Jonathan F. Keiler

UPFALL

Prologue

On September 6, 2007 Israeli fighter-bombers attacked a mysterious target in eastern Syria, near the Euphrates River. For many weeks Israel refused to formally acknowledge the raid. It is now known that the target was a secret Syrian nuclear site. Some sources opined that the attack was really a decoy to distract the Syrians, while a clandestine team of Israeli commandos actually hit the target.

Syrian spokesmen seemed to confirm the latter version of events by pointedly denying that Israeli ground forces were present, while at the same time acknowledging that Israeli planes had inexplicably bombed empty areas of desert. But few knowledgeable experts believed that. Rather, it appeared that the Syrians had indeed suffered some kind of devastating commando attack, but were too embarrassed to admit the truth.

Adding to the mystery was Israel’s uncharacteristically stubborn silence on the matter. When Israeli jets destroyed Iraq’s nuclear facilities in 1981 the Israel government was quick to claim the success. On this occasion, however, official Israeli sources remained mute. The likelihood that an Israeli commando force could be airlifted deep into eastern Syria, destroy a major nuclear facility, and get away, leaving no trace behind, is hard to credit. But the veil of secrecy Israel still maintains over the operation has led some to speculate that the Israelis had developed a new means of stealth transport that is so sensitive, only a very few people inside the Israeli establishment are even aware of its existence.

Chapter 1

Lieutenant Ron Shapira tried to ignore the nauseating shaking in the capsule by listening to Led Zeppelin on his iPod. While “Over the Hills and Far Away” pounded in the small earpiece in his left ear, he stayed alert for messages that might come through the IDF issue radio-earpiece on his right ear. Like most Israeli soldiers he called the earpiece and microphone a Madonna—after the head-hugging set popularized by the singer. The other commandos in the cramped capsule also attempted to pass the time listening to music or daydreaming. Major Mofaz prayed. Bolander chewed gum. Only the unit leader, Colonel Danny Yatom, in his perch at the front, seemed completely unperturbed.

If the hammering blast of the capsule’s arrival frightened and shook the Israeli commandos inside, it positively terrified the Iranians on floor of the Natanz nuclear facility. The scientists and technicians first assumed that another centrifuge had crashed. The massive facility was covered with over 6000 of the machines, all working day and night to separate and enrich uranium for the Islamic Republic’s atomic bomb program. The mullahs had pressed the uranium enrichment factory into operation much faster than normal safety and manufacturing protocols would have permitted. As a result, centrifuges crashed all the time.

But that didn’t explain the presence of the dark oblong capsule that had suddenly appeared in the middle of the facility around the detritus of wrecked centrifuges. Even stranger, the capsule opened, spilling out a dozen men dressed in bulky chemical/biological protection suits festooned with military style webbing and carrying black rifles. To the horror of the startled Iranian technicians, the men suddenly raised their weapons and began firing.

Yatom led the men out of the capsule onto the concrete floor,already full of shattered machines. In his ears the huge hall echoed from the crash of the capsule mingled with the insect hum of thousands of still working centrifuges. Like his men, Yatom was dressed in standard a MOPP level four protective suit. A plastic hood covered his head, a sealed mask and respirator his face. Suspended over his shoulders was a flak vest and webbing holding wide assortment of battle gear. On top of the hood Yatom wore a standard IDF Kevlar helmet. All the commandos carried American-made M-4 carbines.

The rifles were not suppressed. Their popping reports added to the din along with the centrifuges, and the shouting and screaming of alarmed, wounded and dying Iranians. A team of commandos spread into the vast hall, rifles raised to their face masks, firing single shots or short bursts in every direction. Occasionally a bullet struck a centrifuge, spewing radioactive uranium-hexafluoride gas. Panicked technicians fled the area, more afraid of the deadly gasses than bullets. Revolutionary Guard troops took the technicians cue and followed. In a few seconds the first commando team found itself alone in the hall. Not wasting a second they began to lay down their charges.

