The One Man

by Andrew Gross

  But his father insisted that this Talmud was a treasure as great as in any synagogue in Europe. And what hope was there to remain here, except for Nathan to end up like his friend, Jakob, taken by the Gestapo. No doubt dead. It will happen one day for sure, he insisted to Blum. “Then where will your mother be?” Or to be taken off in one of the mass deportations. Then what had he gained by staying? “At least this way there is hope.” The underground had a way of getting Blum north. First, on a milk truck; then up the Vistula on a barge to the port city of Gdynia; and then across the Baltic to Sweden on a freighter. It was a great honor, his father said, to be chosen for this. In the end his father’s pressure wore Blum down. Against his wishes, he agreed. It took a month, but Blum delivered the tract that was bound and wrapped like a sausage into the hands of a Jewish refugee agency in Stockholm. His mother’s side had a cousin who lived in Chicago who put up the money for his transit to the United States, and so Blum, barely twenty, without speaking a word of English, but with a year and a half of avoiding the Germans, made the journey across the Atlantic.

  English came quickly, watching the cinema, taught by his cousins; he had a skill for languages. The following year he was accepted by Northwestern University, where he went for a year and picked up his old subjects. Then news arrived that in retaliation for the shooting of a Gestapo officer, the Germans came into the ghetto and marched everyone from Blum’s family’s building into the square, his father, mother, and sister among them, and shot them. His cousins the Herzlichs as well. Forty for one, they called it. Forty lives, worthless Jewish ones, for every German. The smuggled-out letter that reached them spoke of his father’s bloody body hung up with several of the other men for days, unburied, putrefying in the public square, as a reminder to anyone else who harbored the same idea. Isidor Blum had been a gentle man whose only love in life, besides his family, was helping to choose the perfect hat for each head, Germans and Austrians among them. And poor Leisa, whom everyone said would one day play with the Polish National Orchestra. She didn’t even know about politics. All she knew was Mozart, and her scales. Blum was inconsolable at the thought of her. He would miss her most of all.

  All he could think of was that if he had remained there, he would never have let them go outside. He would have seen the trucks pull up and found a way: the narrow passage out of their old building he had used after curfew a hundred times: through the basement, to the alley that led to the shirt factory next door and then out onto Lwowska Street. Or onto the roof, if the Germans were already in the building, and across to 10 Herzl, then down the fire stairs to the alley. If he was there, he would have warned them never to go out into that square. He had seen firsthand how the Germans dealt with retaliation.

  After the news, life at the university no longer meant anything to him. He was in a strange place, studying subjects that meant nothing to him, in a new tongue. Everyone he loved was gone. After Pearl Harbor, all the students were signing up anyway, so Blum did too, hoping to be the first to march back into Poland, to proudly rid his country of the hated szkopy, German swine. But because of his language skills, he was placed in intelligence. It was a great honor, he was told again. This is the best way to serve.

  A year later, he was still there.

  There was an outfit that was being assembled: young soldiers, mostly Jews of German descent, who were being trained in intelligence at Fort Ritchie in western Maryland, who would go ashore as part of the invasion (which everyone knew was coming) and aid in the interrogation of German prisoners and establish contact with local partisans. Blum had already put in for a transfer with his superior officer. Here he was just sitting in a basement, using skills he had mastered as a child. Stamping and translating papers and transferring them upstairs. There at least he could put his life on the line for his family. The feeling had never stopped haunting him for a day: that he was the one who had left, while all those he loved had remained behind and died. He ached to do something that really mattered before the war came to an end. Otherwise he would see the images of his dead family in his mind’s eye for the rest of his life. He asked and pushed until he made himself a nuisance. He was told his file was being looked at. He should know any day.

  But that morning … He put the photos of the debris in from London in a manila envelope marked URGENT and sent it up channels. Attention: Captain Greer. Inwardly, it gave him pride that Polish combatants were the ones who had put their lives on the line to find it. He was sure the right people would be going over them “with a fine-tooth comb,” as they said here, within a day. Then he took out the rest of the day’s incoming cables. From Pilava. Lodz. Troop movements sighted on the Ukrainian frontier. A bridge over the Bug River blown, blocking the German retreat routes. Warsaw in flames. It had taken a while but the Poles were finally fighting.

