Mila 18 - Leon Uris

“Yes, sir.”

A pause at the end of the line. “Chess Master, the Angel has just returned from Canaan. Blue boys are all around the walls of Jericho. We expect the Rhine Maidens to come at dawn. Change the alert from blue to gray. Shalom.”

“Shalom.”

Wolf hung up. They were crowded about his office. Eighty pairs of eyes on him. “Runners. Change the alert to gray. Polish Blue Police have the ghetto surrounded. We anticipate the Germans at dawn.”

As the runners scampered off to warn the satellite bunkers, the stunned soldiers continued to stare at him. Wolf nonchalantly shrugged, picked up his accordion again, and began to play.

“Havenu shalom aleichem!

Havenu shalom aleichem!

Ve-nu ve-nu

Shalom aleichem!”

And with a snappy hora he got everyone to clap in rhythm and he passed around the last four bottles of the schnapps he had been hoarding. When the shock had passed, they became mellow again and dreamy. Wolf set down the accordion.

“We’d better get some sleep. We want to be wide awake for our house guests.”

He walked around the bunker, quietly checking last-minute details, giving looks and smiles of encouragement. In one part of the bunker he had to kneel, for he was too tall to stand straight.

The Fighters were dozing off one by one. Only emergency candles at the exits. It was still. ... Those awake were at least fighting the battle within them in silence.

Being commander had its small compensations. Wolf had his own private cubbyhole off the main bunker and a sacking curtain over it. It was large enough to contain a table for the phone, a chair, and a bed of straw.

Rachael’s rifle was propped against the wall. She unloosened her hair and let it fall. Wolf knelt in the straw, then squirmed his way close to her. With a free hand he snuffed out the candle. They had learned to lie together so tightly so that when either spoke only the other could hear.

“I’m so proud,” Rachael said. “You are so brave.”

Wolf didn’t answer. He felt icy. He crushed even more tightly against her.

“Don’t worry, Wolf. You will get us through. Everyone trusts you. ... Did you see the way they all calmed down after being so frightened?”

Even in their room, privacy was limited. At any instant a messenger could poke a flashlight in. She carefully unbuttoned her blouse enough to draw his head against her breast, and she wrapped him in her arms and soothed him. As a commander, he never showed fear before his Fighters. But now, alone with her, he was cold and he trembled and it was she who was not afraid. Wolf would get up in the morning and lead them to their positions as though he had not a care in the world. Her fingers stroked his hair and his face. ...

“I’m scared,” he said.

“Shhh ... shhh ... shhh ...”

Chapter Fourteen

FIVE O’CLOCK. THE FIRST light of day. The only movement, a snowfall of feathers cascading from the roofs.

Andrei wiggled up to his forward observation point and through binoculars scanned the intersection. His four companies were well concealed. Less than half of them were armed. Cardinal rule: take guns from the enemy or from a fallen comrade. Distant sounds beyond the wall. Andrei took a borscht bomb-fire bottle from his jacket and shook it to wet the wick. It would be the signal to open fire if the Germans came into his area.

Andrei heard movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. A figure moved in his direction. Andrei put the binoculars on the figure. “Dammit! What’s he doing here!” he muttered as Alexander Brandel, on hands and knees, muffler straggling, crawled toward him.

“Who told you to leave the bunker?” Andrei snorted as Alex came alongside him.

“Since I have become a man of violence, I was certain you would not deny me the pleasure of this moment.”

“Get down below.”

“Please let me stay, Andrei.”

“Write your journal.”

“It’s up to date.”

“Shhh ... here they come.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Well ... it’s too late to send you down. Stay close to me and keep quiet.”

Andrei signaled to his people, then strained to hear.

“I don’t see them,” Alex whispered.

“Shhh ... shhh.”

Clump! Clump! Clump! Clump!

Andrei looked around for a return signal. A blue flag waved in a window on Zamenhof Street. “They’re coming down Gensia Street between the factory compounds. I hope Wolf lets them pass.”

Clump! Clump! Clump! Clump!

Andrei fixed the binoculars at the intersection of Gensia and Zamenhof, site of the abandoned Jewish Civil Authority building. The first of the black-helmeted, black-uniformed troops appeared. Stutze was leading them. They would be under the guns of Ana Grinspan’s company now. He signaled over the roof to hold fire, guessing they would come up Zamenhof into the central area.

“Halt!” The command broke the silence.

“Daggers ready!” The Nazi knives were unsheathed.

“Parade march!”

Clump, clump, clump, clump, they goose-stepped up Zamenhof Street.

“Look at those arrogant syphilitic whores,” Andrei hissed. “All bunched up like a rat pack, goose-stepping. We’ll scatter them, eh, Alex?”

Clump! Clump! Clump! Clump!

Andrei handed Alex the binoculars. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and focused on the black waves of uniforms filling the width of Zamenhof Street, pouring around the corner at them in row after row. Alex felt a knotting of his stomach. He wished he had stayed in the bunker. Andrei was more concerned with the discipline of his troops. So far no one moved or made a sound.

On they came around the corner of Gensia. The line of Nazis stretched for a block, and still they came.

“Sing!”

A thousand hairy hands thrust a thousand daggers skyward. Clump, clump, clump, clump, they goose-stepped.

“When Jewish blood is squirting from our daggers!

Only then the Fatherland will be free,

When Jewish corpses rot and putrefy,

We’ll glory in Hitler’s victory.”

Clump! Clump! Clump! Clump!

Their voices and their boots grew louder, and the marrow of the Jews was chilled.

“When Jewish blood squirts from our daggers!

It shall make us doubly glad,

When Jewish skulls are stacked to the sky,

Good Germans shall not be sad.”

“Halt!”

The massed Reinhard Corps stopped at the intersection of Zamenhof and Mila streets. Sieghold Stutze called his officers together and huddled over a map and discussed the first phase of the operation. They stood directly below Andrei and Alexander. The Reinhard Corps was in the gun sights of the four companies of Jews awaiting the signal.

Andrei took out a pack of matches. He began to light the bottle but stopped. “I am a sentimentalist, Alex. I believe in historic justice. Have you ever lit one of these bottles?”

“Me? God in heaven, no.”

“I hereby commission you to signal the uprising,” Andrei said, thrusting the bottle into Alex’s hand.

Alex merely stared at it. “Well ... what do I do?”

“Light the wick and throw the bottle down on the street.”

“Light ... and throw ...”

“Yes, it’s very simple. You’re bound to hit one of those syphilitic whores. But hurry, before they disperse.”

Alex licked his lips. The challenge was too tempting, the honor too great. “I’ll try,” he said shakily. He carefully placed the bottle flat and struck a match. The wind blew it out.

He struck another and tried to touch the flame to the wick hurriedly, and the wind blew that one out too.

“Come along, Alex. Men of violence must act deliberately.”

Alex struck a third match and sheltered the flame by cupping his hands, but his hands trembled so violently that he could not steady it on the wick.