by Jay Winik
At Hobcaw, Roosevelt kept to a simple routine, but his aristocratic heritage was on full display. In a bedroom painted a subdued green, he looked out his window across a shaded lawn sloping down to the bay. He slept late, usually until 9:30 a.m. but sometimes later, and went to bed early, at 9:30 p.m. Every morning he flicked on the reading lamp by his mahogany bed and took his time reading the newspapers. When he felt up to it, he fiddled with his correspondence. Daily, a special plane from Washington brought documents that required his presidential signature, and Roosevelt got into the habit of addressing those at dusk, before his customary one or two martinis and his seven o’clock dinner.
But mostly, he rested.
In the afternoons, the president napped after lunch and then later frequently took little outings: he cruised up the Waccamaw River in Baruch’s yacht or fished from the pier or at the freshwater pond at Arcadia. He took jaunts to see the plentiful wildlife, like snipes, opossums, snakes, or, just as often, deer and wild boars. He traveled to see the exquisite Belle Isle Gardens, where there were magnificent trees and an old fort. On some days, there was no destination other than simply to drive. He was crazy about driving. And once, in a rare moment of solemnity, he paused at the tip of the plantation, where he saw the weathered markers of British soldiers who had fallen during the Revolutionary War. Another afternoon was spent on the coastal beach of the neighboring Vanderbilt plantation, where Roosevelt watched as other men stood at the water’s edge and practiced surf-casting, sending their fishing lines out into the waves, while nearby his little dog Fala dug holes in the sand. Roosevelt also spent several hours fishing around Winyah Bay in a Coast Guard patrol boat.
And he sunned himself on the tremendous bayside terrace of Baruch’s mansion. From there, he could watch the moss-covered oaks swaying in the breeze, gaze out on the azaleas in bloom, or follow with his eyes as Fala bounded across the lawn and played with a black cat. Roosevelt now stayed permanently in his wheelchair. His leg braces had been all but discarded; they came out only for public appearances. And during this month, he was all but out of public view.
When he wasn’t sleeping or sightseeing or fishing, there was plenty of time for socializing. These were some of his happiest moments. At the noontime and evening meals, he was surrounded by those whose hearts burst with affection for him. He enthusiastically ate with his little group, including his daughter and his cousin, not to mention his two doctors and assorted officials who came down from Washington, D.C. Eleanor also made the journey to briefly check up on him. One afternoon, Roosevelt entertained the Australian prime minister and his wife. Each day feeling a little stronger and a little better, he would rumble incessantly about whatever topic entered his mind, keeping his company spellbound with stories about politics and policy and the old days, especially the virtues of catching bass and bream; he and his old friend Baruch also freely reminisced. Dr. Bruenn called Roosevelt “a master raconteur,” and this was not far off the mark. At lunch and dinner alike, in Bruenn’s words, Roosevelt “animated the conversation.”
Even in his condition, he was a feast of a character, dwarfing those around him. And he was playful, teasing the small pool of reporters who idled around with the ostensible purpose of covering him. Once, he ordered them a round of bourbon.
The trip, however, was not without problems. Every day one of Roosevelt’s bitterest foes, William Ball, the editor of a Charleston newspaper, the News and Courier, wrote pieces lambasting him. The president typically shrugged these off; but Baruch, with his southerner’s penchant for manners, traveled sixty miles to Charleston to tell Ball that the harsh editorials should stop as long as the president was visiting.
WHATEVER RESPITE HOBCAW OFFERED, difficult problems remained to be solved. There were questions of what the peace would look like; questions of surrender; questions of battle on the Normandy shores; questions of the Japanese threat, at home and abroad; and questions of the mounting loss of life under the Nazis, in combat and among innocent civilians alike. Could the United States and the Allies act? Would they act? These were all issues awaiting the president’s leadership. And many wondered, would Hobcaw Barony give Roosevelt the same opportunity for rest and inspired thinking that the USS Tuscaloosa had provided in the Caribbean at the start of 1941, when he developed his audacious policy of Lend-Lease to save the British war effort? For the president and those who depended on him, there was nothing left to do but wait.