Yatom couldn’t see much within the facility. Each separation tube was twenty centimeters across and two meters high. They filled the hall in dense seemingly endless rows. Yatom checked his communications with the Bet team leader, Major Mofaz, who already deep into the separation hall with his men. As Yatom had feared the com-sets barely functioned in the underground plant. His Madonna headset hissed and squawked. Mofaz, adapting, responded to the signal with a pair of clicks.

Yatom looked back at the capsule where his third team Gimmel, under Lieutenant Shapira, stood guard. He pointed at the three other men in his own team, and shouted into his Madonna “I’m moving to the second hall! After me!”

Yatom led team Alef into a passageway that ended in a second separation hall. There the alarm had been raised and a squad of Revolutionary Guardsmen opened a ragged fire as the commandos burst in. Yatom’s men returned fire with a fusillade of bullets and grenades. It appeared indiscriminate, but in fact, every man reacted with precision. In seconds the separation hall was ablaze with exploding centrifuges and ordnance. The Guardsmen scrambled away as the raiders fanned out. Each commando set down two timed satchel charges. Each charge was filled with a kilo of C4, surrounded by a matrix of ball bearings. Thirty seconds later, Yatom led his team from the enormous room into the connecting passage back into the first hall.

In the first separation hall two men from the Bet team were already back at the capsule when Yatom and Alef arrived. He looked again across the hall, where wrecked and tumbled centrifuges continued to spill toxic gas. An Iranian technician had cut power to the hall and set off a loud alarm. It gave the hall had a strange otherworldly aspect, bathed in emergency lighting and the glow of electrical fires, the clamor of the powered down centrifuges and sirens echoing in the chamber.

Yatom and his men joined Shapira’s team reserve team outside the capsule. It was now impossibly loud. Yatom grabbed Shapira and ignoring the static filled radio, pantomimed his question: “Where are Mofaz and the rest?”

The junior commando pointed in the general direction of a control booth, behind which Yatom could just make out the shapes of sheltering Iranian technicians. Then, about fifty meters away, in a haze of hexafluoride gas, Yatom saw flashes from Mofaz’s M-4. At his feet was the prostrate body of a commando. Yatom switched to the Bet frequency and yelled into his Madonna.

“Mofaz—who is down?”

“Yoram,” answered Mofaz. “He fell…”

“Fell? Dead?” asked Yatom.

“Affirmative, Angel down” comfirmed Mofaz, using IDF slang for a dead soldier.

“Fall back!” Yatom shouted into the Madonna.

“Collect body.” Israeli troops never left a comrade, wounded or dead, if they could help it.

A bulky commando from team Bet named Roskovsky grabbed Yatom’s shoulder. He yelled into the commando leader’s ear. “The area is under fire from near the control booth! Mofaz cannot withdraw.”

“Why are you here?”

“Mofaz told us to pull out.”

“Shit,” said Yatom in English.

Yatom again tried to raise Mofaz on the radio but failed.

“You two,” Yatom pointed to a pair of Shapira’s men who had not been in the fight, “follow me!” He pointed at Shapira, indicating he should remain at the capsule.

The three men ran off into the chaos at a crouch. About twenty meters from Mofaz Yatom could see muzzle flashes from what had to be the Iranian Guard positions.

“There!” he simply yelled and pointed, and the two commandos let loose with their M-4s. Yatom tossed a grenade, signaled the two commandos to remain in place and keep shooting, and sprinted to Mofaz.

Mofaz lay prone by the body of Yoram. Yatom slid in next to Mofaz and grabbed his arm.

“Let’s go!” he said.

“Yoram!” screamed Mofaz, pointing to the dead commando in front of him.

“Now!” yelled Yatom. “That is an order! Leave him!”

The Iranian fire had slackened thanks to Yatom’s grenade and the steady fire of Roi and Mike, the two team Gimme! commandos. They looked toward their officers, arguing over the body of Yoram.

