The Auschwitz Escape

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  But the trouble hadn’t stopped. Longtime family friends had begun to avoid Jacob’s family. He’d seen his father openly mocked in the street. Jacob, too, had been taunted, spat upon, even beaten up once by a gang of Brownshirts. His parents forbade him to retaliate or to do anything that could provoke further hostility. But now Uncle Avi said the time to fight back had come.

  “It’s time, Jacob,” Avi had said. “You’re no longer a boy. You’re becoming a man. What are you now—five feet eight, 160 pounds?”

  Jacob shrugged and mumbled, “Something like that.” Actually, he was now five-ten, 170 pounds. But he was not one to correct his elders.

  Ominous thunderclouds hung in the late-afternoon November air. A storm was coming. It was not the first of the season, but Jacob sensed it would be fierce. The shadows around him were growing longer. The temperature was growing colder, and now the soaring, bushy, aromatic pine trees were swaying in the breeze.

  Jacob could faintly detect the smell of a wood fire off to the east, off toward Siegen, and he imagined it wafting to him from his very own home. He wondered, if only for a moment, what his mother and Ruthie were preparing for supper. Ruthie was only nine, but she was Mama’s little helper and already an accomplished cook. His mouth began to water.

  Maybe they’re making veal schnitzel. Maybe latkes. Maybe even some apple strudel for dessert. His favorite. Could it be?

  Jacob pictured them cooking and talking and laughing together in the kitchen, as they loved to do so often. He could see his father stoking the fire, then easing into his rocking chair. Maybe he was sitting down to a good book. Jacob hoped so. A pall seemed to be settling over their country and their home, and Jacob ached for the clocks to be turned back, for life to return to the way it had been before Hitler’s rise to power, when things were simple and sweet and calm and quiet.

  Jacob liked things quiet, and now he wished he were back in the three-story house his uncle owned on Rubensstrasse. How he longed to be sitting around the hearth, sipping hot tea and listening to Papa tell tales of adventures in faraway lands. Sometimes his mama asked Jacob to get out his grandfather’s violin and play something from Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, or Mendelssohn. In a perfect world, Jacob would finish high school and go to a conservatory to become one of the world’s great violinists. He dreamed of attending the National Conservatory of Music in Leipzig, founded by Mendelssohn himself. He dreamed of holding an actual Stradivarius in his hands. But it was not a perfect world. Far from it.

  And suddenly he could feel his uncle’s immense disapproval.

  Focus, Jacob, he could hear Avi saying, though not a word was spoken. The only sound was a hawk downrange and the slight rustling of Jacob’s target just ahead. No distractions. No confusions. Just clear your head and focus.

  Jacob closed one eye and squinted with the other. He’d hesitated long enough. He didn’t want his uncle to think him cowardly or indecisive. He was a good boy. Good and quiet and obedient and true, and he knew the sooner he did it, the sooner it would be over. Looking through the scope, he adjusted for the crosswind and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion echoed across the mountains and down the Westphalia valley. And for a moment, Jacob’s heart seemed to stop.

  “You missed,” his uncle sighed.

  Jacob watched helplessly as the red deer scampered away and every bird for a kilometer scattered and screeched. And suddenly he felt cold and lonely. He hated to let anyone down, least of all his uncle. But once again he had.

  Only a few weeks had passed since his uncle had begun teaching him to hunt. His skills were improving, and he knew he would get the hang of it eventually. But he also knew that hunting for food wasn’t his uncle’s primary objective. Avi wanted Jacob to know how to defend himself and his family. But Jacob had been uneasy about all of it from the start. His father forbade any discussion of guns, much less the handling of them. His mother would smile and say if God wanted Jews to hunt for their food, he would never have created butchers. Little Ruthie was too young to care. But Avi was insistent that Jacob learn to handle a weapon—and in the process tell no one.

  “Az men krigt zikh miten rov, muz men sholem zein miten shainker,” Avi had said when he first put the rifle in Jacob’s hands.

