Boots thud, planks are moved with a scraping sound like that of a gravestone. Rudi has already started to give in, and relaxes his frozen position; there’s nothing to do now. During the days preceding their escape, he thought obsessively about the distress he’d feel when they caught him, when he realized with absolute certainty that he was going to die. But he now knows that’s not the case, that the anguish happens before. When the Nazi points his Luger at you and tells you to raise your arms, what hits you is a cold calmness, a letting yourself go, because there’s nothing more you can do and nothing worse to fear. He listens to the sound of the wood being moved and instinctively starts to lift his arms. He even closes his eyes to avoid the explosion of light after days of darkness.
But the burst of light doesn’t come. It seems to him that the thud of the boots is somewhat more muffled and the scrape of the wood is less loud. He’s not dreaming.… When he pricks up his ears, he realizes that the conversations and the noises are moving away. And with each passing second—each as long as an hour—the sniffer dogs are also heading away. Eventually, silence returns, with only the occasional sound of a distant truck or whistle. Other than those noises, the only sound to be heard is an out-of-control thudding, and Rudi doesn’t know if it’s his heart, or Fred’s, or their two hearts together.
They’re safe … for now.
To celebrate, Rudi allows himself the luxury of a huge sigh and a slight shift in position. Then it’s Fred who stretches out his sweaty hand in search of Rudi, and Rudi who takes it. They shiver together.
When several minutes have gone by and the danger is over, Rudi whispers in Fred’s ear, “We’re leaving tonight, Fred—we’re leaving forever.”
And that fact brooks no argument: They’re leaving forever. When they pull aside the board that serves as a ceiling and crawl to the forest protected by the dark, no matter what happens, they’ll never again be prisoners in Auschwitz. They’ll either be free men or they’ll die.
24.
While Birkenau camp spends a restless night sleeping inside its electrified fence, a wooden cover slides open on the other side of the barbed wire. It slides open slowly like the top on a box of chess pieces. From below, four hands move it until the cold night air floods into the tiny cubicle. Two heads peer out cautiously. Rudi and Fred gobble up the fresh air. It’s like a banquet.
Rudi looks around carefully. He sees there are no guards nearby and that they are protected by the darkness. The closest tower is no more than forty or fifty meters away, but the guard is watching the inside of the camp and doesn’t notice that outside the perimeter, among the planks piled up in preparation for the new huts to extend the Lager, two figures are crawling toward the forest.
Reaching the trees and filling their lungs with the forest’s damp smell is such a new sensation for the two men that they feel reborn. But the euphoria produced by their first taste of freedom is short-lived. The forest, which from a distance is so beautiful and welcoming, is an inhospitable place for humans at night. They soon realize that blindly walking cross-country is not an easy task. The ground is full of traps: shrubs that scratch them, branches that whack them, foliage that drenches them. They try as best they can to walk in a straight line and put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Lager.
Their plan is to reach the Slovakian border in the Beskidy Mountains, 120 kilometers away, walking by night and hiding during the day. And praying. They know they can’t hope for help from the Polish civilian population because the Germans shoot any locals who provide refuge to fugitives.
They walk in the dark, tripping, falling, getting up, and walking on again. After a few hours of slow walking, uncertain if they’re heading in the right direction, the two men notice that the forest thins out, the trees start to disappear, and they find themselves in scrubland. They even make out the light of a house a few hundred meters away. They finally emerge onto a dirt road. It’s riskier, but as the road isn’t paved, they figure it will be little used. They decide to continue along it, keeping as close to the ditch as they can, alert to any sound. Owl hoots add an eerie note to the darkness, and the breeze is so cold it leaves them breathless. Whenever they come close to a house, they head back into the forest and skirt round it at a safe distance. On one occasion, dogs bark nervously, trying to betray their presence; the runaways quicken their step.
When the sky begins to lighten, they decide in whispers to make their way into the densest part of the forest and find a tall tree to climb so they can spend the day hidden. They can now see the outline of their surroundings better and make headway more easily. Thirty minutes later, there is enough light for them to see clearly. They stare at each other for a moment. They are unrecognizable. They’ve spent three days in the pitch-dark, and their beards are longer than usual. There’s a different expression on their faces—a mixture of unease and delight at being outside the camp. They actually don’t recognize each other because they are different now—they are free men. They smile.
They climb a tree and try to make themselves comfortable among the branches, but it’s hard to find a stable position. They take a piece of bread as hard as a log out of their bag and drain the last few drops of water from their small flask. They wait expectantly for the sun to appear, and then Fred knows their position: He points toward a low line of hills.
“We’re well on track for the Slovakian border, Rudi.”
Come what may, no one will take this moment of freedom away from them, as they each chew their bread free of armed Nazis, sirens, and orders. It’s not easy to keep their balance without falling or to avoid sharp branches poking into their bodies, but they’re so tired they manage to reach a state of drowsiness that allows them to rest a little.
Sometime later, they hear voices and the sound of hurried footsteps over the dead foliage. Alarmed, they open their eyes and see a horde of children rushing past a short distance from their tree. They have armbands with swastikas and they’re singing German songs. The fugitives exchange a look of alarm: It’s a Hitler Youth group on an outing. Bad luck would have it that the young leader in charge of the twenty or so children decides to stop for lunch in the clearing a few meters from their tree. The two men freeze and don’t move a muscle. The children laugh, shout, run, fight, sing.… From their perch, the fugitives can make out their khaki uniforms and short pants. The rowdiness and energy of the children, and their occasional appearances dangerously close to the base of the tree searching for berries to throw at their companions are unsettling. Snack time ends, and the instructor orders the children to set off again. The noisy troop moves away, and there are sighs of relief from the top of the tree, as hands open and close in an attempt to get the circulation going again after being rigid for so long.
They’re both anxiously counting the hours till nightfall. They take advantage of the last rays of the sun to get close to the road again and use the sunset to accurately locate the west.