Mofaz twisted his face into a scowl, grabbed Yoram’s body under both shoulders and began dragging him toward the capsule, blood smearing the floor behind the corpse. Yatom, realizing that arguing with his deputy would only waste time and probably their lives, pushed Mofaz from Yoram’s right shoulder grabbed hold. Together the two men dragged the body across the broken floor. Roi and Mike fell back behind them, firing to keep Iranians pinned down.

Yatom and Mofaz arrived at the capsule and heaved Yoram’s corpse inside. Then, in a well practiced drill, the remaining commandos retreated into the pod. Mike and Roi tossed smoke grenades before slamming shut the hatch.

Inside, Yatom and Mofaz strapped Yoram’s corpse into his seat, then took their own and fastened the restraining straps. Yatom took a last glance around at his men and hit the activation button. The capsule began to vibrate. Yatom heard the faint ping of Iranian bullets striking outside. The capsule bellowed like a beast, and then disappeared. One minute later, the separation halls exploded.

Chapter 2

Benny Feldhandler sat nervously in the control station of the Dimona transport facility, known as Dovecote. Although the control apparatus was behind thick tinted Plexiglas, Feldhandler and everyone else in the station also wore dark protective glasses. Feldhandler could barely see the device through all the tinted plastic, but his brightly lit management screens told him that the equipment was operating well within acceptable parameters.

Part of the vast Dimona nuclear complex, the transport facility was buried under one hundred feet of sand and rock. It mirrored in many ways the underground facility in Natanz, except that the room was almost empty except for the Device, which stood on a meter-high concrete platform. The Device looked like a large steel cradle suspended over a shallow pool of water and surrounded by a convoluted mass of cables, circuit boxes, conduits and air conditioners. Right now the cradle was empty.

Ostensibly, Feldhandler had activated the Device and sent Colonel Yatom and his men off to Natanz from where they were now returning. But in fact, they were arriving several seconds before they departed. Feldhandler knew this would occur, and so wasn’t confused. He understood that twenty seconds in the future he had pushed a button which sent off the capsule, but that now, in a slightly new timeline and new future, he would not do that.

A bright flash of light followed by a rumble and a loud thump announced the return. Feldhandler glanced away from the flash, and looked back. The black capsule was back in its cradle partly submerged in the shallow cooling tank. Steam hissed from the water as the capsule discharged its heat.

As Feldhandler watched, Israeli technicians in protective gear rushed to the pod and flung open the hatch. A similarly outfitted stand-by medical team moved in to evacuate the fallen Sergeant

Yoram Grof. Yatom and his men, still wearing their suits and respirators stepped out of the capsule. Fatigue, sadness and disorientation slowed their steps. Technicians guided the commandos to a nearby decontamination room where their protective suits and then their bodies were meticulously sprayed down to remove any traces of radioactive contamination. Grofs remains went to a special morgue.

Feldhandler didn’t share the commandos’ evident mixed feelings. He was exuberant. It the Device had functioned almost flawlessly. His management screens showed only minor discrepancies. Beaming, he turned to Mina his chief assistant, and gave her a little hug. She was his sister after all. Mina returned his smile and pulled off the protective glasses, revealing a hint of tears in her hazel eyes. The rest of Feldhandler’s scientific team shared their joy and relief, and throughout the cramped booth there were high-fives and slaps on the back. Someone suggested champagne. The festive mood was broken by the harsh commanding voice of Lieutenant General Shlomo Brom. “Why are you congratulating yourselves? What did you accomplish? We have no idea what’s happened, except that I see dead soldier carried away!”

Feldhandler rolled his eyes, but Brom was right. Nobody knew exactly what had happened, except that their computers told the scientists that the capsule had successfully entered and returned from a wormhole. There had no report during the mission, nor could there be for a variety of technical reasons. The only way to know what had happened was to debrief the commando team, or to monitor Iranian communications—nothing yet.

“Sorry Herr General,” said Feldhandler sarcastically, oblivious to the uncomfortable looks of his colleagues.