  The old Yiddish proverb could be roughly translated as, “If you’re at odds with your rabbi, make peace with your bartender.” His uncle offered no explanation, but as Jacob had chewed on its meaning, he had concluded that Avi meant something like, “Always be prepared” or “Have a plan B.” The problem was, Jacob didn’t want a plan B. He didn’t want life to change. He wanted things to be the way they had always been.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last, handing over the rifle and a handful of unused bullets.

  “You should be,” his uncle said. “Do you want your family to starve?” Avi didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He wasn’t joshing. He was deadly serious.

  Then, without saying another word, he turned toward the path and headed back down the mountain.

  Jacob stood there in the forest alone, chilled to the bone, stinging from his uncle’s rebuke, covered in mud, and fighting back tears.

  8

  Jacob said nothing on the long hike back to the cabin.

  For the first half hour or so, Avi was silent as well. He seemed uncharacteristically sullen, his thoughts far away. But eventually the burden on his heart seemed to lift, if only for a while, and he relaxed. He slowed his pace, let Jacob catch up, and then began to talk. That was a good sign, Jacob thought, for Uncle Avi always talked when he was in fine spirits.

  As he talked, Avi seemed to forget the fact that his nephew had missed everything he had fired at that day—two rabbits, a pheasant, and the deer. He seemed deeply satisfied just to be teaching his brother’s only son to hunt. For the better part of the next hour, he told stories of how he had learned to shoot from an uncle of his and how Jacob’s father had refused to go hunting, regarding it as beneath his station. Never one to miss an opportunity to teach his young protégé, Avi kept shifting from German to Polish to Slovak to English and then back to German—all languages Jacob knew well or in which he was steadily becoming proficient.

  Jacob was good at languages. With a remarkable memory, he picked them up quickly even if he used them infrequently. Small talk had never been his strong suit.

  “Enough of all that,” Avi said, patting Jacob gently on the back. “Let’s get this place squared away and then get you back home as quick as we can. I can only imagine what your mother and Ruthie are cooking up.”

  Jacob moved immediately to the kitchen to wash the few dishes in the sink. Then he watched silently as Avi pulled back the tattered carpet and pried up several floorboards. Under the floor was an enormous steel trunk about five feet long and several feet wide, sealed with a large combination lock. Avi bent down, dialed in the combination, and opened the trunk, revealing a stash of four additional Mauser rifles. He quickly replaced the fifth rifle in the trunk and closed and locked the case. Then he opened a smaller steel box, where he stored the spare rounds.

  Soon Jacob was folding and storing their blankets and pillows. Then he tidied up his growing collection of history books, novels, textbooks, and encyclopedias in the range of languages he was expected to master. Each was a precious gift from Avi. Jacob’s parents had no money to buy books anymore. Indeed, ever since his father had been fired from the university, they had barely enough money to make ends meet. Avi, on the other hand, was never without plenty of reichsmarks, and he was the most generous man Jacob had ever met, especially when it came to Jacob’s education.

  More than four years had passed since Jacob last stepped into a government school. His formal education had come to an abrupt end when der Führer had risen to power as Reich Chancellor in 1933. It was then that Jacob’s father, the renowned Dr. Reuben Weisz, had been “relieved” of his duties at the university. Soon the family had lost their house, their savings, and most of the people they once thought were their frien
ds.

  That’s when Avi had stepped in to help. He’d offered his elder brother the opportunity to manage the metalworking shop he owned in Siegen. And he had invited his brother’s family to live in the town house on Rubensstrasse at a reduced rent.

  A proud man, Dr. Weisz had initially turned down the offer. He was a scholar, not a tradesman or a clerk. This was Germany. He was lettered. He would teach. He would write. He would publish and support his family along the way. But soon it became painfully obvious that these were no longer options for Jews in Germany. How Uncle Avi continued to own and run several businesses, Jacob had never understood. He dared not ask. He was simply grateful. After all, it had soon become painfully obvious that the Weisz family had no options but Avi’s metalworking shop. So they said yes and moved 414 kilometers southwest of the German capital, just over five hours by car, to the picturesque little town of forty thousand souls on the river Sieg.

