The Auschwitz Escape

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Underground?” Jacob’s father whispered in horror. “Do not utter such a word in this house. Are you mad?”

  Jacob could not stay upstairs any longer. He crept down the next flight of stairs, step by step, as quietly as he could, and peeked around the corner to see precisely what was happening and hear everything more clearly.

  “Hear me out, just for a moment—I’ve made all the preparations,” Avi continued, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Everything you need is in here. False ID papers, passports, train tickets to Switzerland. My car is parked around the corner. You have ten minutes. Pack some clothes—just the basics—and your valuables, but nothing more. I will take them to my cabin. And tomorrow, we will make our move.”

  At this, Dr. Weisz became livid. He was clearly incensed that his younger brother had taken the liberty—indeed, the risk—of having false papers made on their behalf. Jacob watched in silence as his father and uncle argued in hushed voices so the neighbors—and, God forbid, the SS informants who lurked everywhere—wouldn’t overhear. His mother slipped away into the kitchen, presumably to put on a pot of tea. But Jacob had no intention of going anywhere. He wanted to hear everything. He knew his uncle was right. He was grateful Avi had made such preparations to get them out of Germany. Now he silently begged God to make his father agree and let them all escape while they still had a chance, however slim.

  “Jacob, what are you doing here?” his father said suddenly, for the first time noticing his son spying from the stairs.

  “Well, I, uh—I just came down to—”

  “Quiet,” his father ordered in a sharp whisper. “You want the neighbors to hear you? Go to your room. This isn’t for you.”

  “But, Papa, I—”

  His father glared at him. “I gave you an order.”

  Jacob’s hurt turned to a flush of anger, but he held his tongue. A son’s flagrant disobedience was only going to inflame an already-volatile situation. He turned away from his father, nodded to his uncle, and went to the second-floor landing.

  “All the way up, young man,” his father snapped, knowing his son all too well.

  Jacob’s fists tightened. But again he said nothing and did as he was told. When he reached his room, he slammed and locked the door behind him, his one act of defiance—and a childish one at that, he told himself.

  His heart was racing. He needed fresh air. He wanted to get out, to run. But he was trapped in the attic for now, so he lay on his bed and again stared up at the exposed rafters above him. Outside, lightning flashed, and thunder shook their house. Then the downpour began. He looked out his only window, but it had already fogged up. He wiped it clear, if only for a moment, and saw the deserted streets filling with water and mud.

  Jacob was furious at his father, but he forced himself to calm down and start to think clearly. Then the thought struck him. What if his uncle persuaded his parents to leave? Time was fleeting. He had to be ready.

  He jumped up, pulled out the suitcase he stored under his bed, and began to pack everything he would need for the journey ahead. Two sweaters, two pairs of pants, a couple of T-shirts, and some underwear. As many pairs of socks as he owned. A pair of dress shoes, a dress jacket, and two ties. Then he put on his usual shoes, tied up the laces, put on a black sweater and a winter coat, and sat on the bed, waiting for his father—or better yet, his uncle—to knock on the door and say it was time to leave.

  Ten minutes went by.

  Then fifteen. Then twenty.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Jacob got up, quietly went over to his door, unlocked it, and tried to open it without any creaking. He held his breath and listened for yelling, for voices, for any sign of life and movement. He heard nothing.

  Taking a chance, he went to the bathroom, grabbed his toothbrush, and crept down the stairs to the second floor. If caught, he would say he was just going to wash up before bed. And then he heard the door between the kitchen and the living room open.

  “What happened to Avi?” he heard his mother ask.

  “He left.”

  “But I made you both some tea.”

  Jacob heard his father mutter something. The man clearly was not interested in tea. He was pacing.

  Jacob heard his mother set down the tray of teacups and sit in her creaky rocking chair. There was a long, awkward, painful silence, broken only by the sound of their ornately carved grandfather clock ticking monotonously in the corner.

  “What’s in the envelope?” his mother asked at long last.

  Jacob strained to hear every word.

  “The papers he had made.”