Brom, a former commando, with forearms so big that his nickname was Popeye, stepped toward Feldhandler, when a secure phone line rang his station across the room. It was the war room in Tel Aviv.

Brom picked up the handset and mostly listened for the next minute, occasionally nodding or signaling to his aides. Finally, he replaced the phone.

“Nu,” said Feldhandler in Yiddish. “Care to let us in?”

“Radio traffic intercepted from Iran indicates that several minutes ago there was a large explosion at the Natanz separation facility,” said Brom laconically. “The Iranians are confused, uncertain of the cause, and concerned that there will be radiation leakage into the city. That’s all we know right now, but it would appear that our boys pulled in off.”

Brom allowed himself a smile and added “Congratulations to you and your team Dr. Feldhandler. I’m going to debrief the raiders, and then I expect they will want us all in Tel Aviv. Probably by yesterday…”

After Brom exited the control booth Feldhandler turned to Mina, and ignoring the continuing fuss and glad-handing, smiled wanly and told her “You go up and brief them. Please.”

“Why? Benny, this is your accomplishment, not mine. They will want you.”

“Screw them.” said Feldhandler nastily. “You go. You know everything; and what to say and what not. I’m tired of it.”

“But…”

“Just go.”

A series of small briefing rooms adjoined the decontamination suite. Brom entered the first one with his military secretary and an aide. The secretary carried a digital video recorder and a tripod; the aide a laptop. Minutes later a female soldier carried in a tray containing bottled water, several thermoses of coffee, and assorted cakes and fruit.

Brom planned to interview Lieutenant Colonel Yatom first and then Major Mofaz. Other debriefing officers would talk to the lower ranking commandos, and when they were all done the entire team would be brought together for a general bull session over beers, fried schnitzels and pizza. All of which would be carefully recorded.

Yatom arrived, clad in a fresh olive drab uniform, devoid of insignia. Instead, a radiation warning card hung from his neck, like a conferee’s nametag. An IDF doctor accompanied the colonel, and pronounced him healthy, having suffered just a minor radiation dose.

“About like getting a dozen X-rays” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “Not good for you, but not likely to kill this fellow any time soon.”

And Yatom didn’t look easy to kill. A little under six feet he was only slightly taller than the doctor but considerably broader. Yatom had been a champion wrestler in his youth and had a grappler’s thick neck and shoulders. He moved easily despite his bulk. At thirty-five his hair was mostly gray, but cropped so short it was hard to tell. He wore no jewelry, but had a typically wide IDF officer watchband strapped across a thick left wrist. Yatom was a hairy Ashkenazi who, his ex-wife used to say, looked like the shtetl strong man in Polish circus sideshow.

Yatom neither saluted nor acknowledged General Brom other than to tell him that “The rest of the sayeret is fine too—except for Yoram, of course.”

“Tov!” said Brom with a smile.

“It’s one way to get out of the army” said Yatom ghoulishly.

“Obviously I need a replacement.”

“You have other qualified men,” said Brom’s aide, Captain Zeev, a young handsome man with a paratroopers red beret in his shoulder epaulette. He ignored Yatom’s superior rank just as Yatom had ignored Brom’s.

“That’s not the issue,” Yatom noted irritably. “It’s the security clearances.”

“We’ll take care of it Danny,” said Brom, with a note of sympathy in his voice. “Now let’s go through the mission.” The sympathetic note fled.

Yatom looked at the tray of refreshments. Room service in a second rate hotel, he thought—not bad at all. He reached for the coffee with one hand and Danish with the other.

Brom spent an hour with Yatom. There would be further interviews, but the truth was that there wasn’t much to tell. The raid has gone mostly as planned, the loss unfortunate, but to be expected.

Brom wasn’t one to cry over the loss of every soldier, although that seemed to be the mood of the nation, and had been for some time. He dismissed Yatom and called in Major Mofaz.

