The Auschwitz Escape
Joel C. Rosenberg
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The Auschwitz Escape
Copyright © 2014 by Joel C. Rosenberg. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of fence copyright © Stanislav Solntsev/Media Bakery. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of barbed wire copyright © Julian Ward/Media Bakery. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2005 by Joel C. Rosenberg. All rights reserved.
Designed by Dean H. Renninger
Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible,® copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
The Auschwitz Escape is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rosenberg, Joel C., date.
The Auschwitz escape / Joel C. Rosenberg.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4143-3624-4 (hc)
1. Holocaust, Jewish (1939-1945)—Fiction. 2. Auschwitz (Concentration camp)—Fiction. 3. Concentration camp inmates—Fiction. 4. Escaped prisoners—Fiction. 5. Jewish fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O832A94 2014
813´.6—dc232013044075
Build: 2014-04-08 10:45:30
To the memory of all those who were murdered at Auschwitz and throughout the Holocaust—
may you never be forgotten.
To the remarkable spirit of those who survived the Shoah—
may your lives and your witness be forever honored and blessed.
To all those unknown souls whose faith compelled them to risk their lives to rescue Jews from a terrible evil—
may your love be an example followed by others.
CONTENTS
Cast of Characters
Part 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 2 Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part 3 Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Part 4 Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Part 5 Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Part 6 Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Preview of The Twelfth Imam
About the Author
CAST OF CHARACTERS
GERMAN
Weisz Family
Jacob Weisz, young Jewish man originally from Berlin
Avraham (“Avi”) Weisz, Jacob’s uncle
Ruthie Weisz, Jacob’s younger sister
Dr. Reuben Weisz, Jacob’s father
Sarah Weisz, Jacob’s mother
Siegen Residents
Hans Meyer, Jacob’s friend
Naomi Silver, Jacob’s neighbor
Herr Berger, tailor
Eli Berger, his son
Herr Mueller, baker
Auschwitz Officers
Rudolf Hoess, Auschwitz commandant*
Colonel Klaus Von Strassen, director of security
Josef Mengele, Auschwitz doctor*
“Fat Louie,” camp guard
FRENCH
Leclerc Family
Jean-Luc (“Luc”) Leclerc, assistant pastor in Le Chambon
Claire Leclerc, his wife
Lilly Leclerc, their elder daughter
Madeline Leclerc, their younger daughter
Philippe Leclerc, Jean-Luc’s brother
Monique, Jean-Luc’s sister
Nicolas (“Nic”), Monique’s husband
Jacqueline, their daughter
Others
Pastor Chrétien, Jean-Luc’s colleague
Pastor Émile, Jean-Luc’s colleague
François d’Astier, former French ambassador to the U.S.
Camille d’Astier, his wife
AMERICAN
Cordell Hull, secretary of state*
Colonel Jack Dancy, military aide to President Roosevelt
William Barrett, senior advisor to Secretary Hull
Sumner Welles, undersecretary of state*
Henry Stimson, secretary of war*
Harry Hopkins, secretary of commerce*
BELGIAN
Maurice (“Morry”) Tulek, commander of a Resistance cell
Micah Kahn, Resistance member
Marc Kahn, Micah’s brother, a Communist
Henri Germaine, Resistance member
Jacques Bouquet, Resistance member
Léon Halévy, Jewish refugee
AUSCHWITZ PRISONERS
Jewish Prisoners
Maximilian (“Max”) Cohen, Romanian, works in “Canada”
Abigail (“Abby”) Cohen, his sister, works in the clinic
Lara, woman on the train to Auschwitz
Mrs. Brenner, woman on the train to Auschwitz
Marvin Eliezer, man on the train to Auschwitz
Leonard Eliezer, Marvin’s son
Josef Starwolski, Polish, works in the records office
Otto Steinberger, Czechoslovakian, registrar
Abraham (“Abe”) Frenkel, Czechoslovakian, registrar
Others
Leszek Poczciwinski, kapo in charge of “Canada”
Gerhard Gruder, block senior
Stefan, bakery worker
Andrej, bakery worker
Janko, bakery worker
POLISH
Jedrick, farmer
Brygita, his wife
* Real historical figures
It seemed that a prodigious cloud of toxic, nervous, and paralysing gas had engulfed the country. Everything was unravelling, falling to pieces and being thrown into panic like a machine that was drunk, everything was taking place as if it was part of an indescribable nightmare.
