Von Strassen cursed, but only under his breath. “I am in your debt, Commander,” he replied. “Please thank your men for their hard work for der Führer. And I thank you for your call. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you in the future.”
Von Strassen hung up the phone and lit a cigarette, as angry as he had ever been.
Abigail Cohen had lied to him, and she was going to pay.
– – –
Jacob sprinted back through the forest, heading for the shack.
He had not eaten a bite of the food he had stolen. He had to get back before the sun came up, and he had to start feeding Luc as quickly as possible.
As he ran, trying desperately not to stumble in the darkness, he found himself overcome with anxiety that Luc might not live through the night. They were very different people, and they believed very different things. But Jacob knew he would have died inside Auschwitz if Luc had not shown him mercy again and again. What if Luc hadn’t given him more soup in his bowl each night? What if he hadn’t pulled him out of the elements to work in the bakery? What if he hadn’t given him additional scraps of bread so often, without anyone else seeing? What if Luc hadn’t been around to help prepare for this escape? Luc had never been acting on his own, of course. He’d had others helping him and watching his back. But the truth was he had proven himself a loyal and faithful friend, and Jacob was determined to nurse him back to health.
Finally he burst through the door of the shack. He found Luc curled up in a fetal position, barely conscious. Jacob quickly gave him some sips of water and two aspirin. Luc tried to swallow them but gagged, and they did not go down. A few minutes later, Jacob tried to give him a few small pieces of bread. Luc was almost too tired to chew and nearly too sick to swallow. Finally he choked it down, but not without an immense struggle, and Jacob realized this was going to take far longer than he’d thought.
If he couldn’t take food, Luc had no hope of regaining his strength. If he didn’t regain his strength, he wouldn’t be able to run. If they didn’t run, they would be caught and killed. And not just them. The lives of so many hung in the balance.
Discouraged, Jacob slumped down on the floor in the corner and bit into an apple he had taken from the pillowcase. Then, for the first time in his life, he got on his knees and said a prayer. Not a written, memorized prayer. Not any he had learned in the synagogue back in Siegen. But a conversational prayer. A prayer like the ones Luc always prayed. In this case, it was simple and direct. Jacob didn’t have any fancy words or ornate verbiage.
He just pleaded with God to spare Luc’s life.
92
Von Strassen was on his feet.
He buttoned his uniform and put on his hat and leather gloves and was about to march over to the detention cell where Abigail Cohen was being held.
But just as he was leaving the office, the phone rang.
His secretary, like the rest of the security chief’s staff, looked haggard and was chain-smoking like there was no tomorrow. She had been up most of the night, and the work was far from over. But she took the call, listened for a moment, and then quickly flagged his attention before he could slip away. “Colonel, you have another phone call. I think you’re going to want this one.”
Von Strassen stopped in his tracks and muttered to himself. Then he turned and headed back into his office. He didn’t acknowledge his secretary, much less thank her. He simply brushed past and asked the time. It was now just after six in the morning.
“Colonel Von Strassen?” asked the voice on the other end of the line when he picked up.
“Speaking.”
“I am sorry to bother you so early in the morning, sir.”
“To whom am I speaking?” Von Strassen demanded.
The man on the line explained that he was the chief of the local Polizei in a little town about five kilometers south of the Auschwitz-Birkenau camps. “I have a konstabler here who took an odd call last night,” the man continued.
“How so?” Von Strassen asked.
“He was called to a farm by a resident,” the police chief said. “He found evidence of at least one man, but probably two, who apparently were hiding out in the loft of the family’s barn.”
Von Strassen’s attention was immediately piqued. “What kind of evidence?”
The police chief described the footprints, the bloody sock, the brown paper wrapping, and the dried drops of blood.
Von Strassen felt a rush of adrenaline. It was minimal evidence at best, but he knew instantly that Abigail Cohen had lied to him in more ways than one. Jacob Weisz and Jean-Luc Leclerc hadn’t gone north to Warsaw. They were heading south. Where and to whom, he did not know. But he would find out, and he would hunt these men down if it was the last thing he did.
“Keep the evidence and the crime scene secure,” Von Strassen ordered. “My men and I are coming to you.”
He told the secretary to contact his deputy and order a half-dozen armed soldiers to meet him in the motor pool in fifteen minutes. He would deal with the traitor Cohen later. Right now he had a lead, and he was going to pursue it with all that he had. There were rumors that Heinrich Himmler, the Reich’s interior minister, would soon be visiting Auschwitz, and Von Strassen did not want to be caught empty-handed.
If Himmler was coming, Von Strassen wanted to give him a gift, and two recaptured, terrified prisoners seemed as good a gift as any.
– – –
Jacob slept for a few hours.
When he awoke, he woke Luc up too and helped him take a few more sips of water. Then he unsuccessfully tried to get Luc to eat some apple slices. He offered him some grapes and finally a few small pieces of bread, but Luc simply closed his eyes and drifted back off to sleep.
