It took a moment for Jacob to figure out exactly how he wanted to put it, and he still wasn’t sure he knew how to ask without offending Luc, so he finally just plunged in and asked what was on his mind. “Why didn’t you ever tell me your grandfather was the French ambassador to the United States?”
“What do you mean?” Luc asked.
“It’s sort of an important detail, don’t you think?”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to hide anything, if that’s what you’re implying,” Luc responded. “It’s just not the kind of thing that comes up in everyday conversation. I don’t know anything about your parents or grandparents, do I?”
That was true but hardly relevant, Jacob thought. Still, Jean-Luc Leclerc struck Jacob as a man largely without guile. To be sure, he could deceive his Nazi captors, but he didn’t seem to be trying to deceive the underground.
“What’s he like?” Jacob asked.
“Who, my grandfather?”
“Yeah, have you ever met him? Do you know him?”
“Of course,” Luc said. “He and my grandmother lived in Paris when I was growing up. We went to visit them every Christmas.”
“But I thought you came from a family of farmers.”
“That’s my father’s side, the Leclercs—all farmers,” Luc explained. “But we’re talking about my mother’s side. She comes from a long line of intellectuals and academics and government officials. Her father—my maternal grandfather—is François d’Astier. He was originally from Cherbourg, on the northern coast of France, right across the channel from England. But he had a great passion for history and politics. So he went to university in Paris and became an officer in the navy and eventually went into politics. Fascinating man, actually. Erudite. Sophisticated. Seemed to know everything about everything. And what a storyteller! I could listen to him for hours. I remember how proud we all were when he was named ambassador. It was quite an honor.”
“I’m sure,” Jacob said, genuinely intrigued. “But how did your parents meet? They came from such different backgrounds.”
“Oh, goodness, that’s a long story,” Luc said, laughing a little.
“Good,” Jacob said. “We have time.”
As they continued walking south, Luc began to tell the story, and Jacob was struck by how the conversation seemed to give Luc new energy. He still looked emaciated, haggard, and ill, even in the moonlight. But his thoughts were crisp, and his voice sounded surprisingly strong.
When Luc had finished telling about his own parents, he asked how Jacob’s parents met and how they had handled the anti-Semitism in Berlin. He seemed intrigued by their move to Siegen and how they had tried to integrate into the Jewish community there, even though they knew practically no one. This, of course, led the conversation to Uncle Avi and the critical role he had played in Jacob’s life.
At first Jacob hesitated to talk about his uncle. The loss was too great, the memories too painful. And yet the more Luc pressed—not prying, just interested—the more Jacob opened up. He’d had no one else to talk to about Avi. He found that he liked telling the stories and remembering this man who had loved him so much and whom he had loved so dearly.
– – –
Von Strassen finished his briefing.
“So the Gestapo in Warsaw is on it?” Hoess asked.
“They are, sir.”
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“I cannot say,” Von Strassen conceded. “But under the circumstances, I’d say it’s likely.”
“Why?”
“Because all the evidence we have gathered so far points to Leszek Poczciwinski as the head of the underground movement here at Auschwitz,” the colonel explained. “He’s the one who recruited Steinberger and Frenkel. He recruited Maximilian Cohen and through him Abigail Cohen. It’s now clear that he recruited Jacob Weisz and probably Jean-Luc Leclerc, too. Her story fits with all that we’ve learned already.”
“What about this Josef Starwolski?” Hoess asked, thumbing through the report in his hands.
“We cannot say for certain who recruited him into the movement, but all the evidence thus far indicates he was the mole in the records office. It is likely, therefore, that he intercepted the information I received about the raid on train 801 last year and passed the information on to Poczciwinski, who used it to recruit Weisz. But there’s more.”
“What’s that?”
“When I spoke to the Gestapo station chief in Warsaw, he told me something curious about Leszek Poczciwinski.”
“And?”
“Poczciwinski wasn’t his real name,” Von Strassen said. “It was Piotr Kubiak. And it turns out Kubiak is a captain in Polish intelligence. He wasn’t just the head of the underground movement here in Auschwitz. The Gestapo believes he is now a senior commander in the national Resistance movement. And if our information leads to his arrest, they’re hoping it will lead to the arrest of most if not all of the Resistance leaders in Poland.”
“That would be a real development, Colonel.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Perhaps something that will attract favorable attention in Berlin as well.”
“Let us hope so, sir. Let us hope so.”
86
“Jacob, I want you to know how sorry I am,” Luc said.
“Sorry for what?” Jacob asked.
“That you didn’t get your first choice for this mission.”
“What do you mean? Of course I did.”
“We both know that’s not true, though I appreciate the sentiment,” Luc said. “It was clear from the beginning that it was Otto and Abe who wanted me on this team, not you. And to be clear, I don’t take it personally. You’ve been through so much already. You’ve suffered so much. I don’t want to be the cause of any more hardship.”
“Haven’t you suffered too?” Jacob asked.
“Of course, but I don’t mean just you and me, or even just you and your family,” Luc said.
“What then?” Jacob pressed.
