Thoughts swarming in his mind like a disturbed beehive, Edek hammered absently at the roof in the new Mexico compound, next to the Russians from Wiesław’s block.
“Where your head today, comrade?” Kolya called to him jokingly in his bad Polish after Edek hissed in pain and brought his finger, throbbing, to his mouth. “Try get yourself in sickbay with broken hand? Hammer for roof, not fingers!”
After spending nearly every evening in Wiesław’s block, Edek had grown friendly with the Soviet prisoners of war. They were strange men, secretive and slightly frightening still. What appeared to be lack of discipline and snubbing of authority to an outsider was, in fact, the strictest set of rules that guided all of their decision-making. After befriending the one they’d addressed as the Professor, the man who had brokered peace between Wiesław and Kolya (it was Edek’s most profound conviction that the Professor was a senior officer who had only survived because his men had remained silent and thus saved his life), Edek realized that they had their own system of justice as well. If they suspected an informant within their ranks, they court-martialed him on the spot and submitted an official report to their new block clerk Wiesław—number so-and-so fell off his bunk and broke his neck, make sure you take him off your list for this morning’s roll call—with unemotional, still faces. Wiesław shuddered each time he recounted the affair to Edek.
But their cold-blooded sense of justice rivaled only their hot-hearted sense of brotherhood and loyalty that Edek had never encountered among the other nationalities inside the camp. Either it was their political ideology that held them together like glue—the worst offense he’d heard from the Soviets was that something was not a behavior worthy of a good communist, which invariably sent the offender hanging his head in shame—or their military code, but they stuck by each other with the tightness of a wolf pack and snapped their teeth at outsiders who threatened their members.
What amazed Edek the most was how organized and well-informed the Russians were. The Professor and Kolya, his adjutant of sorts who followed on his heels and watched after his master with the loyalty of a guard dog, brought newspapers into Wiesław’s private room and shared the frontline news with their block clerk and Edek in exchange for some vodka and tinned sardines. To Edek’s question as to where they were procuring such dangerous contraband—anyone found in possession of a newspaper was automatically sentenced to several weeks in a Strafblock, the dreaded prison barracks with their standing cells, which few could brag about surviving—the Professor had only grinned slyly.
“There are many civilians working in the Mexico compound, where the breakers’ yard is and where we disassemble the downed airplanes,” he’d explained in his impeccable German, his language of choice. “Some of them are sincere sympathizers. Some are savvy enough to know what’s good for them in view of the Red Army approaching. They consider it good business to aid us with whatever we need.”
And suddenly, the words uttered by Jozek, the inmate in charge of assigning prisoners to different blocks and work details, about why the Russians worked in such a difficult unit began to make a whole lot of sense. They had their civilian connections there. The war was still going on and they were already plotting for the future. However, as Edek had recently discovered, there was another reason.
“Summer is coming,” the Professor had declared during one of their evening meetings, his eyes once again concealed behind his spectacles reflecting the light at an odd angle. “Perfect timing for joining the partisans in the forests.”
So, contrary to their belief, Edek and Wiesław weren’t the only ones entertaining the idea of an escape. The Russians had their own plans and their own escape route they were presently preparing somewhere in the Mexico compound—at least such was Edek’s personal conviction.
Pulling himself out of his musings with difficulty, Edek moved closer to Kolya. “Comrade,” he began in a very soft voice. “Do you think it’s possible to smuggle a woman out of here?”
Even if Kolya was surprised, his broad face betrayed nothing. “A woman?” he considered, positioning a plank into its place. “Possible. You just have to dress her like man.”
At first, Edek turned away, annoyed by the dismissive attitude. But a moment later, when it struck him that Kolya was very much serious and the simplicity of such a plan could be just the solution he had been searching for, he grasped the Russian’s great hand and shook it with great emotion. “Thank you, comrade. You have just saved my life!”
“Not if you get caught with your lady friend,” Kolya joked in his usual grim way, but nothing could dampen Edek’s spirits.
A warm spring breeze caressed his face and he closed his eyes against it. For the first time in years, he smelled freedom in the air—his and Mala’s.
