by Andrew Gross
A stiff silence settled over the room.
Blum felt it was time to ask the question. “So when do I go?”
Strauss glanced toward the Brits, receiving a last, confirming nod from the Polish resistance officer. “The twenty-third. It’s a full moon. Highest visibility. We’ll be needing it to spot the landing sight. You’ll be making the trip in one of the RAF’s brand-new Mosquito bombers. Lightweight, high speed. It’s able to fly well above the German radar. Oswiecim’s about a thousand miles one way, direct, but you’ll be flying over to Gothenberg, Sweden, then south, across the Baltic. The Mosquito cruises at about three hundred miles per hour. Given the detour, it should take around four hours or so. We’ll do our best to occupy the Luftwaffe with some diversionary bombing runs.” He looked at Blum, in the way a trial lawyer might look at the end of his closing argument when there was no more to say. “All clear?”
“So the twenty-third then…” Blum nodded. A stab of nerves edged through him.
“Yes.” Strauss put down his pointer. “Two days.”
TWENTY-SIX
The following day was Sunday, and Blum was given the morning off though he was up at dawn, his nerves unsettled. He leafed through the files one more time—the map of the camp, Mendl—even though everything was already firmly etched in his brain.
At noon, Schubert came around his bunkhouse, the cat’s food options clearly diminished elsewhere. Blum was putting a few crumbs on the sill when he heard a knock on the door.
It was Strauss. “Sorry to bother you, Nathan,” he said. He had an expression Blum couldn’t quite read. Sober. Unsettled. He was with Kendry, the quiet Brit. Blum didn’t trust him. “Mind if we sit?’
“Please…” Blum said, clearing his clothes and files off the other bed. Kendry chose to lean against the window and took out his pipe.
“So…” Strauss gave him a lukewarm smile. “Tomorrow night it is…” He looked at the files and pictures on the other bed. “You’re all set?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Got everything down?”
“Like I was from there.” Blum gave him a smile.
“Yes.” Strauss smiled too. “Of course, there’s a few more details we have to get settled. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve gotten the final thumbs-up from the people on the ground. They’re expecting you. And the weather looks spot on.” He took off his cap. “There is, though, just one more thing…”
“What is that, sir?”
The Brit took a step forward and took a puff on his pipe. “We’re concerned about one aspect, Lieutenant, that wasn’t part of the training.”
“What is that?” Nathan sat there, looking at them.
“The question, Lieutenant … can you kill?”
“Can I kill?” Blum looked back at them, unsure. He’d faced being shot at. Several times. But even in the ghetto he’d never had to kill someone. “I’m a soldier,” he said. “Of course I can kill. If I have to.”
“I’m afraid that’s just not quite good enough, Nathan.” Strauss stood up. “With all that’s on the line, with everything that’s at stake, there may well be a time on this mission when you will have to. When your life, and everything else that’s involved, will depend on it. And you won’t be able to decide there if you can or you can’t.”
“Then I will. You can count on it,” Blum declared firmly, looking at the two of them.
“So then we’d like you to prove it,” Kendry said. He unbuttoned his side holster and took out his Browning.
Blum regarded them in some confusion. “How?”
“I see you’ve made a friend,” the Brit said, smiling to Schubert on the sill. He held out his finger and the animal sidled over to him, arching his back, brushing against him.
“Yes, I think I told you about him,” Blum said. “He—”
The Brit looked back at him.
Suddenly it became clear to Blum just what they were asking. “You can’t be serious?” he said, shaking his head. The Brit’s gaze hadn’t budged. “He’s just an innocent cat. He’s my friend.”
“From here on out, you have no more friends,” the major replied. “And there’s no such thing anymore as guilt or innocence. Only people standing between you and what you have to get done. So, in fact, I’m perfectly serious…” He cocked the pistol and held it out for Blum. “We both are. Show us.”
Blum’s jaw parted, then he turned toward Strauss. The OSS captain offered him no relief. He merely shrugged. “Unfortunately, Nathan, we can’t quite run with this uncertainty. There’s simply too much on the line.”
