow hanging in there.