They kept on walking by night, resting by day. They were fighting hunger and the cold, trekking in thin clothes through forests still partially covered with snow. They would keep well away from any inhabited settlement now. Por? bka had been too narrow an escape; they dared not push their luck. From that moment on, they would avoid any path that looked too well worn, even if that made the available pickings of food slimmer. All they wanted was to get out of this country, where death and danger seemed to wait for them at every turn. Once across the border, they felt sure, things would become easier.
On Wednesday 19 April, fully ten days into their trek, they were in the hills overlooking the Polish town of Milówka: Walter remembered the name from that page in the atlas. By that measure, they were just two towns away from the border. Here and there, they could see the ashes and charred earth of past fires : perhaps, they thought, partisans were close by. They were in a field near a forest, avoiding people as usual, when they spotted a small herd of goats. Fred and Walter were doubtless assessing the animals’ potential as food when, a second later, they saw the middle-aged woman who watched over them.
There was a silent stand-off, each party eyeballing the other, assessing the mutual threat they represented. She knew these gaunt, wild-eyed men were fugitives, that much was obvious; she equally knew, therefore, that if she offered them any help the Germans would kill her. And yet also in her eyes was the clear knowledge that if she did not help, these men might kill her themselves.
It lasted a good few seconds before Walter broke the stalemate. Given how careful they had been, given all Volkov had taught him about unnecessary risk and all the two of them had learned on that same subject, the words that came out of his mouth made no sense. ‘We’re heading for the Slovak border,’ he said. ‘Can you show us the way? We’ve escaped from a concentration camp. From Auschwitz .’
Why did he need to say that? Why identify themselves that way? Even if the pair did not know there was an international warrant out for their arrest, Walter would have known that, once prisoners had escaped from Auschwitz, the entire region would be on the lookout. So why take the risk of saying the word out loud?
Perhaps, he thought, it was because there was no point trying to hoodwink this woman. She was not going to be fooled by some tall tale; anyone could see who they were. Perhaps it was because her tatty clothes and worn hands did not look like those of a police agent. Maybe it was a gamble on human kindness, a bet that it still existed despite everything they had seen. It might have been all those things. But it also crossed Walter’s mind that his mission, the reason he and Fred had broken out, was to tell the world outside Auschwitz of the camp and what happened within it or, failing that, at least to speak of Auschwitz’s existence, and so far they had told no one. In that moment, some kind of small, absurd weight lifted from his shoulders. He had told one person. He had uttered the word out loud and beyond the perimeter. He had said it: Auschwitz.
The woman gestured towards her little goat-hut and beckoned them to go inside. She was still wary; she never stopped looking at their faces. And they were wary too; they suspected a trap. But they went inside. She gave them a piece of bread and the blanket she had with her , and told them to wait. She would send food immediately and, after that, some help.
They watched her go down the hill, eventually crossing a bridge about half a mile away. They eyed the bridge carefully. If she was planning on betraying them – either to the Nazi occupiers, to a local police unit or to a militia – then those men would first have to cross the bridge before they could reach Fred and Walter. That would give the two of them a head start. They would be able to see the enemy approaching and quickly disappear into the forest behind them. Not that they could be that quick: Walter’s feet were now so swollen he could barely walk, let alone run. Thanks to all that trekking, and a diet of crumbs alone, he was hobbling like a man four times his age.
The minutes passed, too many of them. The old woman had said she would send food ‘immediately’。 Yet here they were, nearly two hours later, alone in a goat-hut, easy prey. Had it been a trick? Had she changed her mind? Or had she somehow collided with the authorities, which now made it impossible to help two men on the run?
There was movement down below, close to the bridge. They squinted to see who was approaching. The figure got nearer.
As he approached, they saw that climbing up the hill towards them was a young boy. He could not have been more than twelve. He was carrying a parcel, which he handed over. He looked terrified, as if he were about to burst into tears : hardly surprising, given the condition Fred and Walter were in, their faces unshaven, their feet bandaged and bleeding. A frightened little boy, and yet he was just a few years younger than Walter.
Inside the package was a generous helping of cooked potatoes and some meat. Fred and Walter devoured it, only realising as they ate how famished they truly were. They had been foraging on next to nothing since Por? bka, filling their empty bellies with water sipped from streams. The boy watched them. Then he said that his grandmother would return at nightfall.
Fred and Walter wondered if they should get out while they were ahead. The bridge would no longer function as a visual early-warning system once it was dark. If this woman was going to give them away, then tonight, once they had been lulled by the gift of a meal, would be the time to do it.
They considered it. Their scepticism was strong, but their need for help, and their hunger, were stronger. Besides, if the woman did return with armed men, their footsteps would at least be audible over that bridge: Fred and Walter would have time to melt back into the trees. They would wait.
Eventually evening came and, out of the twilight, the woman emerged. As she climbed up the hillside, a man was at her side. But he wore no uniform, just the shabby clothes of a country worker. They were close, far too close, when Fred and Walter saw that the man was carrying a gun .
Calculations of life and death, of capture and murder, were now becoming swift and instinctive for Walter Rosenberg and Fred Wetzler. Without needing to confer, both worked out that the probability that this man was there to kill them was low. If he was hostile, he most likely planned to march them at gunpoint into the arms of the Gestapo. That, they decided wordlessly, was a manageable risk: he was old, there were two of them and they had knives.
The woman handed them another parcel, while the man looked on without saying a word. It was a second meal, which they demolished as quickly as the first. In less than a minute, they had eaten it all. The man watched, and then began to laugh.
‘You’re from a concentration camp , all right,’ he said, as he put away his pistol. Apparently, the depth of their hunger had convinced him. Until then, he had wondered if these two fugitives his friend had run into were, in fact, undercover agents of the Gestapo, despatched to trick and expose those locals who were helping the partisan resistance. Duly reassured that Fred and Walter were the genuine article, he told them to pack up and stay the night with him. The next night, he said, he would guide them across the border. With tears in her eyes , the woman said goodbye and wished them luck.
The man led them to his cottage in the valley, where they slept in real beds and where Walter at last had the chance to remove the boots that, thanks to the state of his feet, had become unbearable. Each foot was swollen so badly, he had to use his razor blade to slice the leather away. Their Polish host gave them both new boots , but the swelling made it impossible to wear them anywhere but slung over their shoulders. Walter made do with a pair of borrowed carpet slippers instead.