The One Man (33 page)

Him.

The closer they came, Blum's blood began to course with fear.

“Krausz. A487193,” a prisoner called out. They were up to Block Ten now. Two to go.

“Hochberg. T14657,” said a transfer from another camp.

It was almost as if they knew. Knew he was here. Hiding out somewhere. Slowly tracking him down.
But how…?

The call of names was drawing closer. Blum's heart began to throb. Only one block to go.

“Halberstram. A606134.”

“Laska. B257991.”

The Rapportführer and the two officers moved on.
“Twelve
.
”
The clerk read off
.

Blum's block.

“Twelve! What happened to Eleven?” Blum said to the man beside him.

“There is no Eleven.” The man looked back at him curiously.

“No Eleven?”
Blum let out a nervous blast of air.
Mirek, it was then. What else?
Now there were just a few more prisoners to go.

The intelligence colonel stopped in front of each man. Blum could see him now, if he leaned slightly forward. He was balding under his cap. The eyes of a patient and methodical man stopping, going face-to-face. A man who would not be deterred. Who would not give up.

“First row…” The Rapportführer stood in front of someone.

“Aschensky. A432191,” the man called out.

“Kurtzman.” The next man said his number and presented his wrist.

A bead of sweat traveled down Blum's neck. He checked his number again, ready to show it. He caught the man next to him glancing over to him.

Was he a spy? All these questions he was asking. Blum had already told him. Would he expose Blum the moment they stood in front of him?

“Gersh. A293447,” a prisoner called loudly.

“Bodner. T141234,” said the next in line.

For a moment Blum contemplated just dropping in his spot like a few of the others. Maybe be taken to the infirmary. All he needed was to make it through the day.

“You need a name, don't you?” the man next to him whispered, leaning over.

Blum didn't answer. How had this person read his mind? And his fear. There were spies and informers all over this place. It would be worth a king's ransom to root out an imposter like him. Someone who had bargained his way out of death last night. But now last night seemed a lifetime away. Now it was about just getting through this roll call.

“Row Four.”
The Rapportführer came to the head of Blum's row.

“Livshitz. A366711,” the first in line answered.

“Hirsh. 414311,” said another.

Blum's heart had climbed in his throat now. Only ten or so until they got to him.

What to do?

“Yes.” Blum finally nodded to his neighbor with a glance of desperation, really more of a plea.

“Fisher,” the man whispered.

“Fisher…?”

“Use it. You'll be safe. Everyone knows me here. You have my word.”

The commandant and the intelligence officer were only a few prisoners away now. Every cell in Blum's body seemed set to burst like an overheated furnace.

“Liebman. A401123.”

“Halpern. T27891.”

They held out their arms.

The Rapportführer stopped at the man two down from Blum. The commandant's gaze steady and penetrating, then they moved on. The colonel a step behind. Staring at each man with the look of a hunter who could spot his prey the instant he set eyes upon him.

“Koblic,” the person next to him announced. “A317785.”

“Seven, eight, five…?” The Rapportführer stopped and looked at the man's wrist before he wrote it down.

“
Yes.
”

Then he stepped in front of Blum.

Blum's heart stood as still, as if a single heartbeat would give him away. “Fisher,” he said, his mouth dry as sand. “A22327.” He raised his sleeve.

“Fisher…?”
the clerk repeated, looking at the list.

The commandant and the intelligence colonel stepped directly in front of him. Blum was certain the name was a fake, and he was given away. That is, if his own face, which he knew was devoid of color, and the trail of sweat trickling down his neck had not already done so. He avoided the colonel's eyes as he felt the heat from the intelligence officer's gaze fix on him, intense as the focused light in a police interrogation room. Instead he looked at the block clerk and swallowed. “Yes.”

It wasn't longer than a second or two that the colonel and the commandant fixed their gazes on him. Yet it felt like an hour. An hour in which he did everything he could just to hold himself together. Like they could see through him right to his core. He half expected them to remove their guns and order him to get onto his knees right there.

“Next,”
the Rapportführer said, moving on to the short man next to Blum.

“Shetman.” The man presented his forearm. “T376145.”

The commandant and the intelligence colonel strode past.

Every cell in Blum's body that a moment ago had been coiled as tight as a wire now relaxed, and he let a breath escape from him.

The two officers continued down the line. The call of names grew more distant.

Blum stood there, rigid as a statue until they moved farther away.

Then he heard the Rapportführer announce, “Block Thirteen.”

Blum exhaled. He glanced at the man standing next to him, sweat dampening his sides. “How did you know?”

The short man smiled and gestured to the writing on Blum's arm. “Old number, new ink.”

Blum looked at it.

“Stick around here long enough, it's the kind of thing you notice. I was a policeman back in Zilina. You're lucky they didn't pick that up.”

Blum nodded.

“Plus, everyone who's been in this place a week knows about Block Eleven. Eleven's where they take people. No one ever comes back. It's a place you don't ever want to find yourself.”

“Thanks.”
Eleven.
This was twice now he'd been spared.

“As you heard, my name's Shetman,” the short man said. “Whatever it is you're hiding is safe with me. Though God knows what it is you're doing in this hellhole.”

He'd made it through the roll call. At least, until they matched up the names with numbers and saw the discrepancy. Then … Now all he had to do was get through the rest of the day. Then the dangerous part began …

“So who's Fisher?” Blum leaned to Shetman and asked.

The man shrugged. “Died last night. So fucking many, always takes them a day or two to catch up with the paperwork. It'll be caught, though, you can be sure. They'll trace it back to the block. So it won't give you much time.”

Blum followed the colonel and commandant as they made their way onto the next block. They were on to him. Somehow. He was sure. He just didn't know how. Maybe one of the local partisans had turned him in. Maybe Josef himself. That would mean their escape plan was compromised as well. There'd be no way out.