Twenty-Seven
Mala was alone in the camp office that gray, dreary afternoon. Drafts howled in the deserted hallways; the heavy dome of the sky pressed down upon the camp like a coffin lid and the chill clung to Mala’s ankles; death was in the air.
Just a night ago, Zippy’s worst fears had materialized: her dear friend and mentor, the beloved Birkenau orchestra conductor Alma Rosé had taken her last breath at the camp sickbay and even the infamous Dr. Mengele who’d been summoned to her deathbed wasn’t able to save the celebrated violinist. He’d been visibly upset, Zippy had announced, her eyes wet with unshed tears. It appeared that the one whom they rightfully called the Angel of Death had been genuinely fond of Frau Alma’s playing.
Mandl was also openly mourning her favorite mascot’s death. When Zippy asked if a memorial service could have been arranged for Alma, the women’s camp leader displayed a surprising degree of enthusiasm and even went as far as permitting Zippy to organize funeral wreaths for the Music Block and the sickbay, where the late conductor’s body was presently lying—washed, dressed, and mourned by both inmates and SS personnel.
Mandl herself kept blowing her nose in her private office and powdering her face deathly white, but Mala still noticed her puffy skin and red-rimmed eyes. Though, to the SS woman, Alma Rosé’s death was a personal inconvenience more than anything. The camp leader wept for her with the injured look of a spoiled child who’d just broken their favorite toy.
“How could she do that to me?” That was the question she repeated with sincerest self-pity in front of stony-faced Zippy, vainly searching for sympathy in the inmate’s face. “I always treated her exceptionally well… Granted her all the privileges she asked for.”
Except for the most important one—saving Alma’s beloved pianist’s life.
No one said anything officially, but Zippy confided in Mala that it was poison.
“Poor Almschi just couldn’t take it anymore. After Miklós died, something died in her also. She went through the motions like a ghost, but the light was gone out of her eyes; the entire orchestra could see it.” A single tear rolled down Zippy’s drawn cheek. Under her eyes, devastated by such a personal loss, dark shadows lay. “He was the only person who gave her hope in this hell. Without him, life itself lost all meaning.”
Now, left alone in the office after Zippy and Mandl had gone to bid their farewells to Alma at the sickbay, Mala found herself replaying Zippy’s last words in her mind. She felt them deep in the pit of her stomach that kept contracting painfully with every breath.
He was the only person who gave her hope in this hell. Without him, life itself lost all meaning.
She understood Alma’s decision perfectly well just then. If she lost Edek to this camp, she wouldn’t want to prolong her senseless suffering either.
Before her, on the unusually cluttered desk, an order for a transfer lay addressed to camp leader Hössler. From its yellowish page, Hauptscharführer Moll’s name stared back at her in Gothic script as though mocking her with its foul presence.
With a moan, Mala wiped her hands down her face.
He was the only person who gave her hope in this hell.
“Edek, I’ll run with you,” she whisper
ed under her breath, “just take me away from here, for if I stay, I shall end up just like Alma.”
Just then, familiar navy-blue overalls appeared in the periphery of her vision. Exhilarated, she was about to leap to her feet but ended up slumping back into her chair, disappointed.
“Sorry.” The bear of a man, who was shifting from one leg to another in the doorway, grinned at her in apparent embarrassment. “I take it you were expecting someone else?”
“No, Jerzy.” Swiftly recovering herself, Mala greeted the Polish giant with an artificial, bright smile. “Come in. Can I help you with something?”
Just like Edek, Jerzy Sadczykow also belonged to the fitters’ Kommando. He was built like a professional boxer and had a face that intimidated even the infamous camp Kapo Jupp, but Mala was well aware that behind that threatening exterior beat the most loyal, kindest heart of pure gold. Also a camp underground member, Jerzy was held in high regard by Kostek and his mates from the Sonderkommando for procuring countless contraband for their cause from the main camp Auschwitz, where the Pole mostly worked.