  His mind went to his parents the day they had sent him off on his new journey.

  “I don’t want to leave,” he had said to his father. “You need me to remain here with you. Who else will watch over you?”

  “God will watch over us,” his father, who wasn’t religious, said. “God always protects the righteous, right?” He winked like he was letting Blum in on an inside joke. “Especially,” he said, “if he is wearing the proper hat.”

  His father removed his hat, a prized homburg that his own father had worn, and placed it on Nathan’s head, brushing the felt and tilting the angle slightly, just right. His father always said you could judge a man’s character more by his choice of hat than by any other aspect.

  “He hasn’t deserted us yet, Nathan.” He patted his son’s shoulders. “Now let’s go. To the rebi, shall we? Before curfew.” He stopped and looked at Nathan for a long time.

  “What?”

  “When I see you next you may finally have yourself a beard,” his father said, his eyes misting slightly. “But you will never be more of a man to me than you are today.”

  They hugged, and Blum knew for certain as he felt his father’s arms around him that he would never see any of them again.

  “Blum…”

  His thoughts rushed back. The duty officer, a big, broad-shouldered redhead named Sloan, who had played football at the University of Virginia, stepped up to his desk.

  Blum stood up. “Sir.”

  “Take a break. You’re wanted over at the Main Hall.”

  “Main Hall…?” That’s where all the bigwigs worked. Blum had been there only once, the day he arrived, to the administrative offices to receive his assignment and sign the confidentiality papers. He felt a surge in his blood. “Personnel…?” he asked, certain that his transfer to Fort Ritchie had finally come through.

  “Not quite.” The duty officer chuckled knowingly. “The Big Man wants to see you upstairs.”

  “The Big Man…?” Blum looked back as if the duty officer must be joking. “Me?”

  “Look smart, Lieutenant.” The big redhead nodded and tossed him his cap. “Colonel Donovan.”

  ELEVEN

  A female JG led Blum, cap in hand, past rows of secretaries and chattering telexes, into a suite of carpeted offices on the third floor.

  “Wait here.” The female duty officer knocked on the door of the corner office and put her head in. “Lieutenant Blum is here, sir.”

  A voice said, “Have him come in, please.”

  Not fully believing, Blum stepped into the large, red-carpeted office with a substantial oak desk flanked by an American and an Allied command flag and a photograph of President Roosevelt on the wall.

  Colonel William Donovan, whom Blum had only even seen a couple of times on visits to the pen and whose hand he had shaken once as the Big Man passed his desk, stood up from behind it. He was of medium height, large-chested, with a strong Irish nose, a solid chin like a prizefighter, and narrow, deep-set eyes. Everyone knew he had won the Congressional Medal of Honor for acts of valor in the previous war, acts that had earned him the nickname “Wild Bill.” At the long conference table, another officer stood up as w
ell. He was shorter, thin, with dark hair that was slightly receding already, though he had a young face with thin lips.

  Blum had no idea how the person responsible for the U.S. intelligence network for all the war even knew who he was.

  “Lieutenant Blum, is that right…?” The white-haired Donovan came from around his desk.

  “Sir.” Blum stepped up hesitantly, pushing back the urge to glance behind him in case there was another officer with the same name standing there.

  “Lieutenant Nathan Blum, assigned to the Fourth Division, UE-5…?” the OSS chief rattled off, seeing Blum’s indecision. “I have asked the right officer up here, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, sir. That is me.”

  “Then relax, Lieutenant. Why don’t you take a seat over here.” Donovan motioned to the long conference table where the captain stood on the other side. “Please…” Colonel Donovan said, indicating a chair near the head. Then he pulled out his own chair at the head of the table and sat. “Cup of coffee?”

  His legs feeling slightly rubbery, Blum took a seat. “Please.”

