The One Man (22 page)

Behind him, he heard a twig crack. Blum's blood snapped to attention. Someone was near … He stood as still as he was able, sweat inching down his temple. He raised his gun and placed his finger on the trigger. He was about to find out very soon, he thought, what he was capable of. Then he heard a clicking noise. This time, only a tree or two away. He knew there were friends around, but there could be enemies too.

He heard the clicking noise again. This time he recognized what it was.

The sound of a gun being cocked.
Whose?

Blum wrapped his finger around the trigger.

He heard a man's whisper. In Polish, thank God.
“Lubisz trufle…?”
the voice said.
You like truffles…?

“Tak,”
Blum whispered back.
Yes
. “But not nearly as much as beets.”

“Well, you've come a long way then…” Two people stepped out of the darkness. “For beets.”

A man and a young woman. The man in a hunter's jacket and a hat. Carrying a rifle. The young woman in a knit sweater and cap with blond pigtails. Holding a Blyskawica submachine gun.

“Witaj w domu, przyjacielu,”
the partisan said with a wide grin. He patted Blum heartily on the shoulder.
Welcome home, friend.

 

THIRTY

They got in the farm truck, heading on the side roads, some not even paved, traveling without their lights on. “What happens now?” Blum asked.

“Now? Now you spend the night,” the driver in the hunter's jacket said. “At least, what's left of it. In Brzezinka. Fifteen kilometers north. In the morning, we will get you onto a work detail into the camp.”

“What's your name?”

“Josef,” the driver said. “My niece is Anja.”

The girl, no more than twenty, and pretty, in her men's garb, seemed to be smiling a bit at him.

“What's so funny?” Blum asked Josef.

“My niece, she thinks you don't look much like a commando. We were expecting someone, how do you say, a bit more…” He shrugged. “A bit more like a commando.”

“You can tell your niece she doesn't look much like a soldier herself,” Blum said, not that his Polish needed any translation.

In the back, Anja giggled.

“Just know, if we hit trouble, you'll be glad you have her,” Josef said. “She's killed more Germans than men twice her age. Pretty on the outside, but ice in her blood.”

“Anyway, I'm not a commando,” Blum explained. “And if I did look like one, I wouldn't exactly blend in inside the camp.”

“A fair point,” Josef acknowledged.

The truck bounced over an open field, then onto a dark, dirt road. At some point Josef stopped and Anja jumped out of the back to open a gate and then close it behind them once they'd passed through. They put on the headlights.

“You're sure you know what you're in for in there?” Josef glanced at him. “Where you're headed.”

“I don't know.” Blum shrugged. “We'll see.”

“Tomorrow we're having pierogi and sauerkraut. You're welcome to stay. We'll have you back here in three days.” He looked at Blum and grinned. “Who's the wiser…?”

“That would be an enormous waste of petrol,” Blum said. “And a lot of planning.” He showed the man how under his jacket his tunic reversed to the prisoner's stripes.

“Planning is cheap”—Josef shrugged—“but petrol…” He cut back through a larger bush and onto the paved road. “You're right, can't waste that. Anyway, you're lucky, my wife can't cook a lick,” he said with a wink.

Anja laughed from the back. “He's right. Her dumplings are hard as bricks. If you drop one on the floor, it'll leave a dent.”

“Yes, I admit that's true.” Josef laughed. “But—
shit!
” He looked up ahead. “Hold on.” Literally in the middle of nowhere, they came upon the railroad tracks, two guards, German, with a troop car blocking the road. “Whatever the fuck are they doing here?”

Blum noticed the eagle with a swastika underneath on their uniforms.

“Einsatzgruppen…” Josef looked back at Anja. “Bad folk. Here for the Jews.” He slowed and pulled up a bottle of vodka from the floor. “Just pretend you're drunk. And cover the weapons. We've just come from your cousin's birthday party in Wilczkowice. If they ask us to get out”—he glanced at Blum and signaled toward his gun—“you know what to do.”

