Mila 18 - Leon Uris

He flopped at his desk, and his face dropped into his hands in utter defeat.

“Alex, I have never questioned your decisions, but I beg you—don’t go to the Umschlagplatz again. There is a limit to what I can stand too.”

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and rolled to nothing halfway down his cheek.

“No man can continue as you have without breaking up.”

“I’ve failed,” he whispered, “I’ve failed.”

“You’re a human being, Alex. You’ve given your life to other people. I can’t stand to see you let yourself be destroyed.”

“I’ve failed,” he mumbled, “I’ve failed.”

“Alex, for God’s sake!”

“I lost my head today. I’ll lose it again.”

“You’re tired ... so tired.”

“No. It’s just ... that I knew today ... everything I’ve stood for ... everything I’ve tried to do has been wrong.”

“Oh no, darling.”

“My way? Keep one more body alive for one more day. All my cunning to save a single man, and now thousands flood to their deaths and there is nothing I can do ... nothing.”

Sylvia gripped him awkwardly. “I won’t hear you berate yourself after all you have done.”

“Done?” He laughed. “What have I done, Sylvia? Trade with swindlers and Nazis? Use trickery and cunning? Done?” He took her hands and he was again gentle Alex. “They are going to destroy our entire culture. How can I preserve a few voices to show the world who we were and what we have given them? Who will be left?”

He walked away from her. “We don’t speak of it here in Mila 19, but Andrei and I have had little to say to each other since the war. Do you know why? When the Germans came here he wanted to take our people to the woods to fight. I stopped him. I took the guns and the bullets from him. My way—I had to have my way.”

“Alex, please!”

“Wrong! I am wrong and I’ve always been wrong! Not my journal or Rabbi Solomon’s prayers will deliver us. Only Andrei’s guns, and it is too late and I did this to him.”

Like the catacombs of Rome, an underground city was clawed beneath the ghetto of Warsaw. Every person capable of working joined in a frantic race to build hiding places.

Fifty thousand trap doors, fifty thousand secret entrances led to false rooms in sub-floors, closets, behind bookcases, in attics. In the stores and bakeries they hid in unfired ovens, under counters. They made hiding places by removing the stuffing in couches, under tubs, in garbage dumps.

They lived a second away from their escape hatches. Walking in the streets became a memory. Communication was by rooftop. Behind loose tiles, stoves, toilets, pictures, lay entrances to secret rooms.

Cellars were good to hide in, for they could hold larger stores of food and their entrances were easily concealed, but attics had the advantage of the best escape routes.

The epitome of ingenuity did not deter the Big Action from bagging their quotas for the deportations. The cry of children, the keen noses of trained dogs, the spying of informers continued to flush more and more secret places. Guards in the streets watched guards upstairs break every window in a house, for unbroken windows revealed the presence of a hidden room.

At Mila 19 and at Leszno 92, Andrei and Simon took attic rooms where an alarm bell would send them to the rooftops, where the guards were not so anxious to follow.

The entrance through the packing crates to the secret rooms in the basement of Mila 19 was abandoned as not safe enough, and a false water closet was constructed on the main floor. By removing a loose floor bolt the lavatory swung away, revealing a hole in the wall large enough for a man to crawl through. A ladder led to the new parts of the basement dug out since the Big Action and holding a dozen people Alex had snatched from the Umschlagplatz as well as the archives and arsenal rooms. An exit tunnel was dug to tie into the large drainage pipe which led many meters beyond Mila 19. The underground complex spread until it was halted by the main line of the pipe which ran directly down the middle of Mila Street. The sound of rushing sewage was constantly heard.

At the end of the third week in August the Big Action suddenly ground to a halt. The roundups stopped.

Chapter Ten

MAX KLEPERMAN HAD NOT only one of the few Jewish telephones in the ghetto, he had two, the second a direct line to Dr. Franz Koenig, with whom a vast amount of business was transacted. The license to buy and sell gold, agent real estate, smuggle, inform were exclusive rights granted the Big Seven.

Max Kleperman’s private phone rang.

“Ja, Herr Doktor ... Ja, Herr Doktor ... Ja, Herr Doktor.”

After several more “Ja, Herr Doktors,” Max hung up and called for his secretary. “Dr. Koenig wants to see all the partners here in my office in an hour. Get hold of them right away and have them wait here. I go now to see him at his residence and I will come back with him for the meeting.”

Max checked out his appearance, took the diamond ring from his little finger, and clapped hands for his chauffeur and bodyguard. They drove from the ghetto through the Krasinski Gate. Max liked to drive to the Aryan side. He enjoyed looking at the trees. There was only one tree in the entire ghetto, and that was in front of the Civil Authority. That particular tree annoyed him, for he always considered the Civil Authority in competition with the Big Seven. Many times he toyed with the idea of planting a half dozen trees in front of his headquarters on Pawia Street but decided it would be provocative.

Max had a particular affection for the Krasinski Gardens. As a boy he had started his career there, hiring Polish hoodlums to steal from the Jewish delivery boys and reselling the merchandise at Parysowski Place. Parysowski Place was closed to trade these days, since the deportations.

Max heaved a sigh of relief now that the deportations had stopped. Even he and the Big Seven people were getting edgy. Certainly the Germans had accomplished what they wanted. Max’s mind turned to visions of a new plum awaiting him at Dr. Koenig’s. With the deportations over, some new venture was cooking. I’ve come a long way since the old days, he thought.

Dr. Koenig was the best of the Germans to deal with. He didn’t shout or berate one, nor did he try to steal arms and legs off in a deal. All Dr. Koenig wanted was a fair share. A fine man, Dr. Koenig.

Max was ushered into Koenig’s office. He sat down and squeezed his cigar in excited anticipation and, when Koenig nodded that it was all right for him to smoke, lit it with the silver lighter on the desk.

“Are your partners waiting at the Big Seven?” Dr. Koenig asked.

“They will be there as ordered, Herr Doktor.”

“Now, Max, let’s talk a little business.”

Kleperman opened his arms graciously. “I am your humble servant.”

Koenig put on a pair of bifocals, opened a file, and lifted a sheet of paper and studied it “You’ve made quite a killing in the last few years, Kleperman.”

The smile vanished from Max’s face. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a pair of SS Waffen guarding the door. Max cleared his throat and leaned on his elbow. What was Koenig up to?

“I must say, you were very clever. Bilking us out of a quarter of a million dollars.”

Max thrust out his hand in protest. “A terrible exaggeration!”

“One of your partners volunteered the information.”

Max’s big fingers tugged away to loosen his collar as Dr. Koenig read a terribly correct accounting of his fancy footwork. “And finally,” Koenig said, “you have given inflated zlotys to the welfare people through agents in exchange for dollar deposits in Swiss banks. Buildings for which you have acted as agent have been leased to Orphans and Self-Help for dollars also. Now, Max, you know all of this is illegal.”