The Auschwitz Escape

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  It took only a moment, but soon all the men were standing, their bodies trembling, their knees shaking. One by one, they removed their underwear. Von Strassen shone his flashlight at their private parts. Three were found to be circumcised—a father, his teenage son, and his six-year-old son.

  “Away with them,” Von Strassen spat. “Send them to Auschwitz.”

  4

  MAY 13, 1940

  The German bombers kept coming.

  In town after town, Jean-Luc Leclerc could hear the air-raid sirens. But he refused to stop, refused to take shelter. He had one mission, and that was to reach Le Chambon, no matter what it took. He desperately wanted to hug his daughter Lilly, only six years old, and her sister, Madeline, not quite four. He wanted to hold them and never let them go. Even more he wanted to hold his beloved Claire. Surely she had heard about the German invasion. She was constantly listening to the news from Paris and London on the radio. He couldn’t imagine the anxiety she was going through.

  Finally, just after two in the morning, he reached his objective. As he pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse his parents had left him when they passed away a few years before, he could hear his two dogs welcoming him home. He could see lights coming on inside, and before he knew it, Claire was opening the front door, wrapped in a bathrobe and wearing no makeup. Her already-pale face went completely ashen when she saw all those who were in the pickup truck with her husband. Their clothes were torn. Their hands and faces were covered in blood and dust. They looked as shell-shocked as they felt. What’s more, they were hungry and thirsty and exhausted and grieving their families and friends and the town they had left behind.

  “I heard, on the wireless,” Claire said without missing a beat. “It’s all anyone is talking about. Thank God you’re okay. Come in. All of you, please come in. We will get you something to eat and give you a place to sleep and a hot bath. Come in; don’t be shy. You’re with friends here.”

  Luc herded them all inside. In the commotion, he didn’t get a hug or a kiss from Claire after all. She was too busy scrambling to help the others. It did not bother him in the slightest. He knew they would be alone together soon enough. For now she was doing what she did best—serving those who needed her most. She was remarkable that way, Luc thought. It was a gift she had, and he loved to see her use it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her comfort each guest and get them settled in the living room or the dining room. She looked up, and he caught her eye. She winked at him, and he returned the favor.

  The girls, he assumed, were surely tucked in bed and asleep. He would check in on them in a minute. First Luc turned and walked outside to the truck. He opened the passenger-side door and gently put his hand on Monique’s shoulder. She was sound asleep, her arms wrapped around Jacqueline’s frail little body, the pink party dress all ripped and dirty and covered in blood.

  “We’re home, you two,” he whispered. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  After some initial resistance, Monique finally roused, and Luc got them inside and settled upstairs in the room that once had been Monique’s when they were growing up. Now it was a guest room, quiet and cozy and safe.

  Luc went to fetch them some fresh towels and brought back a pot of tea and some fruit as well. Monique nodded her thanks but said nothing. She just began to weep softly again. So Luc held his eldest sister until both of them heard Jacqueline stirring on the bed, asking for her daddy. At that, Luc gave Monique a kiss on the forehead, slipped out of the room so the two of them could be alone, and closed the door behind him.

  He peeked in on Lilly and Madeline. They were fast asleep, cuddled together in the same bed, holding their little blankets and stuffed animals. Lilly’s right arm was draped over her younger sister. Luc said a prayer over them, then kissed them both and quietly slipped out of their room.

  As he came down the stairs, Claire appeared around the corner, a load of towels and fresh linens in her arms. She gave him a quick kiss and a weary smile. “Was that Monique and Jacqueline you just took up?” she asked.

  “Yes. I put them in the guest room, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” Claire said. “But will there be enough room for Nic? Actually, come to think of it, where is Nic? I haven’t seen him yet.”

  Luc looked down at his feet. Then he told her the awful truth.

  5

  Luc finally collapsed into bed just after four o’clock in the morning.

  He knew he would have to be up soon. As soon as the sun peeked its head above the wooded hills behind their home, he and Claire would need to care for their own children as well as make breakfast for all their guests.

  There was so much to do, so much to decide. How long would everyone stay? They certainly couldn’t go back to Sedan, but could they really stay here? Monique and Jacqueline could, of course. But how could they house and feed and care for the others? Hopefully most of them had relatives in safer parts of France and could go there. That might take some time to sort out, but at least it would be a start. But for right now, it was too late. Both Luc and Claire were physically and emotionally spent, and they needed a little shut-eye.

  It was not to be. No sooner had both of them closed their eyes than they were awakened by someone furiously pounding on the front door.

  The two bit their lips and forced themselves out of bed. As they threw on their bathrobes and slippers, they speculated—in whispers, so as not to wake up the others—as to who could possibly be calling on them at such an hour. Luc figured it must be Pastor Chrétien or Pastor Émile—his colleagues at the church—or maybe the mayor, come to check on them and see if there was anything he could do to help. Surely they all would have heard the news on the wireless about the invasion of northern France. But Claire said no. Why would the pastors or the mayor come so early in the morning? Surely they would wait for daybreak, wouldn’t they? No one in his right mind would be pounding on their door in the wee hours of the morning unless it was an emergency, she insisted. Then the same thought hit them both at the same time. What if it was the police or even the army?