  “I thought you didn’t want them in this house.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well?”

  “He wouldn’t take them back.”

  There was another long silence, and then Jacob heard his mother speak again. “Maybe he’s right.”

  “Who?”

  “Avi.”

  “About what?”

  “Maybe we should join my parents in London. They begged us to go with them. Now Avi is—”

  “Sarah, please; don’t start this nonsense. We may be Jews, but we’re also Germans. Loyal Germans. This all will pass in due course. Herr Hitler’s days are numbered, and everything will be restored to how it once was.”

  “And what if it isn’t?”

  “You must have faith, my dear.”

  “My faith was shattered the day they killed Ruth,” Jacob heard his mother say. “Your brother is right. We should leave now, before they kill our only son, as well.”

  But Jacob’s father would have none of it. “It’s getting late. We should get some sleep.”

  Not wanting to be found on the landing, Jacob scooted up to his room and blew out his candle but left the door ajar in case there were any other tidbits of conversation he might overhear.

  There was no way he could sleep now. He couldn’t even change into his nightclothes. There was no space in his tiny room to pace, so yet again he lay on his bed, listening to the rain pelting against the roof and window, his mind churning with one question after another. Where was Avi going now? Was he going to leave Germany without them? Would he really leave and not say good-bye?

  Jacob felt cold and lost and scared.

  – – –

  Soon Jacob saw himself running through the woods at night.

  He was alone, running in the moonlight, and finally he reached his uncle’s cabin. The lights were off. The Adler was not there. He saw himself pounding furiously on the front door, but no one answered. Where was Avi? Would he ever see him again?

  Suddenly Jacob sat bolt upright in bed. He was covered in perspiration and realized he’d been having a nightmare. Now he could hear heavy pounding on the front door. He could hear his father scrambling down the stairs, shouting, “Just a moment; just a moment.”

  He didn’t remember ever having fallen asleep, but as he wiped the fatigue from his eyes, he glanced at the little clock on his dresser, the one he had bought from Naomi Silver’s father. It said it was 3:09 in the morning. Jacob was confused. He was still dressed, still had his shoes on.

  Outside, the rain persisted, cold and blustery.

  The pounding continued. Avi, Jacob thought. It must be Uncle Avi. He’s come back to get us. But he was wrong. Dead wrong.

  17

  “Where is he?” bellowed an angry voice Jacob had never heard before.

  “Where is who?” Jacob heard his father reply.

  “Where is Avraham Weisz? He is to be placed under arrest.”

  Jacob’s heart was racing. He moved to the window. He heard boots marching on the street below, and to his horror he now saw several black cars parked out front. It was the Gestapo. They had come for Avi.

  “Arrest?” he heard his father say. “On what charge?”

  “Sedition. Treason,” came the reply. “Don’t play stupid with me, Dr. Weisz. Your brother is a leader in the Jewish underground. Now where is he?”

  “I don’t
know. Really, I don’t. He was here last night. But he left hours ago. He should be back in Cologne by now.”

  “I have men waiting for him there,” the Gestapo agent said. “But I don’t expect him to return. The word is he is leaving—leaving tonight—with you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I will give you one more chance to tell the truth, Dr. Weisz.”

  Jacob moved to the top of the stairs. He wished he were at his parents’ side. He could hear his mother crying. She was already in such a fragile state. Jacob feared the trauma this would now induce. And then his heart nearly stopped as he heard the unmistakable sound of someone chambering a round in a Luger.

  “If I find you are lying to me, Dr. Weisz . . .”

  “Please, no—I beg of you, have mercy,” Jacob heard his father plead. “I don’t know where he is. Truly I don’t. But yes, he’s planning to leave the country.”

  Jacob gasped. He, too, was afraid, but he couldn’t believe his father was so quickly betraying his very own brother. And then it got worse.

  “He brought us papers,” his father continued. “False papers, passports, train tickets—here—here they are. All of them. We told him we didn’t want them. We’re loyal Germans. We’re—”

  “Silence!” the Gestapo agent ordered. “You are Jews, not Germans. You are dirty, filthy kikes! How dare you claim to be loyal to der Führer?”

