Mila 18 - Leon Uris

“Then why not use poison gas on their armies?”

“This is not a decision of compassion but of expediency. We would certainly not hesitate if we knew they would not do the same to us. You cannot measure brutality by degrees. All conquerors justify their aims on a political theory. In our case the Nazis provide our various frills. No country goes to war without the belief in its own justice—we take it a step farther. We act out what others only theorize. In the concentration camps we reduce our political enemy until he takes the physical appearance of a subhuman. This makes us supermen by comparison.”

“Alfred, does any of this ever annoy you as an individual?”

“No. I decided by 1930 that you either become a Nazi or drown. My personal views on this Jewish business fail to be important. Horst, have you witnessed a gassing?”

“No.”

“I’ll arrange one for you.”

“Thanks, anyhow.”

“The first time I witnessed one it was with a sense of complete fascination. I slept very well that night. The only thing that annoyed me a little was some of the Jewesses carrying their children into the chambers who looked at me with a mocking Mona Lisa smile.”

Horst was sorry he had brought the whole subject up.

“I shall tell you why the German people will be able to achieve what others have failed. It is because we are capable of the perfect state of mind necessary. We can give absolute obedience, respond to total authority, like no others.”

Horst spun the ice cubes with his forefinger. He glanced up into Funk’s face. The Oberführer was in a state of detachment, the cruel and impersonal monster qualities dominating his appearance.

“Others talk of love of country. We act it out through absolute obedience. Four years ago I was commandant of the Waffen SS youth training school at Dachau. We got boys at the age of sixteen for a year’s indoctrination, complete with live prisoners to experiment with. The entire course was geared to teach absolute unquestioned obedience to the Fatherland. Each boy was given an Alsatian puppy of six to eight weeks of age when he entered training. During the year part of their study was to train the animal, live with it, compete it against the other dogs. We encouraged them to develop the natural affection a boy does for a dog.”

Funk clasped his hands behind him.

“The last graduation test to see if the boy was worthy to become an SS officer was by calling him into a private room with his dog. As he stood before me at attention with his dog at his side I would say, ‘Hans, I order you to strangle your dog this instant.’ ”

Horst thought he was going to vomit.

“Oh, a few were unable to do it. Some even broke and cried. But! Almost all of them, without a trace of remorse, without a second of hesitation, said, ‘Jawohl, Herr Kommandant,’ and proceeded to snap their dog’s neck without a trace of emotion. And this, Horst, is the supreme state of absolute obedience which we Germans have attained.”

Horst poured himself a triple drink. “Heil Hitler,” he said.

Sturmbannführer Sieghold Stutze paced his room in the barracks wildly. Gestapo Chief Sauer had just left him with orders to set up a massive pot around Mila 19 and not to leave until the underground bunker was located and Alexander Brandel found.

It was just like that bastard Prussian, Alfred Funk, to give him the dirty work, he fumed. Where was his promotion to Standartenführer? He had more than earned his colonelcy. It was all part of the German plots against the Austrians.

All winter the Jews had been arming in the ghetto. No telling what those crazy Jews were liable to do. He broke into a sweat.

Damned if he’d walk into a trap on Funk’s whim. Funk simply didn’t understand how dangerous it was.

And then the idea came to him as he heard a shriek down the hall. It was that damned Kutler and his nightmares again. Wait! Kutler. That drunken beast was becoming completely useless. Yes! That was it. Kutler would lead the force into the ghetto. Kutler would set up the kettle. Good idea ... good idea.

Chapter Three

“AHA!” ANDREI CRIED WITH fiendish delight, rubbing his hands together. “Aha, you stupid man. You have made a fool’s gambit!” Andrei moved his knight over the chessboard. “Check!”

Chris countered immediately, lopping off an exposed castle, putting Andrei’s chessmen in an impossible position. “Fool’s gambit, all right,” he said, “but you have the wrong fool.”

Andrei studied the board a moment and cursed under his breath.

Chris pulled back from the table and paced the tiny garret room restlessly.

“What’s the matter, Chris?”

“I’m hungry, I want a smoke, I’m sick of being cooped up—I want to see Deborah.”

“I have yet to hear the first person speak in favor of ghetto living,” Andrei said.

“It has its advantages. It got me out of some bad drinking habits.” Chris patted his stomach. “And notice how slim I’ve become.”

“What’s bothering you?” Andrei asked again.

“To go or not to go. Hell, I know how important it is to get out of Poland knowing where the archives are buried, but it was impossible to leave Deborah before, even believing she hated me. Now, I swear, I don’t know if I have the strength to leave.”

“Women,” Andrei grunted, “they have a way of getting under one’s skin.” He walked up behind Chris and put one hand on his shoulder. “I am confident that when the time comes you will make the correct decision, and if you are very lucky the decision will be made for you.”

Both men froze at the same instant, trying to hear something that alerted a sixth sense beyond their normal waves of hearing. A few seconds later the alarm bell erupted in a series of dashes.

“I’ll never get used to that goddamned bell,” Chris said.

Wolf Brandel came in carrying a large suitcase. He looked at the chessboard. “Who played black?” he asked. Chris jerked his thumb at Andrei. Wolf grimaced and went “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Got a cigarette?” Chris asked.

“Don’t smoke.”

“Hell.”

“Hey, Andrei. Three Kar 98’s came in with seventy rounds of ammo. Pretty good. We got a line on four Mauser 9-mm.’s day after tomorrow.”

“Good work,” Andrei said. “At this rate we’ll have weapons for half our force in another few weeks. How is Rachael?”

“Fine.”

“What do you have in the suitcase?”

“I want to get some matzo-ball grenades to take back to my bunker. We tested one yesterday. Blam! Nuts and bolts everywhere. I want to talk to Schlosberg about designing a real big matzo ball.” Wolf held his hands out to indicate a four-foot diameter. “Something like a land mine we can detonate with a hot spark. Something packed with a couple thousand nuts and bolts.”

“Good idea,” Andrei said.

Wolf put the suitcase on the table. “Take a look.”

Andrei opened the lid, not knowing what to expect. He unfolded a blanket. An automatic weapon and five clips of ammunition burst into view.

“My God,” Andrei said, not believing what his eyes saw, “my God! A Schmeisser machine pistol. My God!” Andrei licked his lips; his hands trembled to pick up the weapon but feared it would disappear like a mirage. “Where on earth did you get it, Wolf?”

“German tank sergeant, lost a leg on the eastern front. Sold it for only four thousand zlotys.”

“My God!”

“Go on, Andrei, pick it up.”

Andrei lifted the weapon out of the suitcase. He patted it with a gentleness reserved only for Gabriela. He slipped the bolt, sighted in, cradled it against his hip, clicked the trigger.

“It’s yours,” Wolf said.

“Mine?”