Blum nodded. His heart had started to race. He pulled down his cap over his eyes.

In the back, Anja threw the weapons under a blanket, but Blum heard her cock the action on her hidden pistol. “If they make a move,” she said under her breath, “it'll be the last thing they ever do.”

“Don't be so rash, niece,” Josef cautioned. “We have our guest to protect here. Dead Germans cause trouble.”

Josef pulled the truck to a stop. One of the guards jumped down from their vehicle and stepped up to the truck. A sergeant, Blum saw. But he also saw the two SS lightning rods on his collar.

“Evening, Untersharführer,” Josef said. He held out a half-empty bottle of potato vodka. “I know it's a little early, maybe, but compliments of the Luschki family birthday celebration…”

“Keep your booze. Where are you heading this time of night?” the guard questioned them in German. “Have you never heard of a curfew?”

“Across. To Brzezinka. And I know it's late, Sergeant. We were at my cousin's. In Wilczkowice I assure you, the booze was flowing. Would have slept it off there, but it's my job to make the bread in the morning. First thing. So I—”

“You're a baker?” The German looked around the cab, eyeing them all with a hint of suspicion.

“If I'm not at the oven by five, no one in the village has breakfast.” He shrugged. “And I don't make any friends.”

“And who is this?” The guard shined a light on Blum. “Let me guess, the butcher?”

“Mirek, sir,” Blum replied good-naturedly. “Actually, I'm a plumber. I told my cousin here it was way too late to drive all the way back home. But my sister, you see her back there, is in school”—he nodded to Anja—“and she can't miss another day, or the nuns get … well, you know how they get … Plus, I took responsibility for her, and—”

“And
what…?
” The German shined a light in the back on Anja. “It's the middle of the fucking night. Bakers and plumbers are exempt from curfew?”

“Of course not,” Josef said. “But, in truth, it's rarely enforced out here in the woods…”

“So what else do you have in there?” The German flashed his light inside the cab. A bead of sweat ran down the back of Blum's neck. His hand drifted to his gun.

“Nothing, sir. Only flour.”

“Flour? Still,” he peered around. “Maybe I'll just take a look.”

Suddenly they heard the sound of a train approaching. Not a whistle, but a rumble, and a sharp light coming from down the tracks. The German still in the troop car jumped out and waved.
“Sergeant!”

The sergeant flicked off his light. “Wait here.”

The two guards went to the checkpoint and stood there. In a minute or two the train rattled by. One of them put up a hand and waved to a guard atop the lead car. Blum had never seen a train like it. It was dark and boarded up, what looked like barbed strung wire over the blacked-out windows. It had about ten cattle cars, heading east. He knew where. It wasn't exactly the first-class carriage to Warsaw.

“Oswiecim.”
Josef grunted with a shake of his head and spat out the window. He crossed himself.

Blum's blood simmered with anger. He could only imagine the horror inside. On their way to who knows what fate?
People are gassed there … Thousands,
Strauss had said. Sitting there, his free hand balled into a fist. He wondered how many of those who were inside would even be alive when he snuck in tomorrow.

“Far more direct, by the way”—Josef nudged him—“if you'd like me to flag it down for you and catch a ride.”

“Thanks,” Blum said, smiling back. “I'm fine here.”

In a minute, the train passed. One of the guards climbed back into the empty troop truck. The sergeant came back over to them.

Blum's hand retreated back inside his pocket for his Colt.

“You're lucky, baker,” the German said. “It's late, and we're in good spirits. Just know, if I catch you out and about again, you won't be smiling next time.”

“I understand, Herr Unterscharführer. Thank you,” Josef said. “And here…” He offered him the bread and cheese.

“Keep your bread,” the guard grunted. “The bottle, though…” He beckoned with his fingers.
“Here…”

Josef handed him the vodka.

The German took it and headed back to his troop car.

Blum finally removed his hand from his pocket. He let out a long breath.

