by Andrew Gross
Blum nodded, blowing out a blast of air from his cheeks. “Thank you.”
“Twenty…” someone whispered. “Levy was in twenty, wasn’t he? He always wore a tweed cap.”
“Yes.” Blum nodded. “He was.”
“Too bad. He was a good man. He lasted a long time.”
Blum climbed onto the bunk, encased in a layer of cold sweat, a part of him holding back the urge to retch, another part on the edge of tears, knowing how lucky he was to be alive.
“Stop shaking,” the person next to him said.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
The young woman he had just seen killed came into his mind. He heard her begging him in her last breaths to save her; saw her young and pretty face. For her, this is quicker. He’d basically purchased his life with hers, though, truth was, she would have been dead in minutes anyway. Strauss was right: There were things a whole lot worse than a dead cat lying ahead of him.
He lay on his back, eyes wide open, his heart unable to stay still. Both joyful and ashamed.
Shamed that he had bought his life with another’s. And that she was now dead.
Joyful that, by doing so, the mission was still alive.
FORTY-SEVEN
EARLY THURSDAY MORNING
NEWMARKET AIR BASE, ENGLAND
Though it was well past mightnight, Peter Strauss was unable to sleep. Just as he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two the two previous nights.
Instead, he wrote letters to his wife and kids and then just lay in his bunk, anticipation coursing through him. He took comfort in the early morning drone of the squadron of Wellingtons returning from their nightly runs over Germany. He would count the planes one by one as they went off—thirty of them tonight—rising into the sky at twenty-second intervals and disappearing into the night, pounding the coast of Brittany and the “impregnable” German homeland into rubble and dust. Then, hours later, still awake, he would count them on their return. Imagining, almost like a private wager with himself, that the last one back carried Blum and Mendl, as he prayed that the Mosquito that would leave tomorrow night to pick them up would. Strauss was a thorough man, but these last two nights, he’d given himself over to games.
What else was there, except to drive himself crazy? Each hour crept like an eternity. Imagining details they may have overlooked, things that could go wrong. Each night, an ocean of time for him to navigate until light, and each day, pretending to go about his work, but his mind thinking of nothing else. But what else had his work been for the past year except to plan this one mission? He knew Blum’s schedule inside the camp. What would he be doing now? Waking? Having his meal? Finding his way onto a work detail? Did he have access to the others in the camp? It was one in a million. Had Vrba’s number held up? Had Blum been killed on the whim of some guard, and they would never know?
Was Mendl even still alive?
Their contact, Katja, had radioed back that Blum had landed successfully and then, a day later, that he had entered the camp. So far it all seemed to be going as planned. But they could only plan out so much. Now it was up to Blum. Strauss could do nothing more, but wait. And play these games.
And pray.
Yes, he’d even prayed. For the first time in years. He read over the lines in the Sanhedrin that Blum had shown him about any who saves a life is as if he saved the entire world. His father, the cantor, would be proud of him. What would he have called Blum? “A real Kiddush Hashem,” he would say. A man who acts honorably. Who deserves our admiration.
Strauss smiled. It was true. As much as any man he knew.
But the phrase also carried a second meaning, one far more tragic. It referred to those who had died as martyrs for the faith. They too were Kiddush Hashem. And it made Strauss think. What if all the doubters were right? What if Blum didn’t make it back? What if it was a suicide mission he had sent him on? Could Strauss live with that? Sending a man off to his death on such an improbable task? Would he one day look at his own son and say, “I never killed a man with my hands, but I sent one, a good one, on a wild chase, and never heard from him again”?
Yet from the moment Blum had turned at the door in Donovan’s office that first meeting and asked how they would get him out, Strauss knew he had picked the right man.
Outside, Strauss heard the faraway drone of the first bomber to make it back that night. Zero two thirty hours. He got up from his bunk and stepped out. To the west, he saw the first lights from the Wellington coming in, wings steady, descending smoothly, then touching the tarmac and quickly pulling off the runway as another appeared, not far behind.
And then another.
He’d counted thirty leaving that night, and one by one he felt lifted by their safe return. Soon it was eight, then ten, fifteen, twenty. They kept on coming in.
At last twenty-eight, then twenty-nine …
He looked at the sky and waited.
One more.
Ambulances and maintenance workers rushed up to the ones that had landed. Two or three airmen who had been hit were carried off in gurneys. Pilots jumped down from their cockpits.
C’mon, he said to himself, his eyes peeled to the moonlit sky. Where are you? Make it.
In his mind, it was the one that carried Blum and Mendl back to England.
One more.
Finally he heard a buzzing. He looked to the west. He saw a wing light that seemed to be wavering, dipping and then rising in the night.
The last of the big, old flying fortresses limping home. It had been hit. It descended lower and lower, dark smoke coming from its left engine. Make it, you bastard. Watching while holding his breath, Strauss balled his fists.
Make it.
Finally the bomber touched down. Strauss let out a sigh of relief. A good omen. All back safe and sound. He didn’t know who he’d been telling to make it, Blum or the plane.
Tomorrow it would be he running out and embracing Blum and Mendl as they climbed out of the fuselage.
