The One Man by Andrew Gross Read Free Book Online Page B

remarkable courage. All the world owes you a great debt.” A cup of black coffee was put in front of him with a piece of hard sugar.
    The Czech translated and the two men nodded, mildly enthusiastic.
    â€œThis is their report,” Katzner, of the Jewish World Congress, said, pushing a thick sheaf of papers in front of Strauss. “But I think you are already familiar with the important details. For a long time it’s been no secret what’s been going on. What everyone here wants to know is, what is the delay with a response? This is not war the Nazis are waging against us. It’s murder.”
    â€œI’m a military man, not a diplomat,” Strauss said, “but I want to assure you that even the president has been made aware.”
    â€œYou are a Jew yourself, are you not?” a Swede from the refugee board inquired of him.
    Strauss nodded. “Yes.”
    â€œSo you must see this clearer than anyone. Thousands upon thousands are dying every day. How does your government not act?”
    â€œThe U.S. government is interested in all lives threatened under the Nazi regime,” Strauss said, though the words sat like an undigested piece of meat in his gut and had a hollow ring. It was clear the people here looked on Strauss’s visit as a sign that the kind of military response they were all pleading for would soon follow. That the United States, home to the most Jews in the world outside of Europe, would send in an air strike against the camps or bomb the train tracks leading in. That his visit brought long-sought hope at last from the Allies.
    But that wasn’t why he was here.
    Nodding almost apologetically, Strauss turned to Vrba and Wetzler. He reached in his briefcase and took out a folder. “There is a photograph I’d like to show you both.” The Czech translated his words. Strauss took out an eight-by-ten photograph and slid it across the table. First to Rudolf Vrba, who took a sideways glance at it. “Do you recognize this man?”
    As the Czech translated, the escapee looked at Strauss without giving any recognizable sign.
    â€œAt the camp,” Strauss explained further. “Have you seen him? Is he there?”
    Vrba slowly picked up the photograph of Alfred Mendl.
    Vrba had short dark hair, a flat nose, and sharp, low eyebrows. His mouth had an upward curve on one side, giving him an almost impish quality. While Strauss waited, he took a long look. Finally Vrba looked back at him.
    â€œSorry.” He shook his head, speaking in halting English.
    Strauss felt a stab of disappointment. This was his last hope. Many people’s last hope. A year’s work hung in the balance. He passed the photo over to Wetzler. He had more of a studious face, with a high forehead and bushy eyebrows. He studied the photograph for a long time, but then slid it back across the table with kind of an indifferent shrug.
    â€œPlease,” Strauss urged him. “Look at it again. It’s important.”
    Wetzler glanced at it again almost perfunctorily and then reached onto the table for a Portuguese cigarette. As he did so, his sleeve bunched up and Strauss’s eyes were drawn to the bluish numbers written into the underside of the escapee’s wrist. Wetzler lit the cigarette and took a drag. Then he spoke for a long time in Czech, never once taking his eyes off Strauss.
    â€œMr. Wetzler wants to know…” the Czech finally translated, “what has this man done that deserves your attention above all others? Hundreds of innocent people die every day. Women, children. As soon as they get off the trains they are stripped of the possessions and gassed. They are all good people…” Wetzler spoke quickly, and the translator did his best to keep up. “They all lead worthwhile lives. Who is this man, that you travel all this way and need to know if he is there?”
    The escapee slid the photograph back across the table, as if awaiting a