  Now Jacob heard soldiers smashing furniture and lamps and dishes. Were they just trashing the house for no reason, or were they hunting for something else, something more than the papers?

  “Now, Mrs. Weisz, where is your brother-in-law?”

  There was no reply.

  “I’m going to count to three, Mrs. Weisz. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to shoot your husband in the temple, right in front of you. Do you understand?”

  Jacob could hear his mother becoming hysterical now, pleading for mercy that was never going to come.

  “And then, if you still won’t tell me, I’m going to shoot you. Have I made myself clear? One . . .”

  “No, please, I beg of you. Don’t do this thing.”

  “Two . . .”

  “We don’t know. He was here, but he left.”

  “Three.”

  “We don’t know where he is now. He could be anywhere. He could be—”

  Jacob heard the gun go off and his mother scream in terror.

  “Did you think I was lying, Mrs. Weisz? Did you think I wouldn’t do it? Now, I will count to three one more time, and you will tell me what I want to know. Ready?”

  All the blood had drained from Jacob’s face. Tears were streaming from his eyes. His trembling hands covered his mouth. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare make a sound. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He wanted to race down the stairs. Maybe with the element of surprise he could tackle the Gestapo agent. But how long could he last? He knew he would be shot by the other agents within seconds. How he wished he had one of Avi’s rifles. How he wished he had become a better shot.

  “One . . .”

  Jacob’s mind searched desperately for answers.

  “Two . . .”

  What should he do? Jacob wondered. What could he do?

  “Last chance, Mrs. Weisz. Where is Avraham?”

  She was weeping, begging, pleading, but to no avail.

  He had to do something, Jacob told himself. He couldn’t just let them kill her.

  “Time’s up, Mrs. Weisz. I am very disappointed.”

  Suddenly Jacob heard his mother scream at the top of her lungs. “RUN, JACOB—RUUUUUNNNN!”

  And then the gun went off again.

  Jacob heard his mother’s body drop to the floor. For a split second he froze, barely able to make sense of the nightmare unfolding below. But then he heard the sound of heavy boots coming across the living room floor and heading up the stairs. Instinctively he jumped up, ran back to his room, threw open the window, and jumped out onto the roof.

  In the driving rain, the tiles on the slanted roof were slick. Jacob lost his footing almost immediately and started sliding toward the street three stories below. Grabbing the edge of the brick chimney, however, he stopped his fall at the last minute. Then he pulled himself to his feet and leaped to the roof of the house next door.

  Behind him he heard several shots ring out. He glanced back and saw a Gestapo man standing in his window, aiming his Luger at him and firing again and again.

  Without thinking, Jacob turned now and began to run. He was scared of slipping in the rain and falling ten or fifteen meters and breaking every bone in his body. But he was even more scared of being shot down like a dog. He had no choice. It was flee or perish.

  So he was running now atop his neighbor’s roof, and soon he was leaping from roof to roof. He could hear yelling and more gunfire. But he would not look back again. He could not. There was no time. He knew every step could be his last. He raced down the entire block, twenty-two houses in a row.

  Soon all sound faded away. He couldn’t hear a thing. Not the dogs barking. Not the sirens wailing. He didn’t notice the whole neighborhood was now awake. He didn’t see every family he knew peering out their windows. None of it registered. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins. All he could think about was escaping certain death.

  At last, Jacob reached the final house on the block—Hans Meyer’s house—and didn’t hesitate for a moment. He slowed to a halt, crouched down, grabbed hold of the storm drain running along the edge of the roof, and holding it for dear life, swung down until his feet crashed through the window of a room much like his own, a window situated on the third floor in a little attic bedroom. It was the room Hans shared with his older brother, Wolf.

  The expression on Wolf’s face was one of shock and a touch of anger, Jacob thought. Hans was shocked, too, but he actually burst out laughing. Hans laughed when he was nervous.

