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border. In no time, one or both of these advances would reach the Tyrol, and Fritz and Fredl would be liberated. It was better than waiting here and hoping to survive the Soviet onslaught. Wocher had fought against them and knew the pitiless violence of the Eastern Front: the mass murder, the callousness of the Red Army, which matched anything the SS was capable of.
Fritz thought it over. Wocher undeniably had a point. But it was out of the question for one simple reason: Fritz’s papa couldn’t make a grueling journey like that. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t agree to go; there were people in the camp and in the Buna Werke who depended on him, and he wouldn’t forsake them. And if Fritz went without him, as Fritz’s kapo, Gustav would probably be held responsible for his escape, and subjected to interrogation by the Gestapo.
No, escape was impossible. But Fritz still wanted a gun. Could Wocher get him one?
The German reluctantly gave in. “All right,” he said, “but I’ll need money.
And Reichsmarks won’t do—make sure it’s American dollars or Swiss francs.”
The first person Fritz tried was Gustl Täuber, who worked in the clothing store where they kept the garments taken from new prisoners. It was a haunt‑
ing place, stuffy, filled with racks of coats and jackets, stacks of folded pants, sweaters, shirts, bundles and heaps of unsorted stuff, shoes, suitcases, each with a name and address painted—a Gustav or a Franz, a Shlomo or a Paul, Frieda, Emmanuel, Otto, Chaim, Helen, Mimi, Karl, Kurt, and the last names: Rauchmann, Klein, Rebstock, Askiew, Rosenberg, Abraham, Herzog, Engel, Zuckermann, Adler, Eisenstein, Deutsch, Burgiel; and over and over again: Israel and Sara. Each one with a truncated address in Vienna, Berlin, Ham‑
burg, or just a number or birthdate. Every aisle between the racks and shelves redolent with their scents, their sweat and perfumes, mothballs and leather, serge, mildew, and decay.
Overseeing the store was Gustl Täuber, an old Buchenwalder. He was close to Fritz’s father’s age, a Jew from Jagielnice in Silesia,* born in the old
* Now Jagielnica, Poland
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days of the German Empire.17 Fritz had never liked him much; despite his long association with them all, Täuber was one of the very few who felt no bond of solidarity with his fellow prisoners and wouldn’t put himself out for anyone. But he was Fritz’s best hope of getting cash. They’d had a trading relationship for some time, Fritz giving Täuber his father’s bonus coupons in exchange for warm clothes that Fritz distributed to prisoners in need.
Täuber used the coupons to buy vodka and (as an Aryanized Jew) visits to the brothel.
Without giving any details, Fritz asked him for cash, knowing that there was often money found in the clothing. Täuber immediately shook his head.
Fritz pleaded in desperation, but Täuber was immovable; he wasn’t willing to put his privileges in jeopardy over some shady deal. This was a barefaced lie; he was happy enough to get involved in shady dealings when there was a brothel visit or a bottle of vodka in it for him.
From the clothing store Fritz went to the main bathhouse at the far end of the camp, next to the hospital. This was where new prisoners came for show‑
ers, disinfecting, and shaving. Cash and valuables that they had successfully concealed from the Canada searchers were often taken from them here. The bathhouse attendant was another old Buchenwalder, David Plaut, a Jewish salesman from Berlin.18 Plaut was a decent friend, and Fritz’s only remaining hope. Any pickings from the bathhouse were taken by the camp kapo, Emil Worgul, who was in overall charge, but Fritz reckoned Plaut, who did the actual work, must be able to sidetrack a little money for himself.
Again Fritz didn’t explain the real reason he needed the money; instead he spun a yarn about wanting to buy vodka with which to bribe Worgul to give some of his comrades transfers to easier labor details. It was a compelling argument, and it worked. Plaut went to his hiding place and came back with a little roll of bills, all US dollars.
Next day at work, Fritz met with Fredl Wocher and passed him the money.
There followed several days of anxious waiting. Then one day Wocher showed up at their meeting wearing an expression of mingled triumph and fear and handed Fritz a pistol. It was a military‑issue Luger. Although Wocher said nothing about how he’d obtained it, Fritz guessed it came from one of his friends in the Luftwaffe flak batteries. He showed Fritz how it worked—how to extract the magazine and load it with bullets, how to cock it and operate the safety catch. There were a couple boxes of ammunition with it.19
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Now came the problem of getting it back to camp. Contraband food was one thing; firearms were in a different league. Retreating to a hiding place, Fritz dropped his pants and tied the Luger to his thigh. The pants were so baggy there was no chance of the outline of the gun being noticed. The ammuni‑
tion went in his pockets. That evening he marched back to camp feeling both excited and terrified.
Fritz went straight to the hospital and found Stefan Heymann. Beckon‑
ing him to follow, he led his friend behind a mountain of dirty laundry and showed him the Luger. Stefan was horrified. “Are you crazy? Get rid of that thing! If you get caught with that it won’t just be you they kill—you’re putting our whole operation at risk.”
Hurt and indignant, Fritz replied: “You brought me up to be like this. You always taught me that I had to fight for my life.”