HOWEVER, AT AUSCHWITZ THERE were two men who refused to wait, who were running as hard as they could among the towering birch trees until they stumbled into open ground. Hurling themselves to the grass, Vrba and Wetzler now began to crawl. They knew they were working against the clock; they could not afford to be visible when daytime arrived. They also knew there were land mines in the area, but there was nothing they could do about that. Eventually the two men reached what they first thought was a stream; in fact it was a moat of—what? Ashes of the dead? Vrba cautiously put out his hand. He touched sand, smooth white sand. He knew that sand, any sand, was deadly. “Once we trod on it,” Vrba thought, “our footsteps would be arrows for the patrols to follow as soon as it was light.” But there was no choice, the sand stretched in a wide ring. So Vrba and Wetzler raced forward, plunging toward an area of land thickly covered with low scrubby bracken. In the dark, the men could not run, nor could they crawl. They could make out the shape of signposts, but neither of them felt brave enough to strike a match and read what any of the signs said. Dawn was fast approaching, starting to break in the eastern sky. They were dirty, had barely slept in three days, and were weak from hunger. But they pressed on, gasping for breath at every step. In the distance, they saw the contours of a forest. Thick trees offered cover and seclusion. If they could get that far, perhaps they could keep a jump ahead of the Germans.
Then Vrba saw another signpost. Were they near a town? He carefully scanned the German words: “Attention! This is Auschwitz Concentration Camp. Anyone found in these moors will be shot without warning!”
Somehow, they were still inside the camp. It had never occurred to Vrba just how huge the complex of Auschwitz was. By now, a bright pink light threaded the sky. Vrba and Wetzler were completely exposed. They knew they needed to get to the forest.
Then they heard the faint sound of German, and cursing and shouting. Just over a quarter of a mile away, they saw a work detail of emaciated women shuffling along, being beaten by armed SS men. Even here the scent of death clung to Auschwitz. Wetzler and Vrba flattened themselves on the ground, panting in fear. But the sounds did not come closer. The prisoners and the SS overlords moved on; the fugitives remained unseen. Yet for now, they knew they could not stand up again. For the next two hours, they remained flat on the ground, crawling and slithering through a field of young corn, through hollows, dips, and ditches. Meanwhile, the darkness had become the first sliver of dawn, and the first of dawn became daylight. The sun was overhead when they finally reached the forest and made their way into the thick firs. At least they now had the cover of the trees. They pushed on as quickly as they could until, right in front of them, they heard dozens of voices. Vrba and Wetzler dived into some bushes, and, peering out, saw a large party of Hitler Youth, knapsacks slung over their shoulders, out for a hike and a picnic. Near the two men’s hiding place, the young Germans sat down underneath the trees and began to munch on their sandwiches, laughing, playing, and swapping jokes. Vrba and Wetzler slowly crawled into a bush, and lay still. “We were trapped,” Vrba recalled, “not by the SS this time, but by their children!”
Then a hard rain began to fall.
The rain became a downpour, and the Hitler Youth grabbed their knapsacks and raced off. The ground was soaked, and so were Vrba and Wetzler. Undeterred, they marched through the mud and the muck for several hours, eluding yet a second SS patrol with another band of female prisoners, until they finally found a thick patch of bushes. By now, although the cocktail of adrenaline and fear had been keeping them going, they were so ti
red they could barely think.
Burying themselves inside the brush, the two men drifted off to sleep for the first time in four days.
AS THEY SLEPT, THOUSANDS of SS troops were combing the countryside or were on heightened alert looking for the two Jewish escapees, just as they had looked for all the other fugitives they had caught. No Jews had ever successfully escaped from Auschwitz.
The telegraph wires of the SS continued to chatter with nearly unprecedented urgency. The Waffen SS major, Hartenstein, cabled reports of the breakout to an agitated Gestapo command post in Germany. Copies of the telegram raced across the Nazi realm, landing on the desks of the SS administrators at Sachsenhausen, of every Gestapo chief, of each of the SD (Sicherbeitsdienst, or Security Service) units, and of each criminal police unit. Of course, it also went to all the headquarters along the borders. The upper reaches of the Third Reich and even Himmler himself had been informed of the escape. And the telegram underscored the priority of the search: Vrba and Wetzler were explicitly named and identified as Jews. The telegram closed: “Request from you further search and in case of capture full report to concentration camp Auschwitz.”