  “How do you like it, Lieutenant?” the Big Man asked. A secretary came in with a tray and put it down at the far end of the long table.

  “Black, please, sir.”

  “Me too. Since I was a kid. There are many things that can get an old Irishman into trouble, but, in my book, coffee, and as much as you can drink it, isn’t one of them…”

  Blum, who had been shot at before he was twenty and who had made his way past checkpoints after curfew with Germans who wouldn’t blink to execute him on the spot, had never felt his heart beat as rapidly as it did now as the man responsible for America’s vast intelligence network addressed him face-to-face. His eyes took in the office’s impressive surroundings.

  “You can relax, Lieutenant. All reports are that you’re doing a first-class job down there. This is Captain Strauss.” He nodded to the thin, dark-featured officer. “He’s been handling some operations for me. I see a request in your file for a transfer, to that new outfit they’re putting together up at Fort Ritchie, boys of European Jewish descent…”

  “Yes, sir,” Blum replied. He still felt a slight hesitation when addressing someone of stature and education in his new tongue. “I’m happy with what I do here, sir. It’s just that … that I feel I can best serve—”

  “No need to explain, son,” the colonel interrupted him. “That’s a good outfit they’re putting together up there, and I have no doubt you’d be a real asset.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The secretary poured the coffee.

  “It’s just that Captain Strauss and I are putting something together too. I’ve spoken with your superior officers and they tell me you’ve been quite open with your desire to do something … how shall we say it…? Something more.”

  “Yes, sir. That is correct,” Blum answered, his heart picking up a beat in anticipation.

  “You already are doing something, son. My people tell me you’re one of the most capable translators we have here. That’s already important work,” he nodded, “and it all helps the war effort. In fact, I’ve read through some of the communiqués you’ve passed on.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.” Inwardly, Blum felt a surge of pride. “Wild Bill” Donovan actually knew of him.

  “Yes, the captain here was just briefing me … About your family. Back in Poland.”

  Blum glanced at the other officer, who had so far remained silent. He assumed that what had motivated him to enlist was in his file. “Yes, they were killed in my hometown of Krakow,” he said in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could manage. “A Gestapo officer was shot in the ghetto and so they took everyone in my family’s building outside and executed them in retribution, right in the square. ‘Forty to one,’ they called it.”

  “Yes.” Colonel Donovan nodded somberly. “I’m afraid I know all that. My condolences,” he added. “My father died young too. Though of natural causes. That’s quite a burden for anyone to carry. A man of your age…” He took a sip of coffee.

  “My sister too,” Blum said. “She played the clarinet. She was very good. Everyone said one day she would play for the Polish National Orchestra. But that was all a while back. A different world. Anyway, thank you, sir.”

  Donovan put down his cup and looked at Blum. Almost looked through him, Blum felt, as if he was studying him with those hard, deep-set Irish eyes. Even more—measuring him in some way. The impressive surroundings, the enormous desk and long table, the brass in the room, the official flags, all made Blum feel almost small.

  “I see you made your way here, to America, completely on your own,” the colonel said.

  “Yes, sir,” Blum confirmed. He was starting to get the sense that this was not about his transfer at all. “But with help. The Armia Krajowa helped me to Gdynia. Up north…”

  “The Ar-nia Krajora…?” Donovan questioned, mangling the Polish like some rawboned Texan cowboy trying to speak Spanish Blum recalled from a film.

  “It means the Home Army. The Polish underground. From there a Swedish diplomat arranged for transit to Stockholm. I have a cousin in Chicago, and he arranged for me to—”

  “I’m quite familiar with the AK, Lieutenant,” the OSS chief let him know.

  “Of course, sir,” Blum said.

  “So why you…?” Donovan pushed back in his chair, his khaki uniform jacket decorated with several ribbons for rank and valor. “There must have been a million young men as yourself with an urge to get out of Dodge.”

  “Get out of Dodge, sir…?” Blum looked at him. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I—”

  “Just an expression, son. It means get out of town. Fast. It’s from a Western.”