Stefan had no answer to that. Over the next few days they talked again and again; Fritz explained his thinking and gradually wore Stefan down. He described how he’d got the pistol from Fredl Wocher and said he was sure he could get more guns if he had more money. Stefan agreed to help, but he insisted that the whole thing be properly organized within the resistance.
Eventually Stefan managed to scrape together $200. Fritz took it to Fredl Wocher, and another period of waiting followed. Then one day Wocher led Fritz to a discreet spot in the factory and showed him where he had hidden another Luger and two MP 40 machine pistols—the distinctive submachine guns with pistol grips and long magazines, used by the SS and German sol‑
diers everywhere. Again there were several boxes of ammunition for all three weapons.
This would be a much bigger challenge to smuggle into the camp. Fritz planned it carefully; it would take several trips. He obtained one of the huge pails used to bring soup to the prisoners in the factory and built a false bot‑
tom into it, under which he hid the ammunition. The Luger was hidden easily enough, like the last time, but the machine pistols were a different matter.
Having been tutored in their use and maintenance by Wocher, he dismantled the first weapon and tied as many of the parts as he could to his bare torso.
That evening he marched back to the camp, sweating under the eyes of the SS and kapos. With winter deepening and the nights drawing in, it was dark at the end of his shift, so there was little chance that they’d notice his unusually bulky shape. Then he had to stand through roll call with the heavy, 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 256
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lethal items strapped to him. It dragged on painfully slowly for hours, with ritual punishments and sick and injured to be accounted for. The moment it ended Fritz hurried along to the hospital laundry. Inside, his friend Jule Meixner was waiting for him. Fritz hurriedly stripped off his uniform, untied the gun components, and passed them to Jule, who hid them. For security, Fritz wasn’t told exactly where—on the principle that nobody can give up a secret under torture if they don’t know it in the first place—but he suspected it was somewhere inside the building.20 Over the next several days, he repeated the
dangerous operation until all the guns and ammunition were inside the camp.
Fritz felt pleased with himself; by bringing the Luger into the camp, he had forced Stefan’s hand and presented the whole resistance group with a fait accompli. They would never have done it without him. Now at least if the worst rumors about Majdanek were manifest here, they would be able to fight back.
As the days of December went by, Gustav went on with his work, turning out blackout curtains and coats in parallel. With no direct involvement in the resistance, he had no idea of the dangerous venture his beloved, difficult son had embarked on. Gustav was looking forward to Christmas, because Wocher would be going to Vienna again on leave. There had been a long interlude, and Olly, Lintschi, and the others had probably fallen prey again to the belief he and Fritz must be dead.
On Monday, December 18, Gustav’s workshop was busy with its output of curtains and coats when suddenly, over the soft, snickering clatter of sewing machines, they heard the rising moan of the air raid sirens, a pulsing, guttural howl echoing across the Buna Werke.21 Within seconds, doors were slamming, feet running, voices raised. The SS and the civilians were making for the shel‑
ters. Gustav and his staff looked at one another—some terrified, some resigned.
There was no shelter for them to go to. Some people had prepared themselves makeshift hiding places, but these would be of little use if a bomb fell close.
After a few minutes, with the last panicked footsteps dying away, the dis‑
tant drone of the bombers and the thumping of the flak guns began. The noise rose to a crescendo, and with it came the first earthshaking concussions of bombs—the crash when they exploded in buildings, the pounding as they blasted craters in the open ground. Gustav lay flat; this wasn’t a new terror for 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 257
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him; he’d spent whole weeks and months under near‑constant bombardment in the trenches, and like every other veteran had learned to sit tight and wait for it to either pass or for one of the falling shells to find him and send him to oblivion. He knew well how useless and dangerous it was to panic. His great fear was always for Fritz, who was out on fitting work. Fritz had a hiding place among the buildings where he would at least be sheltered from flying debris.
Again the bombers were aiming for the synthetic oil plant but a lot of the explosions seemed farther away, as if they weren’t hitting their target. Sud‑
denly, the floor beneath Gustav was rocked by a titanic explosion. Windows shattered, and there was a cacophony of tearing metal and masonry.
Eventually the shuddering from the last, distant explosions died away.
Dust floated in the air, and beyond the bubble of silence immediately around him Gustav could hear distant screams and yelling, the pounding of the flak guns stuttering to a halt, and the drone of the bombers receding. The all‑clear began to sound.
Climbing to his feet, Gustav found the workshop in disarray: sewing machines shaken loose and toppled from their benches, chairs knocked over, dust everywhere, shards of glass from the broken windows. The men and women stood up, coughing and blinking.
As soon as he was satisfied that nobody was hurt, Gustav’s first thought was for Fritz. He went outside, into the chaos of smoke and flame. Some buildings had been destroyed; there were dead prisoners scattered about in the open and among the rubble, injured men and women being helped out by their comrades.22 There was no sign of Fritz. Gustav hurried through the smoke, heading for Fritz’s hiding place, consumed by a rising sense of foreboding.