It was growing clearer that solid food was not going to suffice. Jacob thought maybe some vegetable soup would be helpful, and if not the vegetables themselves, then perhaps some hot broth. They had brought a small metal pot. They had matches and salt, just as they had been instructed. They had a Swiss Army knife to cut up vegetables, and now they had a handful of potatoes, carrots, and onions. They had plenty of water. It was the makings of a feast.
But Jacob was nervous about preparing a fire, even a small one. What if someone saw the smoke rising through the forest? It was a risk he could not afford.
Rather than make a fire in the daytime, when the smoke would be so obvious, he decided to wait until nightfall. He could make a small fire with twigs and leaves and put it out as soon as the soup was done. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight anyway. Until he helped Luc regain his strength, they were going to have to hole up in this shack and pray that no one saw or heard them.
In the meantime, Jacob munched on the bread and the fruit, savoring every morsel, and then he lay down and went back to sleep.
– – –
Von Strassen stepped out of his car and surveyed the farm.
He greeted the local police chief and told him he had no interest in meeting the family or the constable who had performed the initial investigation. His staff would interrogate them. All he wanted was to see the loft for himself.
“Take me there now,” Von Strassen said, and the chief did as he was told.
The two men and Von Strassen’s deputy entered the barn. But only Von Strassen and the deputy climbed the ladder, flashlights in hand. They crouched down and examined the evidence. All of it had been carefully preserved, as Von Strassen had ordered. Nothing had been disturbed or removed. The footprints were still there. So were the sock, the brown paper wrapping, and the rest.
“Clearly someone’s been up here recently,” the deputy said. “But it’s not much to go on.”
Von Strassen pulled out a pen and poked at the sock and then the wrapping paper but said nothing.
“Could’ve been anyone,” the deputy added. “Certainly can’t say who. Might be our guys. Might not be. Who’s to say?”
But Von Strassen shook his head. “It’s them,” he said.
 
; “Weisz and Leclerc?” the deputy asked.
Von Strassen nodded.
“How can you be sure?”
“See for yourself,” Von Strassen said, pointing to the upper corner of the wrapping paper.
The deputy leaned in with his flashlight and immediately saw what his boss had seen—a single name written in a woman’s handwriting: Leonard J. Eliezer.
– – –
Jacob finally awoke in the early evening.
He helped Luc take some more water, then drank some for himself and stepped outside. The summer sun was beginning to set, and the shadows in the forest were growing longer.
Neither seeing nor hearing evidence of anyone nearby, he went right to work. He gathered stones and created a small fire pit. Then he collected twigs and leaves and dry bark and even a few small, dead branches. After waiting another hour until it was completely dark, he lit a match and made the fire.
It didn’t take long to boil the water. It had been a long time since he had cooked anything, and he found it almost fun slicing the vegetables and dropping them into the water one by one. He used a stick to stir the soup. He was sparing with the salt at first, not wanting to overdo it, but soon he had seasoned it perfectly, and he couldn’t believe how good it tasted.
When he was finished, he kicked dirt on the fire and stomped on it until he was certain it was completely out. Then he took the small pot into the shack and sat down next to Luc.
“Hey, psst, sleepyhead.”
Luc slowly opened his sullen, bloodshot eyes.
“Guess what? I made us some soup.”
Luc’s lips were chapped and blistered, but his eyes and mouth formed a slight smile, and Jacob proceeded to lift his head and help him take a spoonful of broth.
“Not bad,” Luc whispered. “Who knew you could cook?”
Jacob smiled and gave him another spoonful, then regaled him with tales of cooking all manner of dishes for his parents and his uncle back in Siegen as he continued to feed him the warm, tasty broth.
When Luc had enough—not that much, really, but as much as his system could bear for now—Jacob hungrily wolfed down the rest. Rarely had something so simple tasted so good.
Luc quickly drifted back off to sleep, but Jacob wasn’t tired. Achy? Yes, especially his back. Battling painful blisters on his feet? Absolutely. In desperate need of a hot shower? Without question. But Jacob was not tired. He had slept most of the day. He was young. He finally had real food in his system. And he was filled with anxieties. There was no way he was going to sleep tonight.
The fact was, he should be running. They both should be. Instead they were committing cardinal sins—everything Steinberger and Frenkel had warned them not to do. They had not effectively lived off the land. They had not made sure to have enough food every day. They had let themselves get too weak to continue. Jacob had entered a Polish village, running the risk of being spotted. What’s more, he had actually broken into a private home and stolen food. He had tried to cover his tracks. He hoped the family wouldn’t notice the missing items when they returned. But what if they did? What if they called the local constable? The amount of food he had taken and the effort he had expended to make it look inconspicuous would be giveaways. If common criminals had broken in, they would have taken valuables. Not potatoes. Not apples. Any half-competent investigator would know a fugitive was in the area. And if there was one, there could be two.