ANDRÉ MORIZE
1
MAY 12, 1940
SEDAN, FRANCE
“Evil, unchecked, is the prelude to genocide.”
It was a phrase Jean-Luc Leclerc had once read in an old book. It had caught his eye, and his subconscious had filed it away. At the moment he could not even remember who had written the book or what its title was, but neither was important. The book was forgettable; the phrase was not. Now, try as he might, he could not get it out of his head.
He felt as though every molecule in his body were shaking. Evil was on the march, and though everyone around him seemed bound and determined not to believe it, there was no question in his mind the Nazis were coming for them, for the people of France, all of them, with all their murderous fury, and he desperately feared the bloodbath that was coming with the jackboots and the broken cross.
Not that anyone was listening to him. And who was he, anyway, to think he knew what fate lay in store for his country? He was just a kid, really, only twenty-eight years old, and when he looked in the mirror every morning, he didn’t see anyone special. He didn’t stand out in a crowd. He was of average height and average build, with sandy-blond hair and bluish-green eyes set behind round, gold wire-rimmed glasses that made him look a bit more studious, even intellectual, than he really was. He’d always wanted to grow a beard—a goatee, at least—but even his adorable young wife teased him that his efforts were never quite successful. He had no great office or title or power, no money or fame or renown. He had no direct access to the political class or the media. He was, instead, a nearly penniless son of five generations of farmers. A Protestant in a nation where Catholics were by far the majority, he was a lowly pastor—actually merely an assistant pastor—in a little country church in the little country hamlet of Le Chambon, in the south of France, which no one had heard of nor probably ever would. Why should anyone take him seriously?
There was no reason, he told himself, but that didn’t mean he was wrong.
To the north, Winston Churchill was warning that Hitler wanted to take over the world. The new British prime minister had been saying it for years. No one had listened. Now der Führer was on the march, and France was not ready. Not the people. Not the politicians. Not the press. Not even the generals.
In Paris, they said the Germans would never dare to invade France. They said the Nazis could never penetrate the Maginot Line, the twenty-five-kilometer-thick virtual wall of heavily armed and manned guard posts and bunkers and concrete tank barricades and antiaircraft batteries and minefields and all manner of other military fortifications designed to keep the Germans at bay. They’d convinced themselves Hitler would never try to move his panzer divisions through the forests of the Ardennes. Those forests were too thick, too dense, too foreboding for anyone to move tanks and mobile artillery and armored personnel carriers and other mechanized units through.
But Jean-Luc Leclerc knew that they were wrong.
“Luc? Luc, are you listening?”
No one actually called him Jean-Luc. Not since he was a little boy. His parents, his siblings, his grandparents—they all called him Luc. Now, though he still felt like a kid at times, theoretically he was “all grown up.” Married. Two small daughters. A mortgage. A parish. Ever-growing responsibilities.
“Luc, are you even hearing a word I’m saying?”
Suddenly he realized his sister, Monique, was trying to get his attention, and he was embarrassed. “Yes, yes, of course; I’m sorry—what do you need?”
“Would you turn out the lights and bring those napkins and forks?” she asked with a warm smile as she stood in the center of the cozy kitchen and lit the candles on an exquisitely decorated and no doubt scrumptious homemade birthday cake.
Luc did as he was asked and followed his sister into the dining room, singing with the others and trying his best not to let his fears show on his face. He was not there to ruin his niece’s birthday party. Little Jacqueline stood there in her pink dress and shiny brown hair and black leather shoes. She didn’t know war was looming. She knew nothing of Herr Hitler’s invasion of Poland the previous September. Nor did she know anything of Hitler’s invasion of the Low Countries—Belgium and the Netherlands—three days earlier. The adults had shielded the children from their worries over their older brother, Philippe, who lived with his family in Brussels, the Belgian capital. Jacqueline didn’t know they had not heard from Philippe since the German invasion, that Luc feared Philippe was dead. All she knew was that she had a houseful of family and friends and a cake with candles and a new doll from her beloved Uncle Luc and Aunt Claire and her cousins Lilly and Madeline. She was so innocent, he thought as he sang, so unaware of the darkness that was settling upon them all. At least she had an excuse. She was only four.