Blum stared, disbelieving, at the gun. He could not accept what they were asking of him. “There is a difference,” he said. Schubert jumped from the sill to the bed. The Nazis were murderers. They killed innocent people, his parents and sister. Many of his friends. He’d talked his way past German guards and checkpoints with needed medicine in his pockets. He crossed Poland with a holy tract of the Talmud in his luggage; was snuck onto a Swedish freighter, when being discovered would have meant immediate death. But this … There was a line. This was on the other side of it. The cat jumped onto the floor and brushed up against the bed.
This made him just like them.
Strauss said, “You think this is any worse than what you will likely face when you land?”
Kendry continued to hold out the gun.
Blum’s gut felt as if a knife was tearing through it. It was as if whatever value he held dear, any remembrance of the life he once had, his parents and his sister, anything that separated him from the soulless goons who murdered them was being shredded for good.
You’re the one who wanted to do more …
“He’s innocent, I know, Nathan. But there may be others who are innocent who may threaten this mission. If you can’t,” Strauss stood there, waiting, “I’m afraid we cannot trust you to go.”
Schubert made his way along the floor. Run. Now. Please … Blum begged inside. The cat stopped at the door and looked up at Blum, likely expecting an affectionate pet or some food maybe, and meowed.
Blum took the pistol. “Forgive me,” he said, and stepped up to him.
He put the gun down and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud retort. The pistol jerked back in his hand. The cat fell over on his side. Blum stood there looking at it, as something hollow and shameful knotted in his gut, knowing something in him had now changed and gone over to the other side.
“Here.” He handed the Browning back to Kendry.
Strauss came over and put a hand on Blum’s shoulder. “Nathan, I’m sorry. I know what that took. Still, we had to be sure.”
Blum nodded. “I understand.”
“And trust me…” Kendry placed the gun back in his holster. “This won’t be the worst thing you’ll be forced to do on this mission.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The day he was set to go, Blum was asked to take a call at the communication headquarters.
Strauss set him in a private room, with a radio receiver and a telephone handset.
He figured it was Donovan to wish him luck, or maybe a member of his new family, in Chicago, but when the caller got on, through the scratchy static and hissing, he recognized the famous voice from his speeches and “fireside” chats.
It was the president of the United States.
“Am I speaking with Lieutenant Blum?” FDR asked.
“Yes, sir.” Almost by reflex, Blum stood up, although the great man was an ocean away. “Mr. President…” His throat grew dry.
“I wanted you to know that I am fully aware of your mission, Lieutenant. And I called to wish you all good luck.”
“Thank you sir,” Blum said, swallowing. “I’m honored you were even told of it.”
“Told of it.” The president chortled. “I damn well ordered it, Lieutenant.”
A wave of pride washed through Blum. He looked at Strauss, the blood rushing into his face.
“I know the risks,” the president said, “and what you are gi
ving up to do this. We owe you a debt, young man. But do not fail us. You have no idea how much depends on the success of what you do.”
“I won’t,” Blum said, his chest expanding. “Sir.”
“Good. Then all I can do is to wish you all God’s speed and that His watchful eyes will be over you. I’ve been assured on many levels that we have chosen the right man.”
“I’m humbled, sir,” Blum said again.
“Then I await the news of your safe and successful return.” The president signed off. “Good luck, young man.”
Blum heard a beep and the receiver showed that the line had disconnected. Still, Blum filled his chest and uttered, “Thank you, sir.”
* * *
Before he left he was given three last things.
The first was cash. Five hundred pounds sterling. “You’ll need something to bribe the guard with. It’ll be sewn into the lining on your tunic.” Strauss showed him. “Along with something else.”
He had a small blue pouch with him, which he tossed to Blum. Blum opened it, and his eyes went wide.
It contained a diamond.
Quite a large one. Larger than anything he had ever seen, even on the fingers of the fancy wives who would accompany their rich husbands into his father’s shop. Eight karats, Blum estimated.