“The Jewish people,” Luc replied as they hiked up a steep hill. “You’ve been through so much, and to be honest, I am deeply ashamed for what we have done to you, or let be done to you. We the Gentiles. We the Christians.”
Jacob remained silent as they crested the hill and soon began to climb an even steeper one.
“You already know that I’m a Christian,” Luc continued. “I love to read the Bible. It is my great joy in life. I believe Jesus is the Messiah, and I love him with all of my heart, soul, mind, and strength. I know that makes you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry about that. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Jacob felt a twinge of guilt. “Luc, it’s not you,” he replied. “I mean it’s not you personally. It’s just that—”
“You didn’t want me to come, true?”
Jacob sighed. “Okay, yes, that’s true; I didn’t.”
“You wanted Josef or Abby to come, right?”
Jacob winced. He did not like how it sounded, but it was the truth. “Look, it wasn’t personal, Luc—really, it wasn’t,” he explained. “I mean, yes, I would have asked Josef or Abby to join me if it had been up to me. And yes, to be perfectly honest, I pushed back pretty hard with Otto and Abe over it. But it was never about you personally. You’ve always been very good to me, to all the Jews—to Abby, to Josef. Please don’t think I have a personal disdain for you, because I don’t. I have great respect for you.”
“I understand, Jacob, and I appreciate that,” Luc said. “I do, and I want you to know that I pushed back hard with Otto and Abe too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the day after you invited me, I went and found Otto and told him I couldn’t accept the mission.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because it seemed ridiculous to choose me. I could see it wasn’t your choice. You weren’t part of the underground high command; they were. You weren’t close to Leszek; the
y were. You weren’t planning this mission; they were. I could see that. And that’s why I told them they should have chosen Josef or Abby or anyone Jewish. Not a Gentile. Not a pastor. Not me.”
Jacob was flabbergasted. “What did they say?”
“They wouldn’t listen. They said we had to get to my grandfather and that if I really wanted to help the Jews, I would stop resisting them and just help them. So finally I gave up and said yes.”
It was quiet between them for a few moments.
“Thank you,” Jacob finally replied.
“Don’t mention it.”
“No, really. I mean it. Thank you for understanding where I was coming from, and thank you for saying something—to them and to me.”
“It was nothing.”
“Hardly. But what did you mean about being ashamed of the things Christians have done to Jews?” Jacob asked. “Were you talking about things like the Crusades, the Inquisition? The pogroms?”
Before Luc could answer, they heard a truck coming around a bend in the road they were crossing.
Diving into the tall grass, they pressed their bodies to the ground and waited. A few moments later, a lorry rumbled past on the otherwise-deserted mountain road. In short order all was quiet again. They waited for a few minutes more, but all they heard were the sounds of crickets and mosquitoes and the wind rustling through the trees. So they cautiously poked their heads up above the grass and scanned in every direction for signs of life. When they were confident they were alone, they got back up and started moving again, deeper into the tall grass, away from the road, heading for the ridgeline. And as they did, Luc began to answer Jacob’s question.
“Many who have called themselves Christians have done terrible things to the Jewish people,” Luc said. “Terrible things. But they did these things on their own. They didn’t get those ideas from the Bible. They didn’t get them from Jesus. You asked about the Crusades, the pogroms—those are the exact opposite of what the Bible teaches. Jesus commanded us, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ He told us, ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.’ He commanded us to turn the other cheek, not to rob, kill, or destroy. Those are the works of the devil.”
“You said many who call themselves Christians have done terrible things, but what about people who really are Christians? What about Martin Luther? Didn’t he write all sorts of things against the Jews? Didn’t he say our prayer books should be burned and our houses destroyed and all kinds of other things?”
“I’m ashamed to say he did,” Luc readily conceded. “Martin Luther was the leader of the Reformation movement and the founder of the Lutheran church. But he wasn’t perfect. Far from it. And I won’t defend him for writing those things. He was old and he was sick and he was probably losing his mind. That doesn’t excuse what he wrote, but it helps explain it. After all, he’d been very loving and compassionate toward the Jews for most of his life. Anyway, all of us who truly love Jesus disavow what Luther wrote about the Jews in the last years of his life.”
“How can you?” Jacob asked. “You’re a pastor; you’re a Protestant.”
“When I was growing up, and even when I went into the ministry, I didn’t know any of those things about Luther,” Luc said. “I never heard any pastor talk about those things, positively or negatively. When I first heard Hitler and Goebbels quoting such awful sayings a couple of years ago, I didn’t even believe Luther had really written those things at first.”
“But he did,” Jacob said.
“Yes,” Luc said. “Luther wrote some terrible things about the Jews. There’s nothing I can do about that. But they didn’t come from Jesus. And those of us who follow Jesus put our hope and trust in what Jesus said, not in what others have said throughout history. I follow Christ, not Luther.”
“But what about all the German pastors who preach against the Jews?” Jacob asked.