Unlike Yatom, Mofaz was an observant Jew and had donned a small yarmulke after his decontamination. Like Yatom he wore a fresh uniform unadorned with rank, but he wore a thick wedding band on his left hand to go with the standard bulky watch on his wrist. Slightly smaller but just as thickly muscled, Mofaz shared Yatom’s love of fighting. Not a wrestler, Mofaz was an expert at krav maga, the brutal, no holds barred brand of Israeli martial art. A couple of years younger than Yatom, he was a less flexible more ideological officer—whether that was good or bad depended on the superior.

Mofaz gave Brom a brief salute when he entered, forcing Captain Zeev and Brom’s secretary to stand and offer salutes to Mofaz. It was a bit awkward, but Mofaz unlike many of his fellows appreciated military protocols. Brom returned the salute and bid him to sit. The ravaged refreshment tray had been replenished but Mofaz had already eaten while cooling his heels with the rest of the men.

Brom went through most of the interview in his usual business-like way, and Mofaz answered in the clipped bland way of combat soldiers. That is, until Brom reached the part where Sergeant Grof got hit.

“When did Sergeant Grof—Yoram—fall?” Brom asked.

“I don’t know,” answered the Major. “I didn’t see it. Communications—as I’ve told you—were quite difficult. But shortly after I planted my charges and returned to the area of the capsule I received a garbled message. When I looked over, it appeared that Sergeant Grof indeed been shot. He was prone and not moving.”

“What did you do then?”

“Grof was near the control booth and the area we called ‘the alcove’ in training.”

“And?”

“The rest of the team had laid their charges and already withdrawn to the capsule. I told them to remain in place. Then I went to Grof.”

“Was Grof dead when you got to him?”

“Yes. But our orders and our ethics demand that he be evacuated; dead or alive.”

“Go on” said Brom.

“I got to Grofs body under heavy fire. I had to crawl to him. I couldn’t even lift my head.”

“What did you do then?” Brom pressed. “I tried to raise Yatom on the radio, but could not get through.”

“So you were stuck” concluded Brom. “Yes, it’s true, for about a minute, maybe two Iwas stuck.”

Being stuck is a bad thing in combat. In the IDF, an army that prided itself on innovation and aggression, it was a very bad thing.

“It was only for a minute or so” Mofaz continued, “and then Yatom arrived with two men. We then proceeded to evacuate Sergeant Grof.”

“But not before you refused Yatom’s order to leave Grof behind, yes?” asked Brom.

“Is that what Yatom told you?” said Mofaz. “Questions for questions?” Brom said a little unpleasantly. “Yatom did not say you refused his order—he just told me what happened. But my conclusion is correct?”

“I argued with Yatom, because it is our doctrine to retrieve the fallen, and it was our orders for the mission” said Mofaz urgently. “Besides the moral issue, a body left behind would have revealed the origin of the raid, and given the Iranians an important bargaining chip. We all know this, and Yatom did the right thing in the end.”

“My concern is not whether Grof got out or not” said Brom. “It’s for the best that Grof was evacuated—certainly. Your relationship with Colonel Yatom, that’s the issue. Such incidents sometimes reveal attitudes, tensions maybe that can interfere with the effective functioning of a small unit.”

“Yatom is an excellent officer,” Mofaz said simply. “You don’t like him though.”

“It’s not my job to like him. I would like to continue in the unit. How does he feel about it.”

“The same I imagine,” said Brom. “We are done.” Brom rather quickly debriefed the rest of the team, there being no serious discrepancies in any accounts, or any particular tactical surprises.

Other officers and intelligence agents would further debrief the men as to technical aspects of the mission. Finally, he brought Yatom back in for a few words private words, without his aide or military secretary.

Yatom was obviously tired and a little bored. It was already nearly noon. The mission had ended before dawn, and Yatom hadn’t slept in well over a day. Nonetheless, Brom continued in his brisk business-like way. Soldiers go without sleep. Brom couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good eight or nine hours.

“Danny,” said Brom, “the mission was a success. I’m pleased as is the government. We’ve not solved the problem completely, but this should help. I don’t need to remind you, but I will anyway, that officially, this mission never occurred.”