  The pounding continued. Ever more fearful that the whole house would be awakened by the racket, the couple made their way quickly to the vestibule.

  When they opened the door, they were startled to see not the pastors or the mayor but a family on their porch. There was a father who appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. There was a mother, too, not much younger, and three children—two boys and a girl—none of whom seemed older than fifteen or sixteen. Luc had never seen any of them before. Indeed, he had never seen anyone like them. Not in these parts. The father had a full beard, carefully groomed and going gray. He was dressed in a black suit and a black fedora with a white shirt and polished black leather shoes. The mother wore a dark-blue silk blouse, a black skirt that went down to her ankles, and a pretty silk scarf over her head. The children were fairly well dressed too, all of which seemed a bit out of place on the porch of a farmhouse before sunup. But what was most striking about them was not their clothing but the fear in their eyes.

  “Monsieur Leclerc?” the father asked, his voice tired and gravelly.

  “Yes, that is me,” Luc replied. “Do I know you?”

  “No. But my name is Léon Halévy. I know your brother in Brussels.”

  “You know Philippe?” Luc asked, startled by the connection.

  “Of course, and Muriel and little Simon.”

  “Are they safe? Where are they now?”

  “I do not know,” Mr. Halévy said. “We are Jews. My father owned the building where your brother and his family rented a flat. When my father passed away a few years ago, he left the building to me. I became your brother’s landlord. We’ve known the family for years. But when rumors of the Nazi invasion began several weeks ago, we made preparations to flee. We begged Philippe and Muriel to come with us. They are, I must say, our dearest Gentile friends. But they did not think Hitler would really do it. We pleaded with them, ‘Come wi
th us. There is no more time.’ But they refused. I’m afraid we could not wait any longer. Last Tuesday we fled the city. It broke our hearts to leave our friends and our home, but we simply couldn’t take a chance on being captured by the Germans. We hear they are sending Jews to work camps all over Europe.”

  Luc looked at Claire. He could hardly believe what he was hearing, yet sadly it all rang true. He had been writing to his brother for months, urging him to bring his family to Le Chambon. But like Monique, Philippe would have none of it. He said he didn’t have time to read Hitler’s manifesto, Mein Kampf. He was not a “political man,” he said. He had no time for rumors of war or invasion. He was a violin teacher. He had his classes, he had his lessons, he had his students to think about.

  Looking back at the man, Luc asked how they had found their way to Le Chambon.

  “Your brother spoke of you all the time,” Mr. Halévy replied. “He spoke of this little town. He loved it so. He spoke of his childhood here. When we fled Brussels, we started for Switzerland, but we don’t know anyone there. Then my wife thought of Le Chambon. She thought maybe we could find shelter here. This is why we have come. Is that true? Might you take us in, at least until we can figure out what to do next?”

  Luc tensed. He wanted to say yes. He couldn’t imagine saying no, not to any family that was fleeing the Nazis and especially not to a family who were friends with Philippe and Muriel. But neither could he bear to look over at Claire. The house was full. They had no idea how they were going to care for all those who had already come. He could only imagine the enormous burden she must be feeling, and now this? It wasn’t fair to her. As much as it pained him, he would have to say no. They weren’t running a refugee center. They were just putting up a few people for a few days. That was all.

  But before he could utter a word, Claire spoke. “Of course you can stay with us, Mr. Halévy. Come in; please come in.”

  6

  Luc felt he was living in a nightmare.

  As the days passed, the group staying in his home settled into a routine of sorts. Night after night, the group gathered for dinner around the radio. Luc would invite Mr. Halévy to read a psalm and then say a blessing for the food as they all bowed their heads. Then Lilly and Madeline would serve baskets of freshly baked bread, and Claire would serve the meal, often one of her homemade soup recipes since money was tight and soup went the furthest. As they ate, they would listen to the latest news from Paris, as well as from the BBC in London. None of it was good. Not ever.

  On the night of May 15, they listened in shock to details of Holland surrendering to the Nazis. By May 28, Belgium had formally surrendered too, though they had long since been overrun. They listened in silent horror to report after report of German forces blazing and murdering their way through northern France and moving steadily toward their beloved Paris. They couldn’t imagine the Germans actually seizing the capital, but on the night of June 10, the BBC reported that the French government had begun evacuating Paris. Four days later, they wept upon hearing reports of the Nazis entering and occupying the capital. Soon the French were signing an armistice with Hitler. Prime Minister Reynaud was stepping down. Before they knew what was happening, the eighty-four-year-old Marshal Philippe Pétain, a puppet of Adolf Hitler, was suddenly the head of a new French government operating not out of Paris but out of the town of Vichy. To make matters worse, they heard reports that Hitler’s forces were heading to northern France, now known as the Occupied Zone, while allowing Pétain to administrate the center and south, ostensibly now known as the Free Zone, though it could hardly be truly free with the jackboot of der Führer on their necks.