“Are you all by yourself?” Jerzy asked in an undertone, maneuvering his giant frame between Mala’s desk and the radiator—a convincing disguise of a typical fitter at work, in case one SS or the other decided to stick their curious mugs into the office.
“Yes. Mandl and Zippy are at the sickbay, saying their goodbyes to Frau Alma.”
“That poor lady.” Jerzy shook his head, genuinely upset. “I heard her play several times. Such talent. Such a shame.”
A sad smile tugged at the corners of Mala’s lips. Jerzy was a man of few words, but somehow, he always managed to express precisely what everyone was feeling.
“So what was it that you needed?” Mala inquired, all business once again. She knew that his visits meant only one thing: some resistance affair was presently in planning.
“A razor or a hunting knife,” he replied in his usual conversational manner, as though listing products for the grocer from his shopping list. “Preferably two, but one will do. The sharper the better.”
Mala couldn’t help but arch her brow. “How many necks are you thinking to slit?”
“It’s not for me,” Jerzy explained, poking at the radiator half-heartedly with his wrench. “The Sonderkommando are organizing an escape for a couple of fellows. From what they told me, one of the men will be carrying certain compromising documents on his person. In case he gets caught, he’ll slash his own throat, just like his comrade, so that the Political Department won’t be able to get the names of their accomplices out of them.”
Silent and forlorn, Mala rubbed at her chest discreetly. All at once, a tightness gripped it, making it difficult to breathe. It overcame her just then, all these deaths, these voluntary deaths, so very avoidable and devastating.
“Do I know them?” she asked weakly.
Jerzy didn’t reply at once, working things out in his mind. “I don’t think so,” he replied at last. Mala wasn’t quite sure whether he truly meant it or said it just to ease the burden for her, the person who procured the weapons that would ultimately spill friendly blood.
Releasing a difficult breath, she nodded, determination once again entering her voice. “I have a Soviet girl, Rita, whom I personally assigned to the Kanada detail. She’ll get you the goods. Come and see me tomorrow, same time. I’ll have them ready for you.”
Comforted by the promise and visibly relieved, Jerzy grasped Mala’s narrow palm in his bear paw and gave it a gentle but thorough shake. “You’re a good comrade, Mala. I hope I’ll be able to reciprocate someday.”
Mala watched him go with a pensive look about her, a wild mixture of melancholy and the most desperate hope alight in her eyes.
Perhaps.
Someday.
“I visited Lubusch again. He promised to give me an SS holster and gun tomorrow,” Edek informed Wiesław as soon as the two exchanged warm handshakes. A week had passed since his conversation with Kolya which prompted Edek to renew his plotting with even more enthusiasm. “I suppose your recent appointment as a block clerk was a blessing in disguise after all. I’ll pass it to you during lunch break and you can hide it in your room. Everyone will be out working, so no one shall see.”
“My room is subject to periodic searches by the SS, since, you know, I have history.” Wiesław grinned crookedly. “But I made a special hiding place under the floorboards in the bread store, pushing a cupboard to cover the spot.”
“Even better.” Edek clapped him amicably on his back. “I’ll send someone with the message when the goods are ready. We’ll have to pass it through the wire. Lubusch will give it to me in his office; I can’t risk going through any checkpoints with a hidden SS holster and gun.”
“Of course not,” Wiesław agreed emphatically.
“Watch for Kapo Jupp though. You know how he’s famous for patrolling the area.”
Edek’s suspicions turned out to be justified. The Kapo was stalking the area near the ramp with a vigilance that would make any SS man proud. Only, his interest in the wire was purely self-serving: he simply confiscated his “share” and let the inmate go with a blessing in the form of a kick to the backside.
The afternoon descended upon the camp. A warm spring breeze, gentle and fresh, caressed his skin. Change was in the air; it smelled of hope and new beginnings and Edek inhaled it greedily, filled his lungs until he grew lightheaded and just a little bit drunk on the promise of it. Edek had very little time to spare—he was supposed to report back to his Kommando in fifteen minutes and, instead, he smoked and pretended to chat nonchalantly with Wiesław through the wire while Jupp watched them both with his hawk’s eyes.