  “I like Westerns as well. I’ll have to see that one.” Blum saw the Big Man was still awaiting his answer. “I was asked to deliver an important package to safety. An historic text. The Talmud from our temple. It’s a collection of laws and interpretations, from the Torah…” This time Donovan merely smiled, glancing toward Strauss, indicating he knew what the Talmud was as well. “It was written in the twelfth century by a famous rabbi. But for the record, sir, I did not ask to.”

  “Didn’t ask to what, son?” the OSS chief said back.

  “I didn’t ask to leave. I wanted to stay and do what I could there. And take care of my family.”

  “It was suicide to stay there, son, given the chance to get out. You know that now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know that.” Blum glanced toward the quiet captain, Strauss, wondering if he might be Jewish too. “But in any event, that would not have changed my mind. It was my family, sir. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course. I understand perfectly. Nonetheless, you have to have a strong nerve, aren’t I right? Your file says you were a pretty good ferret back in your days there. In Krakow. That takes a load of courage. Do you have a strong nerve, son?”

  Blum shrugged, feeling the colonel’s eyes fixed on him. Still, it wasn’t something you said about yourself. “There have been many times in my life, sir, since the Nazis came, where to survive, I’ve had to do what was necessary.”

  “Yes, I think I understand what you mean.” Donovan nodded. “Each of us has to give of ourselves in some way. Ways we never imagined. That put you to the test.” Everyone knew the Big Man had single-handedly held off a German machine gun position while wounded several times, saving his entire unit. He flipped through Blum’s file for another moment, then placed it back on the table. “So we’re prepared to give you that chance, son, what you’ve been asking for, if you’re up for it…”

  “The chance for what, sir?” Blum looked back at him, sure that somewhere he had missed their meaning.

  “To do something more. Isn’t that what you asked for, Lieutenant?” The OSS chief took one more sip of coffee, then put down the cup. “As you said, to do what is necessary.”

  TWELVE

  They refilled their cups as Captain Strauss, whom Blum was now certain wa
s a Jew himself, likely of German descent, mapped out why they had called him there.

  The captain began a little vaguely. “As you know, Lieutenant, Poland is an extremely unforgiving place now … to be a Jew. And then to ask someone, someone who has been able to get himself out, at no small risk to himself, and then start to build a new life … to consider, at great personal sacrifice for his new country … perhaps even the world…” Strauss cleared his throat and looked at Blum. “There would, of course, be no negative consequences should you feel that what we’re about to ask of you is too much.”

  Both Donovan and Strauss had their eyes fixed on Blum. There was an extended silence in the room.

  “You want me … to go back?” Blum said, as it finally became clear to him just what they were asking.

  “Not just go back…” the captain said. He got up with his file and came around the table, pulling up the chair next to Blum. “We want you to locate someone there for us. In Poland. And bring him back out for us.”

  “Out of Poland?” Blum continued to stare, not quite believing. “You know how difficult that would be.”

  The captain nodded. “I’m afraid what we’re proposing is even a bit trickier than that, Lieutenant…” He took a breath and opened his file. “No doubt you’ve heard of the labor camps over there?”

  “Of course, but please forgive me, Captain, these are labor camps in name only. Word is, people are shipped there and never heard from ever again. Families, entire towns. In fact, these are death camps,” Blum stated. “I think we both know that.”

  The captain didn’t reply, but in his knowing nod and Donovan’s continued steady stare, it became clear to Blum precisely what they wanted. “You want to send me back to Poland. To one of those … camps?” he asked.

  “To a place called Auschwitz.” Colonel Donovan took the lead. “I believe Oswiecim is the town’s actual name. You’ve heard of it?”

  Maybe not by that specific name, Blum nodded in the way when something terribly grave and unutterable is better left unsaid. But the whispers from Jewish enclaves all through Europe were rampant with what was happening in places like that—places so dark, so filled with evil and death, it stretched the mind to even believe they could be true. “Yes. I’ve heard.”