“How are the Iranians treating it?” asked Yatom. “From our intelligence intercepts and agents on the ground, it appears that the mullahs will acknowledge a major industrial accident in Natanz. They are considering an evacuation of nearby areas do to possible radiation leakage.”

“Casualties at the plant?” continued Yatom.

“Heavy. We knew that would be the case—they operated the plant around the clock. There was no way to avoid that.”

Yatom frowned. Most of the dead would be civilian technicians.

“Do they know we raided them?”

“Not clear. They know somebody hit them. Whether us or the Americans.” Brom trailed off, and then changed the subject. “You are satisfied with your team?”

“Yes. I need the replacement. If possible a few others” said Yatom.

“How did Lieutenant Shapira perform—any concerns?”

“Shapira’s fine. Smart, extraordinarily fit, knows several languages. He didn’t have much to do on the mission, but did that well.”

Brom looked at him. “You’re not still uneasy that he’s American? It’s highly unusual for immigrants to be accepted into our best units. And you have two—Shapira and Bolander.”

“Bolander immigrated as a child,” interrupted Yatom.

“Still?”

“They are both trustworthy and reliable soldiers. End of story.”

“Mofaz?”

“Beseder” grunted Yatom, using the universal Israel word for okay. “Sometimes he seems to think he is a Macabee or Mordecai Anielewicz, but I’m not going to complain about such an officer.” Yatom himself was from kibbutz Yad Mordecai, named for the Warsaw Ghetto martyr.

“He refused your order.”

“Argued it,” Yatom smiled. “It’s our way. Besides, he was right.”

Brom nodded. “We’ll replace your man. Expanding the sayeret may not be feasible at present. Mofaz will remain your deputy until you tell me otherwise, or someone gets rid of you or me.”

“Then we could maybe get some sleep” said Yatom. In a separate part of the underground facility Feldhandler examined masses of data thrown up by his computers. The scientist examined masses of data thrown up by his computers. The scientist too had not slept for days, but chronic insomnia had been a bane since childhood. Eventually, he would crash, but at the moment he felt fine. It would have been normal for Feldhandler to feel triumphant, but that wasn’t his way. Feldhandler cared little for public acknowledgement, so long as he got money, support and his way.

To the world he was known as the co-creator of Feldhandler-Gallardo Condensate, an exotic material that did not absorb light but actually slowed it. Other experimental condensates had manged the feat at extremely low temperatures, but Feldhandler and his Argentine-Jewish partner Arturo Gallardo, had created a condensate stable at ordinary temperatures.

For Israel, sympathetic care and feeding of the taciturn genius had paid off. In secret, and before his thirty-fifth birthday, he had delivered the world’s first functioning fusion reactor to his government. It was a research reactor, buried deep underground, and not yet suitable for civilian use or mass energy production, but it provided Israel’s super-secret Dinoma facility with unprecedented power and research capabilities.

Three years and billions of dollars later Feldhandler presented the transport device. Feldhandler had sold the concept in vague terms, as a means to transport troops and equipment, secretly and safely, anywhere they needed to be. In fact, the Device was capable of opening a space/time wormhole, thanks to the power of the reactor and Feldhandler-Gallardo Condensate, which could keep the hole sufficiently stable to transport a specially constructed capsule.

Such were Feldhandler’s accomplishments and reputation that ordinary bureaucratic caution was thrown to the wind. He was given the funding, manpower and material to create the Device and the transport facility adjacent to the fusion reactor. It was at the junction of the two the Feldhandler now worked, surrounded by a dozen other scientists and technicians, for whom the diminutive scientist was a virtual demi-god. They would do whatever he told them to do.