  Jacob had no time to sit and talk. He shook the glass shards off of him, threw open the bedroom door, and raced down both flights of stairs, nearly knocking over Hans’s father as he blew through the living room and out the back door.

  Moments later, he was dashing across Rubensstrasse, down a dark alley, and over to Tiergartenstrasse. He turned right, staying in the shadows, close to the houses, running toward the auto repair shop about halfway down the street. He knew the place well. The shop was where Hans’s brother worked as a mechanic and where he kept his motorbike. Jacob knew the keys were hanging on a nail in the wall of the main office.

  Reaching the back of the shop, Jacob picked up a rock and smashed out a window. He used the rock to scrape away the remaining glass, then climbed inside the shop, found the key, hoisted up the main garage door, and started the motorbike. Soon he was zigzagging through the streets of Siegen until he found the main thoroughfare and headed toward the mountains.

  There was no question where he was going, only whether he had enough petrol to get there. He had no money. He had no change of clothes. He had no idea if he’d find Avi when he got there. But he was alive, and for the moment at least, he was free.

  It took nearly an hour to reach the cabin. Fearing SS patrols and possible Gestapo roadblocks, Jacob did not take the usual route. To be even more careful, he didn’t drive straight to the cabin. Rather, he parked and hid the motorbike several kilometers away, then proceeded to hike through the woods in the glow of the moonlight, just like he had done in his dream.

  After nearly twenty minutes of walking in driving rain that showed no signs of letting up, Jacob thought he smelled smoke. Coming up over a ridge less than five hundred meters from the cabin, he suddenly saw enormous flames leaping into the night sky. Standing around were at least a half-dozen Gestapo men holding submachine guns and laughing among themselves.

  Jacob just stood there, staring at Avi’s cabin being consumed by the blaze. What had become of his uncle? Had he been captured by the Gestapo? Had he been tortured and killed? Was he in the cabin, being burned alive?
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  A thousand cruel thoughts engulfed his mind. Dimly he thought perhaps he should drop to the ground, so as not to be seen. But he didn’t move. He was completely stunned by the scene before him, numb from grief, and in danger of slipping into shock. Everyone he loved was gone. Everything he knew was over. Where was he supposed to go now? What was he supposed to do?

  Just then, someone grabbed him from behind. Before he knew what was happening, a gloved hand was over his nose and mouth, and his legs were kicked out from under him. He hit the ground hard and found himself lying face-first in the mud. The gloved hand tightened its grip. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even breathe.

  “Don’t make a sound,” someone whispered in his ear. “Just listen carefully, and do exactly what I say.”

  18

  Jacob’s captor finally rolled him over.

  Jacob closed his eyes and braced for impact. He waited to be struck—or shot. When nothing happened, he slowly opened his eyes. The shock of what he saw overwhelmed him, but he finally exhaled. His heart started beating again. For the face staring down at him was Avi’s.

  “Follow me,” Avi ordered. “Keep your mouth shut, and don’t look back.”

  Immediately they were on the move, away from the burning cabin, away from the Gestapo agents. But they were not returning to get the motorbike. The roads were not safe. If they were going to get away, it was going to be on foot.

  The journey was more grueling than anything Jacob had experienced before. Racing through the mountains, fording rivers, traversing open fields, they kept moving all night, stopping only occasionally to scoop some water from a stream or listen to see if anyone was following them or near them at all.

  As dawn came, Jacob was exhausted. But the two men did not stop moving. They were not running now. They were walking, but Avi set a brisk and steady pace. Jacob wanted to stop. He wanted to ask Avi if they could rest, even for a little while. But he had been told not to say a word, and Jacob knew their very lives depended on his obeying. At least the pain in his feet and in his belly from lack of food and the fatigue permeating every fiber of his being kept his mind off the fact that he would never see his parents or his sister again. And at least he was reunited once again with Avi, and this gave him a measure of comfort, however small. Avi would know what to do. He would know how to get them out of Germany, out of danger, and to their relatives now living in London.