Major Vygotsky chattered in Russian, and Andreyev repeated in English, as they drove through the immense facility. Adam forced himself to concentrate on what was being said and tried to keep his mind off his precarious situation—an American, formerly a saboteur and an assassin for the Polish AK, touring a German concentration camp with two Russian officers. He felt relieved every time Vygotsky wanted them to have a closer look at something and he could leave the confinement of the auto.
The Russian seemed eager to display his knowledge of the gruesome camp. As they stood inside one of the empty barracks, lined on each side with three-tier wooden racks still reeking of mold and human excrement, Vygotsky stated matter-of-factly, “There were more than sixty-five thousand prisoners in Sachsenhausen as late as January 1945, including ten thousand women. About half of them were marched out by the SS before we liberated the camp. Most of those left behind were too weak to march, and the SS finished them off in the ‘pit’ with machine guns.”
It sickened Adam to think that his uncle had been here. “I heard you found several thousand survivors,” he managed to say.
Andreyev translated, and Vygotsky nodded. “Most of them died within a week. All the rest were taken to hospitals in nearby towns.” While Andreyev’s facial expression remained inscrutable, his shoulders twitched occasionally. Adam noticed a tightness in his voice as he related Vygotsky’s remarks, as though he were disturbed by what he was hearing.
“Do you have their names?” Adam asked.
Upon hearing the translation, Vygotsky roared with laughter. “Names? Yes, we have names—tens of thousands of names, addresses, identification numbers—books full of names. You will see.” They got back in the auto and sped off.
They drove on through the deserted facility with Vygotsky explaining the details and Andreyev continuing to translate. They passed factory buildings where slave laborers had worked to death producing bricks, army boots and munitions, past the medical facility where SS doctors conducted medical experiments on prisoners too weak for work, finally arriving at the “pit.” Andreyev pulled over and stopped the car next to a concrete trench as long as a football field and about half as wide. The flat bottom and slanted sides were covered in blackish-red stains. “The survivors told us the SS only used this for quick and dirty executions,” Vygotsky said, “like right at the end. Most of their work was done at Station Z.”
Adam looked at the grisly killing field. Quick and dirty, like right at the end. Had his uncle been among them?
After a moment they set off again, and Andreyev drove to a large, windowless, concrete-block structure. He circled around to the back and stopped. A neat row of pressure cylinders were chained to the side of the building, each one bearing a prominent red-and-white placard emblazoned with a skull and crossbones.
“This is Station Z,” Vygotsky said. “The SS gassed more than a hundred thousand prisoners here.” He jerked his thumb toward the cylinders. “Zyklon-B, it’s a pesticide, the same thing they used at Auschwitz—very effective. Care to have a closer look?”
Adam stared at the austere concrete building and the lethal gas cylinders, grateful now for every SS officer he’d assassinated. He turned to Andreyev.
The Russian looked him in the eye. With a barely discernible motion, Andreyev shook his head.
“I’ve seen enough,” Adam said.
The final stop was a wood-frame structure that looked like a small house, at the far end of the triangular-shaped camp. They got out of the car and walked up to the door. Vygotsky took out a ring of keys, fumbled around for the right one and unlocked the door. He clicked on the lights and motioned for them to enter.
Adam stood in the doorway and looked around in amazement. Covering all four walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with hundreds of identical leather-bound volumes. A wooden table and four chairs filled the center of the room. Major Vygotsky tossed his hat on the table. He lit a cigarette and turned to Adam. “The records are very well organized, typical SS devotion to paperwork and detail. Now, what can we do for you?”
Adam produced the list of names he’d received from Whitehall. The last one was his uncle’s: Ludwik Banach.
It was a tedious process. Vygotsky pulled down volume after volume, while Adam flipped through the pages, read the various entries and wrote down the information. He had to admit, Whitehall’s staff had done their homework to make the exercise seem legitimate while obscuring the real reason for the search. Some of the persons on the list had been incarcerated at Sachsenhausen and some had not, as one might expect after the uncertainty of six years of war.
After what seemed an eternity, Adam found what he was looking for. On page 164 of volume 87, an entry read:
Reference Number: 23864
Date of Admission: 10 November 1939
Surname: Banach
First name: Ludwik
Domicile: Krakow, Poland
Religion: Roman Catholic
Occupation: University Professor
V293
Adam stared at his uncle’s name, finding it extremely difficult to maintain the detached demeanor of a diplomat investigating a list of names. The cold realization that his uncle had actually been imprisoned in this hellhole crushed him like a vise. He took his time writing down the information, being careful to prevent his hand from shaking. When he finished, he took a deep breath before he trusted himself to look at the Russian officers, who were chatting at the other end of the table. He motioned to Vygotsky and pointed to the last item of the entry. “V293… what does that mean?” he whispered.
Vygotsky stepped around the table and leaned over the volume. Then, suddenly seeming agitated and talking rapidly, he scanned the shelves on the back wall of the room. He pulled down volume 293 and flipped through the pages.
“He says that this volume contains information on prisoners that were subject to special circumstances,” Andreyev said to Adam. “That’s very unusual. He says he’s only seen it one other time.”
Vygotsky continued to rifle through the pages of volume 293, then stopped and ran his finger down a page halfway through the thick leather-bound book. He bent down and studied one of the entries, then turned to Adam, his expression darkening into a scowl.
Adam read the neatly printed words.
Reference Number: 23864
Surname: Banach
First Name: Ludwik
Date of Release: 10 July 1940
Destination: Krakow, Poland
Special Orders: Transferred to the personal custody of Hans Frank, Governor, Government General – Poland.
He read them a second time, just to be sure.
“What does it say?” Andreyev asked.
Adam swallowed hard before he answered. “It says he was transferred to the personal custody of Hans Frank, Governor of Poland.”
The next evening, on the terrace of the German industrialist’s mansion in Berlin, Colonel Meinerz leaned forward in the wicker chair across from Adam. “Hans Frank?” It was the first time he had spoken during Adam’s detailed report of the events of the last twenty-four hours. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You’re telling me that one of the persons on that list of yours was released from Sachsenhausen into the personal custody of Hans Frank, the Nazi Governor of Poland, the son of a bitch they call ‘the Jew Butcher of Poland’?”
Adam nodded, still unable to comprehend what it could possibly mean.
Meinerz had come directly back to Berlin upon hearing from Adam. It was late in the evening, and they were alone. “So, after not returning phone calls for a week, Kovalenko suddenly invites you to dinner, then arranges a private tour of Sachsenhausen. Any idea why?”