“Ten, I can see you wondering,” Strauss said. “Nearly perfect quality. Worth a tidy sum. In case you get into trouble,” the captain winked at him, “and you have to buy your way out. It’s better than cash or gold in the camp and far more transportable. You know where to hide it, don’t you? In a pinch…?” Strauss gave him kind of a crooked smile.
“Oh. Yes. I see.” Blum said, blushing slightly.
“Use it wisely. And by all means, try not to forget it’s there.”
“No, I won’t. Of course not.” Blum cleared this throat.
“In the meantime, I’ll just hold onto it, if you don’t mind…” Strauss put out his hand. “For safekeeping, until you leave. Oh, and something else…” He dug into his pocket. “Not exactly sure how to broach this one with you. You’re going into a nightmarish place. Even I’m not sure myself just what you’ll run into in there. Especially, in the chance something goes wrong…” He opened his hand, and there were two reddish capsules in a plastic case.
Blum looked at them closely, then back at Strauss, the meaning clear. “I see.”
“Instantaneous, practically painless, I’m told. Have to admit, though”—he smiled sympathetically—“haven’t tested them myself. They’ll be sewn into the top of your tunic. I guess the idea is, even if your hands are tied, you can just, you know…” Strauss put his jaw close to his shoulder. “Bite. I leave it up to you. The official line is, we won’t be coming to your aid and the less known, of course, the better…”
“Of course.” Blum nodded, swallowing.
“And between us”—Strauss snapped the container closed and placed it back in his uniform pocket—“it might just be the best alternative, if you’re captured, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I understand,” Blum said.
Strauss shrugged. “I guess there’s not much more to add…”
Blum smiled and met his eyes.
“Other than…” Strauss put his hand on Blum’s shoulder. “Mazel tov, Lieutenant Blum. Colonel Donovan and I have nothing but one hundred percent respect for what you are undertaking…”
“A sheynem dank.” Blum grinned and replied. Thank you very much.
“Yes, a sheynem dank.” The captain smiled. “Certainly haven’t heard those words in a while.”
The two men shook hands.
There was a knock on the door. “Ah, almost forgot…” Strauss said. “One last thing.” A short, squat Brit in a civil defense uniform carrying a small metal kit came in.
“Captain.” Then he looked at Blum. “Leftenant…”
The man put down his kit and took out an electric shearer.
“Say goodbye to your hair for a while,” Strauss said.
Blum sat as the man put a sheet around his shoulders. Blum asked,“You were a barber before the war?”
“Not quite, sir,” the Brit said, turning on the shearer.
He shaved Blum’s head. The dark hair fell at Blum’s feet. Afterward, Blum looked at himself in the mirror. The sunken eyes and protruding cheeks seemed even more pronounced. He looked indeed like what he would be in a day: a prisoner. His heart swelled with the depth of the responsibility they were placing on him. A Pole. Someone with no standing. Who had escaped from the world of darkness only three years before.
Strauss shrugged. “That leaves one last thing…”
He nodded, and the Brit went back into his kit and came out with a tattoo needle. He plugged it in and dipped it in a bluish ink. “I did this before the war, sir,” he said to Blum. Strauss passed the man a six-digit number. The instrument began to vibrate.
“Sir,” the man said to Blum, “would you mind giving me your left arm?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WARSAW
Colonel Martin Franke sat at his desk at German intelligence headquarters in Warsaw on Szucha Street. His aide, Lieutenant Verstoeder, put his morning kaffee on his desk. Not the watered-down gruel the Poles drank with sugar and cream to hide the taste. German coffee. Hearty. Black. Brought in from Dallmayr’s in Munich. He paged through the overnight cables that had come in over the intelligence wires. Some had been intercepted from coded transmissions; others from directly over the radio. From the BBC. Those that piqued his interest Franke kept in what he called the “A” box by his desk. The others just went in the “B” box to be filed. True intelligence wasn’t just a round of drinks at the bar in Estoril or wagering at the casino. That was Rule One. It demanded thoroughness. And follow-through. Follow-through, but instinct too. A good nose.