  Jacob had feared everything about the move and the hardships on the road ahead. To his surprise, however, it hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared—difficult, to be sure, but bearable. His mother taught him mathematics, literature, and language at home during the day. His father taught him German history and world history and culture in the evenings. And whenever he could get away from his factories, Uncle Avi came and took him up into the mountains to hike and to fix things and learn to work with his hands.

  Jacob climbed into the passenger seat of the gray two-door Adler Standard 6 as Avi locked up the cabin. Soon they were wending their way through the thick growth of trees and carefully proceeding down the mountain.

  “So, young man, is there a fräulein that has caught your eye?” Avi asked out of the clear blue.

  Jacob was grateful night had fallen. Perhaps his uncle wouldn’t see his face turn red. He shrugged as if the answer were no.

  “Nonsense,” Avi said. “A fine-looking young man like you, Jacob? Strong. Tall. Good face. A kind and gentle soul. You must be driving all the girls at shul crazy.”

  Jacob’s mouth went dry. He knew his uncle was just teasing, but he hated being put on the spot. Especially on this subject. So he mumbled something and hoped the topic would change quickly.

  The truth was, though he was loath to admit it, a young girl had caught his attention. Naomi Silver. She was also seventeen. Her family lived just around the corner, over the clock shop that her father owned. She, too, loved playing the violin. In fact, her teacher was the same as his, and her biweekly lessons finished just before his began. She was even more shy than he was. They rarely talked. He certainly had not made his feelings known to her. But every now and then she would catch his eye as she walked out of her lessons, clutching her violin by her side, and she would smile at him.

  There was only one problem. Well, two, really. One, of course, was that he had never gotten up the nerve to talk to her, even though he sensed that she respected him, perhaps even liked him. The other was that his friend Hans Meyer was interested in her too—and Hans was much better looking and much more outgoing than Jacob. Plus, he had a motorbike. It was his brother’s, actually, but Hans often “borrowed” it and really got girls’ attention when he did.

  Jacob had never confided in Hans how much he liked Naomi. But earlier that week, Hans had told Jacob that he liked her and was planning to invite her to an upcoming concert. Inside, Jacob was devastated, but characteristically he had kept his feelings to himself. No one knew what Jacob Weisz was really thinking. Not Naomi. Not Hans. Not his family. Not even Uncle Avi, though Avi seemed to understand Jacob better than most.

  Fortunately, before Jacob was forced to reply, the sedan rolled off the gravelly mountain path. He saw Siegen as they came around a bend, and when he did, his eyes went wide. The night air was filled with a strange and eerie glow. He could see flames shooting twenty, thirty, maybe forty feet into the moonless sky, and not just from one building but from dozens. “What is it, Uncle?” he gasped. “What is happening?”

  At first Jacob was merely bewildered. But he quickly grew scared. There was madness in the air, a sense of frenzy he had never seen or felt before. As they entered the outskirts of Siegen, Jacob could see people running from all directions. People he knew. Neighbors of theirs. He assumed, of course, they were rushing to put out the fires, but the deeper they drove into town, the clearer it was that this was not the case at all.

  As they turned up Hundgasse Street, they found their way blocked by a crowd—at least a hundred strong—gathered in the middle of the street in front of Herr Berger’s shop. Herr Berger was Siegen’s tailor. He was a fine, sweet man and a devout Jew. His son, Eli, was also a tailor and a close friend of Jacob’s father as well as the cantor at their shul.

  The crowd was shouting, screaming obscenities, their faces contorted. They were pounding on Herr Berger’s front door, demanding he come out, but to no avail. Then someone in the crowd threw a stone through the shop’s front window. Someone else lit a torch and tossed it into the shop, and it, too, began to be engulfed by flames, like so many other shops nearby.

  Flames leaped from the structure. Billows of thick, black smoke poured forth. Then suddenly Herr Berger came rushing out the front door. He fell to his knees before the crowd, pleading for mercy. But the mob gave him none. They descended upon him in a blind rage, punching and kicking him as he shrieked in agony.

  Jacob was aghast. Herr Berger was old, in his late seventies at least. He was growing frail, and his hearing was beginning to fade. But he was a hard worker, meticulous in his craft, and Jacob regarded him as one of the kindest men in the town.