VRBA AND WETZLER HAD no idea of the full extent of the search for them, but if previous escape attempts had taught them anything, it was that prisoners on the run were a top priority. They also knew that eventual capture and torture, followed by public execution, were only one possibility. Vrba remembered that the Soviet POW, Dimitri Volkov, had warned him to stay away from people, and for good reason: German soldiers and citizens alike were told to shoot Jews, or for that matter “unidentifiable loiterers,” on sight. In turn, the Polish citizens were told that if they helped prisoners escaping from Auschwitz, or aided partisans fighting the Nazis, they would be executed.
Vrba calculated that they had about eighty miles of Polish countryside to cross before reaching the relative security of the Slovak border. As much as possible, they would follow the current of the Sola River, which flowed in an almost straight line from south to north. But still, every inch from here on in was laden with difficulty. For one thing, as they were acutely aware, by this stage they both stood out conspicuously. They were unwashed, they stank, and they were extremely pale. Their faces bore evident traces of suffering. Despite their Dutch overcoats, they looked ragged and unkempt. They had no papers. And they had no food or water except what they could forage.
But they had no options except to stumble forward until they were in friendlier territory.
At first, they knew only what they could see before them, which was nothing but inky blackness stretching from the horizon behind them to the one beyond. Then, a few hours later, they looked up and, to their horror, saw the dark, familiar outlines of watchtowers, huts, and labor materials. Watchtowers? Huts? After two nights and a day on the run, they had yet to leave the confines of Auschwitz; they had merely gotten as far as one of the satellite camps. And they knew that as soon as dawn broke, the towers would be manned and they would be visible on the flat, open ground. Hearts pounding, they backed away from the watchtowers. Finally, as the sky lightened to gray, Vrba and Wetzler spotted a wooded area. Slipping into it, they found a cluster of bushes. Quickly, they began breaking off branches of trees to cover themselves. Concealed by these branches and the bushes, they heaved a sigh, and once more rested, believing they had found a safe spot.
Actually, they hadn’t. When the smoky light rose off the ground and the sun climbed overhead in the morning, the two men awoke with a shudder. They were not in a patch of woods; they were in the middle of a park. And not just any park, but an elite one, reserved for only the SS and their families. Along the paths near the bushes, SS officers in their green uniforms fondled their girlfriends or strolled beside their wives; SS dogs wagged their tails and romped over the grass, racing up to sniff the bushes; and SS children, all dressed up, their blond hair seemingly perfectly in place, frolicked and giggled, running in all directions. Lying motionless in the bushes, Vrba and Wetzler watched it all, wondering if their luck had run out and this would be their end.
Suddenly, two children, who had been playing nearby, ran right up to the bushes. Vrba and Wetzler found themselves staring directly into their wide, round eyes.
“Papa,” one child cried out. “There are men in the bushes. Funny men.”
Vrba and Wetzler had already glimpsed the father, wearing the uniform of an Oberscharführer, a pistol in a holster slung low across his hip. The two men pulled out their knives. The father raced over to the bushes and stared, looking at them from head to toe. Then he turned around and shooed his children away. The last Vrba saw, the Oberscharführer was speaking in hushed tones to his stricken-looking wife. They had lucked out; the German had assumed they were Nazi homosexuals, having a tryst. For now, the search had faltered. Having survived this scare, Vrba and Wetzler were acutely aware that the Nazi net had to be drawing ever tighter around them. They stayed put until dark, then they headed in what they believed was the direction of the Bezkyd mountains.
THE BEZKYD (BESKIDS) MOUNTAINS—TO this day the origin of their name remains a mystery—traced the frontier of Slovakia to the east and Poland to the north, and stretched from Czechoslovakia in upper Moravia all the way to the Ukraine. At their high point along the Polish-Slovak border they were about 3,500 feet above sea level, with a landscape consisting of long, rolling hills covered with forests and pastures. Giant fir trees rose into the sky, and cool, snow-fed mountain creeks cut across the valleys. Meanwhile the hillsides were dotted with little villages.