A good nose was worth all the drinks in Lisbon.
Still, Rule Two. Everything was filed.
The past four months since Vittel had only made Franke’s desire to reclaim his prior standing even stronger. The war was not going well. Any fool could see that. The Red Army was advancing; it was almost in Poland now. There was fighting as close as Lvov. Even the Poles were starting to rise up and make a nuisance of themselves. And everyone knew the Allied invasion was imminent; Normandy or Calais? It was only a matter of where.
In Warsaw, the ghetto had been burned and razed. The last Jews, other than those who had taken refuge in the Aryan sector, were either dead or shipped out to places they would not return from. His current job was to root out those still in hiding or with forged papers. And round up suspected Polish collaborators, toss them into the basement of Pawiak Prison, and basically let some Gestapo strongarm pummel their faces raw until they talked. Or didn’t, in the rare case. Either way have them shipped out to the Katlan Forest, lined up against a tree and shot.
The woods there were so thick with blood, the joke was going around, this spring, the grass was growing in red.
Still, Franke knew, it was all basically police work. Stuff for the Ordnungspolizei, perhaps. Not intelligence.
He had received merely a letter from SS Brigadeführer Schellenberg, his new overseer from Berlin, congratulating him for his “helpful role” in rooting out those phony passport holders in Vittel.
Helpful role? Two hundred forty Jews he had given them.
While the war was being lost by fools, he was being left behind.
Over his kaffee, Franke leafed through the day’s stack of cables and intelligence messages. Mostly phrases meaningful only to whoever they were intended for: “Lila’s shoes have arrived. Pick them up any time.” “Oskar wants you to know, the cello lesson is set for next week at the same time.” “Jani can’t wait to see you again. But this time, she asks you bring the red hat instead of the blue.” Everything meant something, of course. Part of Franke’s job now was to pick out any that might have a particular connection to the partisan network, whose members were starting to make pests of themselves on the front and
in Warsaw, and then track them down.
Like this one perhaps … Franke reread one from last night that had caught his attention.
It was the kind of message that to most might well go unnoticed. It came in just before the BBC’s Evening with the Philharmonic. It mentioned a truffle hunter on his way to Poland. It read, “They are growing very well this season amid the birchwood trees.”
Birchwood trees?
“What are truffles?” his aide, Verstoeder, asked, as he went to collate the A and B piles.
“They are like mushrooms. Only far more expensive,” Franke said. “They grow in the roots of trees. But in Italy,” he remarked curiously, “not in Poland. That’s what strikes me of interest here. And in the fall. They use pigs to find them.”
“Pigs?”
Franke nodded. “Pigs and dogs.” The kind of message that to most might go unnoticed.
“So who is this truffle hunter?” Verstoeder asked. “And why is he coming to Poland?”
“In springtime…” Franke clarified.
“Yes, in the spring.”
“A good question.” Franke sipped the last of his coffee. “And another would be, who is the pig?”
The thought of truffles made Franke’s stomach growl yearningly, for it had been a long time since anything had found its way into it other than potatoes, cabbage, and sausage. But it was a game of scents, the colonel knew, and this one he could smell as clearly as if he held one of the little buggers in his hand.
“Keep or file?” the lieutenant inquired, deciding in which box to put the cable.
“Keep, I think. At least, for now.” There would be more to come, he suspected, about this truffle hunter.
He had a nose for things like this. And this one made it itch.
Franke placed the cable in the box marked A.
TWENTY-NINE
In the belly of the de Havilland Mosquito, flying fifteen thousand feet over Poland, Blum pushed back his nerves.
He looked at his forearm. It still smarted from the number etched into it in blue ink. A22327. Rudolf Vrba’s number. So if needed, it matched up against a number that was real. It hardly mattered anyway, Blum knew. If he was caught, he would be interrogated and shot straightaway as a spy. All the numbers in the world wouldn’t save him.