A Kiddush Hashem.
Whatever happened, Strauss knew he had picked the right man.
FORTY-EIGHT
THURSDAY.
At first light, the kapo came into the block where Blum had spent the night. He banged on the boards. “Everyone outside. Roll call. No delay! Outside, now! On the double!”
Everyone leaped out of their bunks and hustled out, running to take a quick piss or shit, wiping the sleep out of their eyes. The Blockführers were all outside. “Everyone line up by blocks,” they ordered. They were told to form rows of four in the main yard. Thousands of prisoners were milling around. The entire camp. No one had any idea what was up.
Blum had a bad feeling inside. What the hell was going on?
“Something must be up,” the person next to Blum said as they organized themselves into a line. “You rarely see it this way.”
A shiver of unease ran down Blum’s spine. He’d already cheated death once. He’d found Mendl. All he had to do was hide out in the numbers and make it to tonight, then they’d be out of here. But lining up, seeing the vast array of guards hustling everyone together, “Schnell! Schnell!” searching the barracks after they had been emptied, it was clear to him that there was a reason for this kind of attention. No one was being fed or readied for the work groups. Blocks were being counted. Every man. One by one.
If work was being delayed, something had to be up. It was almost as if they knew something.
The prisoners all stood there, thirty, forty minutes, until the entire camp was lined up in the vast staging area. Then a dark-featured major in full uniform and boots came up in front of them, clearly the man in charge.
The camp commandant, Blum suspected.
“What the hell is Ackermann doing here?” the man next to Blum wondered out loud. The man was short, with heavy eyebrows and large ears, and spoke in Czech, which Blum knew a smattering of. “And who’s that with him? We’ve got a visitor of some kind.”
“I don’t know.” Blum craned his neck to
see.
An important-looking colonel, his gray uniform jacket buttoned to the top, war eagle wings on his chest, walked aside the commandant.
“Intelligence.” The word spread down the line like wildfire. It traveled from block to block. “From Warsaw. Some big shot.”
“Intelligence…?” Blum’s neighbor grunted. “What the hell is an intelligence colonel doing here? Looking for something…”
Blum’s heart began to pick up. Any deviation from the normal routine was a worry, but this lineup, the entire camp, some Abwehr bigwig … Today, of all days. Going block to block, stopping in front of each man, the Rapportführer recording the names. Each barrack going through every prisoner both by name and by number.
This wasn’t for show. They were clearly looking for someone.
Blum inched up his sleeve and stared at the number burned into his wrist. A22327. Vrba’s number, but once it was matched up against whom it rightfully belonged to, the game would be up. They’d be able to trace it back to the block Blum was in now. And the false identity they’d created for him, Mirek from Gizycko, didn’t match up against any prisoner in the camp. He listened to the names and numbers being called out, craning, having lost sight of the two officers walking row to row.
“Berger. A33546.”
“Pecsher. T11345.”
“A transfer. From Theresienstadt,” the Czech muttered. “Like me.”
Blum’s heart began to pulse with worry. Strauss had warned him, this was as big a risk as any he would face inside. There was no way they were able to provide him a valid name and number. The numbers in the documents Vrba and Wetzler had smuggled back with him all belonged to people who were dead now.
The roll call grew closer.
What Blum needed was a name. A name that would match up against someone here and buy him some time.
Each block took about fifteen minutes to go through, the camp commander and his distinguished visitor weaving amid the rows as the names were called out. Time passed—forty minutes, an hour. Then two. Everyone was weary and going back and forth on the balls of their feet. They were on Block Nine now, only three until his. Blum looked around warily.
Occasionally, someone dropped in his tracks from exhaustion.
Suddenly the man next to him leaned over and asked under his breath, “You’re the one who came in last night, aren’t you?”
Blum’s heart stopped cold. He looked straight ahead and didn’t answer.
“From Twenty? You’re the one who bought himself out?”
Blum hesitated again, nervously watching the role draw closer.
“Abramowitz. A447745.”
“Aschkov. T31450.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got nothing to fear from me,” the man next to him whispered under his breath.
Blum looked at his wrist again. It would give him away. Mirek wouldn’t match up. What the hell, he’d be caught anyway. Blum glanced at the Czech and nodded. “Yes.”
Had he just signed his own death warrant?
“Well, you’re ahead of the game,” the man said. “Look over there, Twenty’s spot is vacant this morning.” Blum craned around. Indeed, all the people he knew whom he had stayed with two nights back were missing. Their space was empty. “Must have been something very special you gave up to get you off the list?”
Blum picked up the intelligence colonel again as he strode, arms behind his back, his gaze focused and narrowed, as they stopped in front of each man in line. They listened to the name and the number.
“Weisz.”
“Ferber.”
The Rapportführer checking them off on his board, one by one. Staring impassively into each prisoner’s face. As if he were looking for someone. For one man. Amid the thousands here. One man who he would know the moment his eyes set on him.
Him.
The closer they came, Blum’s blood began to course with fear.
“Krausz. A487193,” a prisoner called out. They were up to Block Ten now. Two to go.
“Hochberg. T14657,” said a transfer from another camp.