“Hope it kills them in their fucking sleep,” Josef muttered, putting the truck back in gear. “Sorry, Anja. Next time we see him, we shoot first, then give him the vodka.”

They watched the sergeant show his loot to the other German in the half-truck.

Then they waved them through.

 

THIRTY-ONE

THE NEXT MORNING
GERMAN INTELLIGENCE HEADQUARTERS
SZUCHA STREET, WARSAW

Martin Franke sipped his
kaffee
. Another coded dispatch had been intercepted during the night.

This one from Britain. Over the BBC radio. It was one of twelve messages that were read off before the weekly concert,
Famous Orchestral Marches
.

“For cousin Josef. You'll be happy to know the truffle hunter is en route.”

Franke knew, it could have been destined for anyone in Europe, but he had read the similar cable just two days before.

There he is again,
Franke noted.
Truffle hunter.

Separately, a report had crossed his desk that very same morning that a plane had been heard during the night. Low, over the forests near the small town of Wilczkowice, near Rajsko, some three hundred kilometers from Warsaw.
Rajsko.
He'd never heard of the place. A local farmer had spotted someone parachuting in. Probably making contact with the resistance, Franke suspected. Or more likely an arms drop. Or planning some sort of sabotage in the area. That was happening frequently now.
But to send someone in for it …

Franke's nose itched.
“Verstoeder!”
he called.

“Herr Colonel?”

“Bring me those dispatches from the other day. Our truffle hunter friend.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

In a minute the young lieutenant came back in with a file full of papers.

“What is in Rajsko?” Franke asked him.

“
Rajsko?
Not much, I believe.” The junior officer went over to a large wall map of Poland. “It's in the middle of nowhere. Only a large birchwood forest. But I am told there is a work camp nearby. Where Jews are being held. Auschwitz. The Polish name is Oswiecim, Herr Colonel.”

Auschwitz …
Franke knew of it, of course. The Jews of Vittel had been sent there. Along with half the Jewish population of Warsaw. No one knew much about what went on in a place like that. The SS kept tight control. Other than that no one ever came back from there. That much was certain.

“What has struck your interest, Colonel?” the aide inquired.

“Birchwood…”
Franke said aloud, this time in English. “Quick, find me their last transmission.”

Verstoeder dug back into the thick file. “Tuesday, I believe, was it not?”

“Quickly, Lieutenant,
today
!”

“Here it is, Herr Colonel.”

Franke ripped the document from his hand. He ran his finger down the text until he came to the very spot he was looking for:
They are growing very well this season amid the birchwood trees.

That's what had struck his interest.

Someone parachuting in …
Franke rubbed his chin in speculation.
Into a fucking birchwood forest. Near Oswiecim. The truffle hunter …
He got up and went to the map himself.
Why would anyone be heading there? In the middle of fucking nowhere.

Nothing around but a birchwood forest and a labor camp.

Auschwitz.
He kept on saying to himself.

“Ring me command,” he instructed the lieutenant. “General Graebner. Now.”

“Right away.” The junior officer ran out.

Franke let the pieces come together in his head. However loosely, one by one, they were all beginning to fit. If his hunch was wrong, what would it matter anyway? He was condemned to spend the war in this useless position.

But if he was right …
There could be many reasons for it: An escape. Reconnaissance. Or even to bomb the camp.

If he was right, this might be just the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

Truffle hunter … What does a truffle hunter do?
he asked himself, staring at the map.

He digs.

But digs into what?

The phone rang. Franke went back to his desk. He took a moment to compose his thoughts, then cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.

“General Graebner…”

He felt certain that the Allies had sent someone in to sneak inside Auschwitz.

 

THIRTY-TWO

TUESDAY.

At eight that morning, Blum sipped his coffee in the main square in the village of Brzezinka. He and Josef had managed to catch a couple of hours' sleep at the resistance fighter's cabin in the woods outside town. As Anja had said, the bread the man's wife offered him around the fire would have broken a tooth if he tried to chew it, it was so hard.