Turning the corner, he reached the place. It wasn’t there anymore—there was just a hill of broken brickwork and twisted metal. Gustav stared in shock and disbelief at the wreckage; nobody could have survived in there. His Fritzl—his pride and joy, his dear, sweet, loyal Fritzl—was gone.
Gustav turned away and wandered back to the workshop in a daze of grief.
SS men and civilians were emerging from their shelters. The sentries had panicked at the start of the raid and made for the bunkers; hardly any had stayed at their posts. The fences were down in a few places, and several prisoners had escaped. Gustav stood and watched a moment as the SS tried to restore order. He was about to turn away when he saw two figures in stripes walking toward him through the smoke, one carrying a large toolbox and mov‑
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ing with a familiar gait. Gustav could hardly believe his eyes. He ran and threw his arms around Fritz. “My boy, my Fritzl, you’re alive!” he sobbed, kissing Fritz’s face and hugging him, repeating over and over, “You’re alive! My boy!
It’s a miracle!”
He took the astonished Fritz by the arm and led him to the smoking remains of his hiding place. “It’s a miracle,” he kept repeating. Gustav’s faith in their good luck and fortitude, which had kept them alive and together for so long, was vindicated.
Another air raid fell on the Buna Werke the day after Christmas. The Ameri‑
cans had fixed on it as a prime target and wouldn’t let up until they’d reduced it to a desert of rubble. But each time they only succeeded in knocking down a few buildings, wounding a handful of SS men or IG Farben managers, killing dozens of prisoners and slave laborers, and reducing productivity for a few days or weeks. Each time, droves of slaves were forced to clear the rubble, repair, and rebuild. They sabotaged what they could and worked as slowly as they dared, and between themselves and the bombs they ensured that the Buna Werke would never produce any buna rubber, and its other plants would never approach full capacity.
On January 2, 1945, Fredl Wocher returned from Vienna with letters and packages from Olga and Karl. “We get the greatest joy from knowing that we still have good friends at home,” Gustav wrote in his diary. He and Fritz had the best of friends right here, in Fredl Wocher, who had proved himself true countless times, and in so many ways.
Fritz was growing worried about Wocher. With the Red Army not far away and likely to begin a new offensive any time now, Fritz tried to persuade his friend to disappear before they reached Auschwitz and discovered what had been happening here.
Wocher didn’t see the need. “My conscience is clear,” he said. “More than clear. Nothing will happen to me.”
Fritz wasn’t so sure. He reminded Wocher of the hatred the Russians felt for all Germans—which Wocher knew all too well from his service at the front. And Fritz pointed out that however the Soviet soldiers behaved, there were thousands of Russian prisoners in Auschwitz who would be thirsty for 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 259
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vengeance. Not many German civilians or soldiers had been as good or con‑
scientious as Sergeant Alfred Wocher, and he couldn’t depend on there being any discrimination once the wave of revenge began sweeping through the camps. But Wocher was stubborn; he’d never run away before, and he wasn’t about to start now.
It was clear to Fritz that the end might come any day. His preparations had been in train for two months. Thanks to him, the resistance had a cache of weapons to defend themselves. Meanwhile, Fritz had taken the extra pre‑
caution of equipping himself and his father for escape. Having dismissed the idea of fleeing to the Tyrol, he had to accept that fighting might not be an option either. Since November, on Fritz’s initiative, he and his father had been dodging the weekly head shaving and letting their hair grow. Roll call was the only time prisoners routinely took their caps off in front of the SS, and in the winter months the ritual always happened during darkness. Fritz also acquired a cache of civilian clothes from David Plaut at the bathhouse, which he hid in a toolshed in the camp. There were enough jackets and pants for himself, his papa, and a few of their closest comrades.
For several months the Red Army had been content to hold the
line along the Vistula, consolidating, preparing, reinforcing. On January 12 they launched their offensive—a colossal, well‑planned assault along the whole length of the front line in Poland, involving three armies made up of two and a quarter million men. It was the final push, designed to drive the Germans back into their Fatherland. It worked; the Wehrmacht and the Waffen‑SS, outnumbered more than four to one, fell back under the onslaught, hold‑
ing out in a handful of fortified Polish cities. Frustratingly, the sector of the front near Cracow moved slower than most. Each day the prisoners in Auschwitz heard the distant thump of Russian guns, like a clock ticking away the moments to deliverance.
On January 14, Alfred Wocher said a last good‑bye to Gustav and Fritz.
He had been drafted into the Volkssturm. This hastily organized army, made up of old men, underage boys, and disabled veterans, was tasked with conduct‑
ing the last‑ditch defense of the Reich. Any man capable of holding a rifle or wielding an antitank grenade was called up for service. So Wocher would not be found by the Russians at Auschwitz after all, and he was pleased to do this final duty for his Fatherland. Whatever its crimes, it was Germany after all, 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 260
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his home, a land full of women and children, and the Russians would tear it apart without mercy if they were permitted.
With winter deepening, the weather was deteriorating. There was thick snow on the ground, and on Monday, January 15, the day after Fredl Wocher’s departure, Auschwitz awoke to thick fog. The prisoners in Monowitz were kept standing at roll call for several hours until the fog thinned enough for the SS
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