No,
he decided, Josef would not turn on him. He'd seen the man's resolve.

Still, the colonel was here for some reason …

“Let me know if you need anything else,” the short man said. “Sometimes I can get things done in here.”

“Thanks. I will.” Blum leaned over and shook his hand.

Ten hours more. The block count had taken three.

Ten more hours to keep himself concealed in the vast numbers of the camp and stay out of the Abwehr colonel's way. And he and Mendl would be out of here.

 

FORTY-NINE

After roll call, everyone wandered back to their blocks for the morning meal and to break into their work details. Blum made his way through the crowd toward where he saw Block Thirty-Six had been assembled. He spotted Mendl amid the throng, slowly heading back toward his barrack. He was with a young man, who looked around sixteen and who Blum presumed was the nephew he spoke about yesterday.

“Are you still ready for later on, Professor?” Blum said, approaching.

Mendl turned, surprise written all over his face, but clearly elated to see Blum. “I'm so glad you're all right.” He put his arms around Blum. “We all heard about Twenty. I was sure you were lost. How did you make it out?”

“I was lucky,” Blum said. “I found a guard whose greed was greater than his sense of duty.”

“Who?”

“Oberscharführer Fuerst.”

“The right choice. Bribing the executioner on the way to the gallows…” Mendl grinned. “I commend you.”

“These past three hours in that roll call haven't exactly been a walk in the park for me either,” Blum replied.

“Yes, something is definitely up. Typical Germans. Count, count, count. Anyway, we're both relieved to see you are okay.”

“This is the boy you were speaking of?”

“Yes. Leo.” The professor put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Leo, this is the man I was telling you about. So now you know I'm not crazy. And you already have a sense of just how resourceful he is.”

“I'm Blum.” Blum put out his hand to the lad. He looked barely old enough to shave. “The professor explained the conditions of coming along?”

“You won't need to worry about me,” the boy replied.

“I think you'll find that Leo here is quite resourceful as well in a very useful place. Up here…” Mendl tapped his forehead. “But I fear something is going on. We haven't had a full roll call like this in weeks. Then today of all days. You noticed the fancy intelligence officer…?”

“I noticed. I noticed as he stared straight into my eyes. I thought I was going to shit. But after tonight, that won't be
our
problem. We're still a go. Nineteen thirty hours.”

“The lineup for the overnight work detail is at the gate over by the clock tower,” Mendl said, “near where we met yesterday. There's one for the IG Farben factory. Another for the railway tracks into Birkenau, which are almost complete. People always drop out due to sickness or even death. And there are always people looking to fill in for the extra meal. That's where a little money can get us to the front of the line.”

“How much do we need?” Blum asked.

Leo shrugged. “I'm pretty sure twenty reichsmarks per head should do the trick. Four or five pounds sterling would do even more.”

“I told you, a very agile mind,” the professor said. “And quite famous in here. Already the camp chess champion. I told you he won't slow us down.”

“Ah, the chess boy,” Blum remarked. “Yes, I've heard of you…”

“And here in camp for only two days. See, Leo, your fame precedes you. And in another day, if all goes right, you'll be a legend in here!”

“Whatever happens,” Blum lowered his voice and turned his back to a passing group of prisoners, “we wait for the partisans to attack and then you stay by me,” he instructed the boy. “My task is to bring the professor out at all costs. And that's what I intend to do. If you're not by me, or if you're wounded and can't make it, we can't help you.”

“I understand.” Leo nodded.

“And that goes for you as well,” Blum said to the professor. “If
he
goes down, you leave him behind.” Blum looked him in the eyes. “You understand that, don't you, Professor? This is a condition upon going.”

“I admit, that won't be easy,” Mendl said.

“Well, hopefully you won't have to make the choice.”

“You must, Alfred. It's the only way I'll go along myself,” Leo urged him.

“Then it works for both of us.” Mendl nodded reluctantly.

“I agree,” said Leo.

Blum said, “I need your oaths on that. Both of you.”

“You have it.” They both nodded again.

Music started up from somewhere. The orchestra. It was set up on the other side of the yard behind a row of wire near the infirmary. Their playing was the signal to get ready for the morning work parties. Handel's
Music for the Royal Fireworks
. The Overture.

“Curtain's rising.” Mendl looked over at them with sarcasm. “Anyway, I think it's best we go. Do you still have your sanitation job today?'

Blum shrugged. “I suppose it's the best cover I have.”

“So we meet near the clock tower? Nineteen thirty hours. Before the night work details?”

Blum nodded. “I'll have the money. And may God watch over us. This time tomorrow, you'll be in England, Professor.”

“England…,” the old man smiled wistfully, “or the hereafter.”

“England, preferably,” Leo said.

“This time, I agree with him,” said Blum. “So stay out of sight today. And I'll see you both there. Nineteen thirty hours.”

Blum waved discreetly and melded into the crowd. Lines had formed in front of the blocks for meals, then to split up into work details. Blum figured, even if his job had already been reassigned, whoever the unfortunate party was who had inherited it would gladly split up the blocks and share. He needed to just stay low and out of sight until it was time to go.

The orchestra changed music. A piece he recognized: Beethoven. The famous Leonore Overture from his opera
Fidelio
; it had always been one of Leisa's favorites.

For the first time, Blum turned and focused on the musicians. There were seven: a trombone, a French horn, a cello, a piccolo, a flute, a bass drum, and a clarinet. He knew the story behind the piece. In the last act, Florestan, the hero, should have died as witness to Pizarro's misdeeds. Yet he lived on, just as the music secretly encouraged all here to live on, not to despair and lose hope but to persevere with strengthened wills.

“Hail to the day, the hour of justice has come…” The words came back to Blum. “So help, help the poor ones…”