Chief among the acolytes was Andrea Perchensky, a preternaturally bright young woman, in her late twenties. In Perchensky Feldhandler had his Watson, or perhaps more appropriately, his Liesl Meitner to his Otto Frisch—that is assuming that Otto Frisch had been a good deal brighter. Like Feldhandler, Perchensky had advanced well ahead of her peers, and completed university studies at a time when her childhood friends were text-messaging their way through high school. Like Feldhandler she’d interrupted her Ph.D. studies at the University of Gottingen to complete her Army service. Unlike Feldhandler, who spent three years working in various Israeli missile units, Perchansky had spent half of her Army time working on the Device, before returning to Germany to wrap up her degree. Now she was back where she was happiest, sitting one computer over from her mentor.

The Device required unprecedented amounts of energy, which the reactor could only supply in small bursts. Because it was a fusion reactor, it could never be safely shut down, any more than you could turn off the sun, but the plasma could be brought into differing energy levels. The nuclear team was endeavoring to limit the plasma’s energy for the time being. Feldhandler stayed at the computer monitors for several additional minutes until satisfied that all operations were within acceptable limits. He thanked his team and prepared to leave. He glanced at Perchensky and with a nod, asked her to come with him. They walked slowly back toward the transport area.

In his typical fashion Feldhandler went right to the point, avoiding an exchange of congratulation.

“With our success today, we should get permission to launch another mission within a few weeks” Feldhandler told her. “We can’t rest on our laurels.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about getting permission” Perchensky replied doubtfully. “We haven’t seen the fallout from the raid. The government is upbeat now—but wait until the Americans have a go at us. The government won’t be so brave.”

Feldhandler liked Perchensky’s innate pessimism which mirrored his own. “For a young woman, you are a cynic” he smiled.

“I’m a realist. Like you.”

“I am to a degree, but I’m a bit of a romantic too.”

She looked at him a bit warily. Feldhandler was single but more than ten years her senior. More than that, he’d never been anything but professional with her.

“Not in that way” he said. And then quickly before she could be offended he went on. “I’m talking philosophically. We, I mean mankind, should have done better for ourselves by now.”

Perchensky decided to keep quite. She hoped she hadn’t blushed. What the hell was he getting at?

“All this” he spread his hands around “the greatest scientific advances in decades, centuries, maybe ever—kept in secret by a small, frightened despised country. Used at enormous expense and to surreptitiously transfer commandos here and there, when a braver nation, a braver government could drop a few bombs for a fraction of the cost and accomplish the same thing.”

Perchensky was flattered that Feldhandler chose to offer his ruminations—and surprised that he even had them. She stopped and turned toward him, and gently placed her hand on his chest.

Feldhandler stopped as if he’d run into a wall. They were both dressed now in white lab coats. Her tanned skin, thin fingers and manicured nails with peach colored polish (hadn’t he noticed that before) struck him dumb. Her coat fell back onto a thin but well toned arm, sporting a fashionable watch. Perchansky was a technical drone who took pride in her looks. Feldhandler was reminded of his family’s old rabbi who extolled the sexual virtues of the female upper extremities. In the orthodox Jewish world, where women kept everything covered but their faces and hands, a naked arm could be a real turn on. He’d dismissed it as so much orthodox dreck but now he reconsidered.

Perchensky understood better than Feldhandler that a couple things were happening at once. She gently removed her hand and kept professional, but looked the older man in the eyes. Feldhandler’s insomnia showed on his face. His eyes were red and glassy; he looked a decade older than thirty-nine.

“Why don’t we go to the canteen and grab a cup of coffee” she suggested. “I think we can both use one.”

Feldhandler nodded, knocked out of his reverie. “Good. I would like to discuss weight restrictions and modifications of the capsule with you.”

Perchensky gave him a small smile. “Beseder.” The canteen wasn’t much, a few dozen tables and plastic chairs, and the food was typically bad Israeli snack fare, but once there, they both realized that they hadn’t eaten in almost as long as they’d been without sleep. They ordered reheated frozen pizzas of surpassingly poor quality but surprisingly good when you’re famished. Feldhandler allowed himself a bit of small talk, mostly about schools and the army bureaucracy, before getting back to business.

“When we use the transport again the chemo will want to carry much more equipment and probably more men” Feldhandler said.