On top of all this, he and Luc were now staying in the same place two nights in a row. This was a fundamental error. Von Strassen and his men were cruel and soulless, but they were not idiots. They would not give up. Nor would they be allowed to. Not after three successive escape attempts in such a short time. Von Strassen was coming after them—that much was certain. And he had all the resources he needed to hunt them down and trap them like animals. What if a report from a local constable got back to him that a pair of fugitives might be lurking in the area? How long would it take to flood this area with soldiers and policemen and dogs? True, he and Luc were holed up a good hour away from the house he had broken into. They were in the mountains, far from civilization. Maybe Von Strassen wouldn’t think to extend the search zone quite that far.
But what if he did?
Racked by fear, unable to sleep, and with a whole night ahead, Jacob had to find something to do. He wished he had stolen a good book from the house. Actually, any book would suffice. He had already gone so far as to take food for the body. Why not a little food for the mind?
Then Jacob remembered that he already had a book with him. Two, in fact. So he propped himself up against one wall of the shack, pulled from the backpack the book of Psalms that Abby had given him, and began to devour it as hungrily as he had devoured the soup.
93
The next day a major summer storm descended upon them.
Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. Fierce winds howled through the forest, and against his will, Jacob had to remain hunkered in the shack. They were beginning to run low on provisions again, but there was nothing to be done. He certainly could not go out in this nightmare. Then again, Luc wasn’t eating much anyway. He was sleeping almost around the clock, and Jacob didn’t know what to do for him.
Still, one element had become a daily ritual. Each morning Jacob would read aloud another psalm to Luc, keeping his commitment to Abby. And each morning Jacob would also read a chapter from the Gospel of John, since Luc hadn’t the energy to read aloud himself.
The truth was, reading from the New Testament was somewhat uncomfortable for Jacob. But he reminded himself he was doing it for Abby’s sake. Yet Jacob also did it because it was becoming clear that the words of Jesus seemed to comfort and console Luc in a way that nothing else did.
This particular morning’s first reading was Psalm 10.
Why do You stand afar off, O Lord?
Why do You hide Yourself in times of trouble? . . .
Arise, O Lord; O God, lift up Your hand.
Do not forget the afflicted. . . .
Break the arm of the wicked and the evildoer,
Seek out his wickedness until You find none. . . .
O Lord, You have heard the desire of the humble;
You will strengthen their heart, You will incline Your ear
To vindicate the orphan and the oppressed,
So that man who is of the earth will no longer cause terror.
Then Jacob picked up the New Testament and read John chapter 10, in which Jesus described himself as the “good shepherd.” Reading it, Jacob thought of the Twenty-Third Psalm—Abby’s favorite—the first full psalm he had read upon opening her gift.
When Jacob was finished, Luc motioned for him to come closer, and Jacob did.
“That’s my favorite verse in the Bible,” Luc whispered, his eyes still closed, his voice raspy and weak.
“Which one?” Jacob asked.
“Ten.”
Jacob looked back at the text and reread John 10:10 aloud. “‘The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.’”
Both men were silent for a little while, and Jacob felt helpless as he looked at his friend wasting away.
“What day is it?” Luc suddenly asked.
Jacob had to think about that. “I think it’s June 17.”
Luc sighed. “I wanted to make it to my . . .”
“To your what, Luc?”
“. . . my birthday.”
“When is that?”
“August.”
“August what?”
“Eleventh.”
“Don’t worry, Luc. You’ll make it,” Jacob said. “And we’ll have a big party with your grandfather in Washington, the grandest party you’ve ever seen.”
Luc tried to smile. “No, I’m . . . I’m not going to make it to Washington, my friend.”
“Of course you are,” Jacob replied. “You just stick with me. I’ll get you there.”
“No, Jacob, I’m going home to be with
my Lord,” Luc said, weak and yet strangely calm.
“No. Don’t say that.”
“It’s okay,” Luc assured him. “I want to go. I can’t wait to be with my Savior. To be with him in person? To see him face-to-face? I cannot think of anything better, though I will miss you. You have been a good friend.”
Jacob wouldn’t hear of it. He tried to encourage Luc to stay focused and stay positive, but though Luc’s voice was faltering, his conviction was firm. He was leaving this world and heading to the next, but he promised to pray for Jacob before the very throne of Israel’s King.
“You can’t leave now,” Jacob said, fighting to keep his emotions in check. “We’re not finished with our mission.”
“I am,” Luc whispered. “And I’m holding you back from finishing yours.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“No, it’s true, and you know it,” Luc said. “I’ve run my race. I’ve fought my fight. Now it’s on you. Everybody’s counting on you. So go, get that strongbox to the Jewish council. Then take it to my grandfather. Take out a piece of paper and a pencil. I will give you his address in Washington. And when they liberate the camps and the war is over, go find Abby. Marry her. Settle down someplace quiet and safe, and have lots of babies. Okay?”
Jacob’s bottom lip began to quiver. He had to wipe away a tear, and then he turned away lest he embarrass himself any further. But he wouldn’t give up. He knew Luc was in a weakened state, and he could hardly blame the man for thinking this way. But Jacob refused to accept the idea that their mission together was over.