Throughout the day and into the evening, Vrba and Wetzler marched on.
In the distance, they saw lights flickering. They thought it must have been the town of Bielsko; if so, they were going in the right direction. Their plan was to sidestep the town, and hence its people, and continue south toward the border. But as the lights of the town were extinguished one by one, until it was pitch-black, Vrba and Wetzler lost their way. One of their greatest fears was that somehow they would get turned around—and end up moving back toward the Germans. With their next steps, they might as well have been. Rather than avoiding the town, they wandered too far west, and soon found that they were picking their way down its main streets. The sun was slowly rising, and it was just a matter of time before they were discovered by a patrol of armed militias. Bielsko was exactly the wrong town to be in. Jews there were not allowed to declare that they spoke Yiddish, and during the war the town had extinguished most of them. Moreover, though it was in Poland, about 85 percent of its inhabitants were German-speaking.
Scanning for patrols, they crept out of the town. But they could not get back to the safety of fields and forests. Their only option was to head to the small neighboring village of Pisarovice. Yet now they were no longer walking in the motionless hours before the first light of dawn. By the time they reached it, day was breaking. If they were seen, that would amount to a death sentence; indeed, wandering through a small village was exactly how the four Slovaks who had broken out of Auschwitz before them had been captured. Vrba and Wetzler knew their only option, chancy as it was, would be to seek help. If they knocked on the door of an anti-Semite, someone who hated the Jews as much as the Nazis did, they were finished. If it was the home of a German, they were equally done for. Even the home of a sympathetic Pole was a risk.
Having no other choice, they saw a neat but weathered house tucked away on a street where chickens freely ambled about. They slunk into the backyard and, hoping against hope, anxiously rapped on the door.
The door opened a crack, and an elderly woman with a young girl at her side called out to see who was there. She was a solid-looking peasant and clearly a partisan. Vrba and Wetzler greeted her with the traditional Polish words, using their best Polish accents: “Praise be to the name of Christ.” “May His name be praised forever, amen,” she replied, and invited them in.
“I’m afraid my Russian is not very good,” she said hesitantly, “but you speak Polish well. Now you must be hun
gry.” She invited them into her kitchen, where they had a small meal of boiled potatoes washed down with substitute coffee. She was a talkative woman, wasting little time in detailing the situation for them. The open country, she explained, was constantly patrolled by the Germans; therefore, traveling in the daytime involved incalculable risks. Thus, she stressed that they would need to spend the evening here. The safe haven of the mountains was a number of hours away. As if signaling that Vrba and Wetzler could trust her, she added that one of her sons was dead and the other was in a concentration camp. Whether it was Auschwitz or another camp, she didn’t say.
Then suddenly the door opened. Vrba and Wetzler leaped to their feet, prepared to fight or to run. But the caller was only an elderly man, smoking an ancient pipe, who said good morning and asked them if they could help chop a pile of wood. Grateful to still be alive, they happily got to work. It was like a dream. Never before had they been so thankful for a place to work, a place to eat, and a place to go to bed. That night, the old Polish woman provided them a meal of “potato soup and potatoes” before leading them to a barn, where on a mound of hay they blissfully drifted off to sleep.
AT THREE O’CLOCK IN the morning Vrba felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
It was the old woman, speaking quickly, telling them that it was time to leave. She gave them coffee and pressed 4 Polish marks into Vrba’s hand. He demurred, remembering his friend Volkov’s advice not to take any money. She insisted that he take it, “just for luck.”
Now on the eighth day of their journey, they marched off in the darkness, toward the snow-flecked mountains.
THEY WALKED AT NIGHT, when it was colder, by threads of starlight or the round glow of the moon, searching for natural ruts in the fields or the dirt. They slept during the day, hiding as much from the wild animals that roamed the woods as from people. The hours of exhaustion and tedium dragged on, but they never stopped. Almost miraculously, two days later they were at the halfway point en route to Slovakia. Their goal was always the same: to wander for hours without seeing a soul.