It was almost as if they knew. Knew he was here. Hiding out somewhere. Slowly tracking him down. But how…?
The call of names was drawing closer. Blum’s heart began to throb. Only one block to go.
“Halberstram. A606134.”
“Laska. B257991.”
The Rapportführer and the two officers moved on. “Twelve.” The clerk read off.
Blum’s block.
“Twelve! What happened to Eleven?” Blum said to the man beside him.
“There is no Eleven.” The man looked back at him curiously.
“No Eleven?” Blum let out a nervous blast of air. Mirek, it was then. What else? Now there were just a few more prisoners to go.
The intelligence colonel stopped in front of each man. Blum could see him now, if he leaned slightly forward. He was balding under his cap. The eyes of a patient and methodical man stopping, going face-to-face. A man who would not be deterred. Who would not give up.
“First row…” The Rapportführer stood in front of someone.
“Aschensky. A432191,” the man called out.
“Kurtzman.” The next man said his number and presented his wrist.
A bead of sweat traveled down Blum’s neck. He checked his number again, ready to show it. He caught the man next to him glancing over to him.
Was he a spy? All these questions he was asking. Blum had already told him. Would he expose Blum the moment they stood in front of him?
“Gersh. A293447,” a prisoner called loudly.
“Bodner. T141234,” said the next in line.
For a moment Blum contemplated just dropping in his spot like a few of the others. Maybe be taken to the infirmary. All he needed was to make it through the day.
“You need a name, don’t you?” the man next to him whispered, leaning over.
Blum didn’t answer. How had this person read his mind? And his fear. There were spies and informers all over this place. It would be worth a king’s ransom to root out an imposter like him. Someone who had bargained his way out of death last night. But now last night seemed a lifetime away. Now it was about just getting through this roll call.
“Row Four.” The Rapportführer came to the head of Blum’s row.
“Livshitz. A366711,” the first in line answered.
“Hirsh. 414311,” said another.
Blum’s heart had climbed in his throat now. Only ten or so until they got to him.
What to do?
“Yes.” Blum finally nodded to his neighbor with a glance of desperation, really more of a plea.
“Fisher,” the man whispered.
“Fisher…?”
“Use it. You’ll be safe. Everyone knows me here. You have my word.”
The commandant and the intelligence officer were only a few prisoners away now. Every cell in Blum’s body seemed set to burst like an overheated furnace.
“Liebman. A401123.”
“Halpern. T27891.”
They held out their arms.
The Rapportführer stopped at the man two down from Blum. The commandant’s gaze steady and penetrating, then they moved on. The colonel a step behind. Staring at each man with the look of a hunter who could spot his prey the instant he set eyes upon him.
“Koblic,” the person next to him announced. “A317785.”
“Seven, eight, five…?” The Rapportführer stopped and looked at the man’s wrist before he wrote it down.
“Yes.”
Then he stepped in front of Blum.
Blum’s heart stood as still, as if a single heartbeat would give him away. “Fisher,” he said, his mouth dry as sand. “A22327.” He raised his sleeve.
“Fisher…?” the clerk repeated, looking at the list.
The commandant and the intelligence colonel stepped directly in front of him. Blum was certain the name was a fake, and he was given away. That is, if his own face, which he knew was devoid of color, and the trail o
f sweat trickling down his neck had not already done so. He avoided the colonel’s eyes as he felt the heat from the intelligence officer’s gaze fix on him, intense as the focused light in a police interrogation room. Instead he looked at the block clerk and swallowed. “Yes.”
It wasn’t longer than a second or two that the colonel and the commandant fixed their gazes on him. Yet it felt like an hour. An hour in which he did everything he could just to hold himself together. Like they could see through him right to his core. He half expected them to remove their guns and order him to get onto his knees right there.
“Next,” the Rapportführer said, moving on to the short man next to Blum.
“Shetman.” The man presented his forearm. “T376145.”
The commandant and the intelligence colonel strode past.
Every cell in Blum’s body that a moment ago had been coiled as tight as a wire now relaxed, and he let a breath escape from him.
The two officers continued down the line. The call of names grew more distant.
Blum stood there, rigid as a statue until they moved farther away.
Then he heard the Rapportführer announce, “Block Thirteen.”
Blum exhaled. He glanced at the man standing next to him, sweat dampening his sides. “How did you know?”
The short man smiled and gestured to the writing on Blum’s arm. “Old number, new ink.”
Blum looked at it.
“Stick around here long enough, it’s the kind of thing you notice. I was a policeman back in Zilina. You’re lucky they didn’t pick that up.”
Blum nodded.
“Plus, everyone who’s been in this place a week knows about Block Eleven. Eleven’s where they take people. No one ever comes back. It’s a place you don’t ever want to find yourself.”
“Thanks.” Eleven. This was twice now he’d been spared.
“As you heard, my name’s Shetman,” the short man said. “Whatever it is you’re hiding is safe with me. Though God knows what it is you’re doing in this hellhole.”
He’d made it through the roll call. At least, until they matched up the names with numbers and saw the discrepancy. Then … Now all he had to do was get through the rest of the day. Then the dangerous part began …