  In the meantime, none of the folks who had come from Sedan with Monique and Jacqueline had departed. Nor had the Halévy family from Brussels. Homeless and shell-shocked, none of them seemed to know where else to go or what else to do. The Europe they had all known, the Europe they had all grown up in and loved, was gone, in the hands of a madman who was now attempting to conquer Britain and North Africa as well.

  Luc and Claire gathered in their bedroom late at night, after each day’s work was done, after everyone else had gone to sleep, after they themselves had washed and changed and gotten ready for bed. Together, they got down on their knees and prayed. They thanked the Lord for having mercy on them all, for saving their lives and providing for their essential needs. They asked for mercy for their country and the whole of Europe. They took turns praying for specific family members or friends.

  Most of all, they pleaded with the Lord for wisdom. What exactly were they supposed to do with a houseful of people? How were they supposed to care and provide for them while meeting their own needs? They had no idea. A pastor’s allowance didn’t go far. Monique had money, but it had probably all been stolen by the Nazis by now.

  Still, there were some glimmers of hope. Luc’s fellow pastors were becoming a great support. They had no problem with caring for so many people. To the contrary, they were thrilled. In a wonderful answer to prayer, Chrétien and Émile and their wives brought over bushels of fruit and vegetables to help feed everyone. They brought fresh clothes so the group didn’t have to wear the same things day after day.

  One morning, Émile showed up with new identity papers for each person and a plan to move most of them in with other families, including his own, to lighten the burden and not draw so much attention to Luc and Claire, lest the authorities start asking questions.

  Chrétien showed special kindness to the Jewish family. Hearing rumors that Jews throughout Nazi-occupied Europe were being forced to wear yellow stars, he brought them new papers that said they were French citizens and Gentiles, and he brought them clothes to make them look like locals. One afternoon while visiting Luc and Claire, he smiled and declared, “What an honor to be chosen to care for God’s chosen people.”

  Luc reflected on that for the next few days. He hadn’t really thought about it as an honor. It just seemed the right thing to do. The Bible commanded him to love his neighbors. Weren’t these his neighbors, even if they didn’t believe the same things he believed?

  Then one day he heard the whistle of the daily one o’clock train pulling into the station. A few minutes later, he heard more pounding on his front door. To his astonishment, there were three families—more than twenty people total—standing on his front porch. They were dressed much as the Halévys had been dressed the night they arrived, and they had that unmistakable look of fear in their eyes.

  “We’ve heard you take in Jews,” said one of the elders of the group. “Is it true?”

  This time, before he’d even taken time to think about what he was doing, Luc heard himself saying, “Of course. Come in; please come in.”

  7

  TWO YEARS EARLIER

  NOVEMBER 9, 1938

  SIEGEN, GERMANY

  Jacob Weisz feared the power he held in his hands.

  The power to shatter. To wound. To take a man’s life. But his uncle Avraham assured him he was doing nothing wrong. To the contrary, Avi insisted, this was his duty, and this was his moment.

  “There is a time for every activity under the sun,” Avi explained. “That’s what Solomon said. A time to give birth and a time to die. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time for war and a time for peace. It’s not for us to choose our times, Jacob. But we must be ready when they come.”

  His uncle’s words sounded wise. They might even be right. But they didn’t help. Not here. Not now.

  Jacob gripped the walnut-wood stock of the Mauser rifle. It felt heavy and cold in his hands. He didn’t want to do it. He had never wanted to. But who was he to talk back? He was just a boy, only seventeen. His days were not his own to plan. Neither was his destiny.

  Jacob could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, and try as he might, he could not slow his breathing. He wiped the perspiration from one hand, then the other, then steadied his grip on the Karabiner 98.

  He had no idea where the rifle had come from. It simply seem
ed to appear one day in the little cabin in the forest, his uncle’s “home away from home.” Jacob had never asked him where he got it, nor would he.

  Slowly, Jacob pulled back the bolt until he heard the single round lift from the magazine. Then, as carefully and as quietly as he could—trying to remember everything his uncle had taught him—he pushed the bolt forward until the round entered the chamber and the bolt locked into place.

  Jacob lay absolutely still, flat on his stomach on the cold, hard ground, covered in leaves, deep in the woods on the leeward side of the mountains near the little town of Siegen. It was a place he knew well. He’d grown up on these slopes. He’d spent every summer hiking and jogging up and down the entire range, alone and with his uncle. He knew every cave, every outcropping, every coppice. It was one of the joys of his childhood, a season that was now hurriedly setting like the sun over the ridge just above him.

  Though he didn’t understand it all, Jacob understood that a terrible darkness was falling upon the land. Just a few years before, Adolf Hitler and his Brownshirts had surged to power. Now they held Germany by the throat. The Gestapo was rapidly creating a cruel and brutal police state that treated all but true Aryans like dogs and swine.

  That was certainly true for Jews like the Weisz family. In just the last few years, they and all of the Jewish families in Germany had been stripped of their citizenship and denied many of their most basic rights. Jacob’s father, an esteemed professor of German history, had been summarily fired from his prestigious post at Frederick William University in Berlin. The Weisz family had been forced out of their beautiful, spacious home in the suburbs of the capital. They’d had a big red J stamped on their official papers and had been denied permission to leave the country. So they had left Berlin and made a new home in Siegen.