What was her parents’ excuse? Monique was thirty-two. Her husband, Nicolas, was thirty-six. They were a sharp, attractive couple, well-educated and by all measures worldly-wise. They’d both been to university. She had studied nursing. He had been to the Sorbonne and had become a gifted physician. They were well-read. They had a little money socked away. They had interesting friends in high places all over Europe. How could they not see what had happened to Philippe? How could they not see the grave danger they were in? Why did they not flee while they still could, away from the border, to Le Chambon to be with Luc and Claire?
“. . . Happy birthday, dear Jacqueline; happy birthday to you!”
With that, the room erupted in applause and smiles and laughter and great joy. Jacqueline looked radiant, and Luc knew that his wife, Claire, and their two daughters would have loved to be at his side. Claire had made the doll and written the card, and Lilly and Madeline had colored it and made it special for their beloved cousin. But despite their protests, Luc had forbidden them to come. The Belgian border was no place for his family. Certainly not now.
As Jacqueline made a wish and blew out the candles and Monique cut the cake, Luc dutifully distributed the forks in his hand and then stepped back into the kitchen to get a couple bottles of cold milk.
Then, without warning, the house was rocked by an enormous, deafening explosion. The blast wave sent everyone crashing to the ground. All the windows shattered. Shards of wood and splinters of glass flew everywhere. Plates and glasses smashed to the floor. Terrified parents grasped their children, trying to shield their small bodies with their own as they covered their heads with their hands and hid under the table and behind overstuffed chairs.
Before they knew it, smoke and dust filled the room, pouring in through the shattered windows. Luc fully expected to hear people screaming and crying, but for the moment everyone seemed too stunned to do anything but cough and choke.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked, covering his nose and mouth with his shirt.
There was a low murmur as parents checked their children and themselves and then indicated that but for a few cuts and scrapes, they were mostly all right.
Luc checked himself as well. He, too, seemed fine—physically, at least—so he got up, dusted himself off, and moved toward the front door. “Wait here,” he told the others. “I’ll see what’s happening.”
“I’ll come with you,” Nicolas said, standing and grabbing his leather satchel of medicines and supplies.
“Nic, what are you doing?” Moni
que asked. “Come back here. You can’t leave us.”
“People may be hurt, darling,” Nic replied. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I’ll be back soon.”
It would not be okay, and everyone in the room knew it. Tears streamed down Monique’s face as she clutched their daughter in her arms. Nic leaned down, kissed them both on the forehead, then headed for the door.
Luc couldn’t help but admire his brother-in-law’s commitment to his oath as a physician. As he went to follow Nic, he heard Monique whimper, “What’s happening? Someone tell me what’s happening.”
Luc knew full well what was happening. The Nazi attack had begun.
He was petrified. He had been certain the Germans were coming, but he’d thought it would take at least a week before the invasion of France actually began. That was why he had come. That was why he had driven through the night from his home in Le Chambon to his sister’s home in Sedan. Not for a party. Not for cake. But to implore Monique and Nicolas to pack up their belongings and come with him, away from the border, away from the danger, to Le Chambon, where they would be safe. All day he had made his case. All day he had pleaded with the couple, but they had refused to listen. They had a party to prepare. They had Jacqueline to care for. They had patients to attend to. They couldn’t leave. It was out of the question. Besides, they argued, Hitler would never invade their beloved French Republic. Why would he? It would be an act of suicide, they said.
Now, as he opened the front door and stepped out of the narrow, three-level house not far from the river Meuse, Luc was horrified by the scene before him. To his left lay a flaming, smoking crater. Moments before, it had been a police barracks. Now the stench of burning human flesh was unbearable. Thick, black smoke billowed into the late-afternoon sky. People were rushing to the scene from all directions. Nicolas sprinted off, helping people carry a few survivors into a nearby church just up the street. The bells in the steeple began ringing furiously, sounding the alarm and calling people to action.