  “Why, Uncle?” Jacob asked. “Why are they doing this?”

  Abruptly, Avi pulled the Adler around a corner onto a street that, for the moment at least, was as quiet as it was deserted. Avi slammed on the brakes and shut down the engine. Then he turned sharply and stared into Jacob’s eyes.

  “Because he’s a Jew,” Avi whispered. “They’re killing him because he’s a Jew.”

  9

  “Stay here,” Avi ordered, jumping out of the car.

  “Why? Where are you going?” Jacob asked, seeing a look in his uncle’s eyes he’d never seen before.

  “Just stay here,” Avi insisted. “If you’re in danger, run straight home. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find you later.” He slammed the door and headed for the mob.

  Jacob couldn’t comprehend what was happening. His uncle wasn’t actually going to try to save Herr Berger, was he? Avi was unarmed. He was vastly outnumbered. It was suicide.

  Jumping out of the car, Jacob raced up the street, then grabbed his uncle and swung him around. “Uncle, stop!” he said.

  “Get back in the car,” his uncle ordered.

  Nearby, Jacob heard what he thought was more windows being smashed, but when he turned to look, he saw a group of wild-eyed teenagers not much older than himself tossing fine china, lamps, and other valuables out a second-story window. It was the flat owned by Mrs. Lowenstein, Jacob realized, the grieving widow of Rabbi Lowenstein, so recently departed due to a massive heart attack.

  “Kill the Jews! Kill them all!” someone shouted.

  “Go back to the car, Jacob!”

  “No, Uncle, we need to get off the streets now. We need to—”

  “I’m not going to say it again,” Avi ordered, his voice low and fierce. “Go back to the car, now.”

  “I beg you, don’t do this thing,” Jacob pleaded.

  “You wouldn’t have me act to save this man’s life?” Avi asked, his countenance signaling a brutal combination of anger and disappointment.

  Jacob didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to sound cold or callous. He wasn’t a mean, heartless person. He did feel compassion for Herr Berger and for Mrs. Lowenstein, too. But none of that overrode the sheer terror he felt at that moment. Nor did it override his absolute certainty that if he didn’t stop his uncle from this act of madness, they would both be dead in minutes.

  “Please, Uncle—take me home,” Jacob fi
nally said, staring at his muddy boots.

  “No, you answer me,” Avi growled, grabbing both of Jacob’s shoulders and forcing his nephew to look him square in the eye. “You’re really telling me you wouldn’t act to save a man’s life?”

  Jacob tried to look away, but Avi wouldn’t let him. He tried to answer, but the words would not come. He was trembling. His eyes were filling with tears. He hated confrontation. He was tongue-tied and embarrassed. He feared that at any moment the crowd would be finished with Herr Berger and would come rushing around the corner looking for new victims for their pogrom.

  “I don’t . . . I just . . . ,” he stammered, confused and defeated. “I’m sorry, Uncle—I . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Again he looked down at his boots. He genuinely expected his uncle to slap him, drag him back to the car, and lock him in. But something else happened, something he did not expect.

  “Actually, you do know, Jacob,” Avi said, his voice suddenly gentle and curiously warm, his grip on Jacob’s shoulders now loosening. “Didn’t you just try to save my life?”

  At that, Jacob looked up into his uncle’s eyes. But before he could reply, he heard a voice calling them into a doorway. He was startled by how close it was and how familiar. He hadn’t realized anyone was nearby.

  “Herr Mueller?” Avi said, squinting in the darkness. “Is that you?”

  “Get in here, you fools,” the voice said.

  Avi quickly obeyed the older man, and Jacob followed, stepping off the street and into the man’s bakery.

  Standing before them was Herr Mueller. He was as pale as a ghost. “Something has happened,” the baker said. “Something terrible.”

  “Yes, we know, Herr Mueller,” Avi replied. “We just saw the mob and we—”

  “No, no, something worse,” Herr Mueller said. “Something unspeakable.”

  The man’s hands were shaking. Beads of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. His eyes were red and moist and somewhat glazed.