“Listen—what the Nazis are doing has nothing to do with Christianity. Hitler is just using Luther’s anti-Semitic writings for his propaganda campaign. True, some pastors have caved to the Third Reich. But many others are as mortified by what’s happening as we were in Le Chambon. Look, I have pastor friends in Germany. They’ve seen Hitler and the National Socialists trying to take over the church. They’ve seen the Nazis installing their own leaders to create a ‘national church.’ They’ve seen the Nazis banning them from preaching the Bible. They’ve seen Hitler trying to co-opt the church to turn against the Jews, and they hate it. They’ve resisted as best they can. They’ve created an underground church movement called the Confessing Church, made up of true followers of Jesus who refuse to obey Hitler.”
“I’ve never heard any of this,” Jacob said, deeply skeptical.
“Well, it’s true. The Confessing Church has resisted Hitler. They’ve done whatever they can to protect Jews, to rescue them, to smuggle them out of Germany and get them to Switzerland or to France—even to our town, where we did the best we could to take care of them. Many of these pastors have been arrested. Quite a few went to prison. Some of them even wound up in Auschwitz. I actually met a few there.”
“But I still don’t understand,” Jacob said. “Why would any of you Christians risk your lives to help Jews?”
“I can’t explain the motive of every Christian,” Luc said. “But for me and my wife, Claire, the answer was obvious. Our Savior was Jewish. His disciples were Jewish. They were born in Israel. They lived in the Promised Land. Jesus preached to ‘the lost sheep of Israel.’ He died on the cross in Jerusalem. He was raised from the dead in Jerusalem. And the Bible teaches that our Savior is coming back again to reign and rule from Jerusalem. Why shouldn’t we love Jews, then? Jesus never taught us to hate anyone. He taught us to love, and he set the supreme example for us to follow. Jesus commanded us to love one another. He commanded us to love our neighbor as ourselves. You’re my neighbor, Jacob. If not you, then who? You’re from the same family and people as my Savior. How could I hate you or do you wrong?”
Jacob said nothing for several minutes as they descended a large hill and entered a new forest.
“I’m not saying we have done everything right,” Luc said. “To the contrary, I’m afraid we have made many mistakes. My pastor friends in Germany readily admit it. They didn’t grasp at first just how evil Hitler was. And some of them made compromises with his regime until they realized just how despotic and demonic he really is. But when they came to this understanding, they did not stay silent. You once asked me why a good Christian would be thrown into Auschwitz. Well, this is why. Good Christians—real Christians—do their best to love their neighbors and serve their Savior, even if that means being arrested. Even if that means being sent to a concentration camp. Even if it means death.”
87
JUNE 6, 1944
OSWIECIM, POLAND
Before dawn, the girls were again helping their father milk the cows.
As the sun came up, they returned to the kitchen, where their mother had prepared a hearty breakfast for the entire family. When their father came in from trying to fix a broken tractor, they sat down, said grace, and dug into the meal.
Just then, a large black sedan could be seen coming up their driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust along the way.
“Why, that’s the constable,” the father said, wiping his mouth as he stared out the front window.
“Whatever for?” his wife asked.
“I have no idea. Wait here.”
The farmer pushed away from the table, rose, and stepped into the front yard.
“Why would the constable come here, Mama?” one of the girls asked.
“Hush,” her mother said. “That’s none of your business.”
Nevertheless, she allowed the children to get up and gather by the front window to see what was happening. They watched the car pull up to the front and come to a stop. They saw their father walk over to the car and converse with the constable, though they could not hear what was said. And then, as quickly as it had
come, the car pulled away.
When the farmer returned to the kitchen, he found his family sitting around the table as before, eating quietly.
“There’s news,” he said.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“Some men have escaped from a prison camp up north,” the farmer said.
“Again?”
“Apparently.”
“That’s the third time in the last couple of months.”
“That’s what I said.”
“What kind of men, Papa?” one of the girls asked.
“Dangerous men. The kind none of us wants around here.”
“Why are they telling us?”
“They want us to take special care,” the farmer said. “They want us to keep our eyes peeled for anything unusual.”
“Would they really come here?” another daughter asked, trepidation thick in her voice.
“The constable said it was unlikely,” the father replied.
“That’s what they said last time,” the mother said. “And the time before.”
“I know,” the father said. “I don’t want you to worry. But let’s all keep a sharp eye out, all of us. If you see something strange, come immediately to your mother and me and let us know. But I won’t let anything happen to any of you. You have my word.”
“Yes, Papa,” they dutifully replied.
But he could see in their eyes that they were afraid.
He didn’t dare tell them that he was afraid too. The war had been hard enough. But now, more and more, week after week, this Polish farmer was hearing dark rumors of terrible deeds being done in the north. The first few times he had dismissed such things as ghost stories and malicious gossip. But the rumors persisted. The tales were getting worse, the details more macabre.
Could any of it be true?
88
Before the sun came up, Jacob and Luc found a small cave in which to hide.
Out of loyalty to Abby, Jacob dutifully read Psalm 1 to Luc. In return, Luc read the first chapter of Matthew to Jacob. They didn’t discuss either passage. They just read their texts.