“Will he never leave off?” Edek grumbled through his teeth. He felt nervous, sweat dampening his back. The hidden gun singed through his clothes like a red-hot poker. “Lunch break is almost over. I can’t go back to my Kommando with a blasted gun on me.”
“Just wait a little more.” Wiesław was smoking in agitation too. “He’ll lose interest in us soon.”
At last, Jupp spotted new victims a little further away and descended upon them with truly impressive speed.
As swiftly as possible, Edek unbuttoned his jacket and shoved the gun with its holster under the wire and straight into Wiesław’s awaiting hands. His eyes never leaving the Kapo, Wiesław pulled all of his clothes up and quickly fastened the belt atop his bare skin, pushing the holster against his shoulder. By the time Jupp turned to face them, already pocketing some commandeered contraband, Wiesław had adjusted his clothes and was walking away from the wire in the opposite direction from Edek.
“Hey, you! Schreiber!”
Edek’s breath caught. He had nothing to fear—Jupp was on Wiesław’s side, but his stomach plummeted all the same. Not risking openly stopping, Edek threw a glance over his shoulder.
“What have you got there, Schreiber?” Jupp was already poking Wiesław in his stomach with his Kapo’s stick.
In utmost horror, his heart beating wildly in his throat, Edek watched his friend hang his head and unbutton his jacket.
Dead. Both of us.
“The real stuff?” Jupp demanded, tossing his head at Wiesław’s belly.
Only then did Edek see the neck of a bottle poking from under the belt of his comrade’s breeches. Edek nearly laughed in relief. The old fox, he thought, shaking his head at Wiesław’s ingenuity for smuggling the bottle which Edek suspected was Soviet-supplied vodka as bait.
Kapo Jupp, meanwhile, was passing the parcel he’d commandeered from another inmate to Wiesław.
“Take it to the block and wait for me before you open that bottle, hear me?”
Wiesław dutifully clicked his heels.
“Run along, Schreiber.” Jupp laughed. “Today the Camp Kapo shall have a feast.”
That evening, while Jupp was drinking himself unconscious, Edek and Wiesław sat near the cupboard under which their ticket to freedom was buried and toasted the Kapo with broad smiles.
Without uttering a word, exchanging conspirators’ looks, they toasted to Lubusch and Szymlak and the Polish partisans they planned to join. If Jupp was drinking to his own health, they were drinking to freedom.
Twenty-Eight
April 9, 1944
There had been another escape. Two days later, the SS were still stalking about the camp with their Alsatians in tow, staring everyone down suspiciously. The culprits had miraculously avoided capture so far and, with each passing day, Edek’s hopes soared higher and higher. He didn’t even mind being stopped a few times on his way to Crematorium V, near which Mala and he had agreed to meet; fortunately, his innocent look and his toolbox, which pretty much explained his presence anywhere in the camp, saved him from further harassment.
When he finally made it to the crematorium, he saw that Mala wasn’t alone. Hands jammed in the pockets of her coat, she was talking animatedly with Kostek and his Sonderkommando mate, Filip.
Much to his astonishment, Edek recognized another familiar face in a group of conspirators. Jerzy Sadczykow, one of the fitters who shared the same block with him, smoked a cigarette with his gaze trained on the Mexico compound looming in the distance. Astonishment reflected on his face when he noticed Edek approaching his group.
“Are you…?” Sadczykow managed only two words, a look of disbelief creasing his brow.
“Yes.” It was Mala who replied to his unfinished question with a wry grin. “Edek’s with us as well.”
“I’ll be.” Laconic as always, Jerzy only replaced his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and shook Edek’s hand with emotion.
They’d never shared any semblance of close friendship, but at that moment, they sensed that something had shifted. Without knowing it, both belonged to the Auschwitz underground and such bonds were stronger than blood in that purgatory.
“Of course, I shall bring them food,” Mala already returned to the matter she had apparently been discussing with the Sonderkommando men before Edek arrived.
The Girl Who Escaped from Auschwitz: A totally gripping and absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 page-turner, based on a true story Page 23