Feldhandler’s use of the common term for the commandos—boys or fellows—was unusual. Perchansky hoped that this meant he saw himself as a little less isolated. Or maybe he was just trying to impress her as “one of the boys,” which he most certainly was not. She’d met the grim colonel, Yatom, and his equally severe deputy Mofaz. The two commandos were so alike, they clearly disliked each other. They were killers, and they treated Feldhandler—maybe the smartest man on earth—like a transportation corps officer; a rear area shit whose job it was to get them to the fight and nothing else. She shook away the thought with a vague toss of her hair.

“The capsule is capable of hauling a lot more freight, as the chevre might say,” said Perchensky, tossing the term back at him, “and carrying several more men by my calculation. We were cautious on this mission. But I don’t think we should just pile equipment in because they say they want it. They should have a tactical requirement.”

“That’s for them to decide,” Feldhandler said. “Let’s be generous anyway. See what you can do to modify the power generation. I’ll have Moshe re-rig the capsule, so that they can take most of what they want. Let’s keep the cherva happy” with a sardonic grin.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“There is something else I’d like to discuss with you” he said a bit hesitantly “but it can wait. Maybe, we can grab lunch here tomorrow—if we have the time.”

“Aren’t you going up to Tel Aviv to brief the government?”

“Not if I can help it” Feldhandler concluded, awkwardly pushing away from the table, scraping the cheap plastic chair along the canteen floor.

Chapter 3

Feldhandler arrived in Tel Aviv by helicopter the next day, May 21. It was a fine, if hot spring day, but Feldhandler was angry at having his professional time wasted. He was also annoyed that he’d missed lunch with Perchensky.

Mina had come with him, even though the Prime Minister refused to accept a briefing from her alone. Well, she would give the briefing anyway, Feldhandler decided. He’d sit by her side like a prop if that’s what the government big-wigs wanted. Mina was perfectly qualified to do the job—she was his big sister after all, and almost as bright. If Feldhandler’s mother had miscarried him, as almost happened several times, Mina would have become the nation’s genius in residence, rather than her kid brother. Not that Mina ever acted as though she were jealous of his successes. She’d been his main encourager, aide, promoter and protector throughout his career.

Mina had blazed a trail through Israel’s educational system so that by the time Feldhandler arrived they were ready for him. Likewise, she’d preceded him at Gottingen, and it was there that he finally caught up to her. They received their degrees in theoretical physics together, even though she was two years older. From there Feldhandler launched one of the greatest scientific careers since Einstein, although this was recognized only within a small circuit of Israeli and international experts, while Mina carried his water. She deserved half-a-share of credit for Feldhandler’s accomplishments and he alone did not begrudge her. Feldhandler’s insights and inventions were the culmination of effort from two extraordinary and sympathetic minds.

But that was not the way the military or scientific community saw it, and so they demanded the presence of one half of the whole, and couldn’t care much less about the other. They would get both, figured Feldhandler, whether they liked it or not. In any case, he would give them as little a piece of his mind as possible.

The Prime Minister flew in from Jerusalem for the briefing, which was held at the Kirya, the IDF’s headquarters facility in downtown Tel Aviv. The defense minister arrived separately. The foreign minister had been deliberately sent away before the raid, to give the impression that the Israeli government was still concentrating on diplomatic and not military solutions to the Iran problem, but two other ministers of the country’s special security cabinet, and political allies of the Prime Minister were present.

Representatives of Israel’s two primary civilian intelligence services, Mossad and Shin Bet were also present. These services, while technically civilian, were run and staffed mostly by former professional soldiers. The military was represented by the Chief of Staff, and the heads of the air force, ground forces, and military intelligence, and Danny Yatom, commander of his eponymous sarayet.

Yatom’s sarayet comprised commandos who at one time or another were members of the ground forces, air force and navy.

Most, like Yatom, came from the famous Sayeret Matkal—the Chief of Staffs dedicated reconnaissance unit. But Mofaz was from the air force unit Shaldag, and Shapira, his other team leader, had come through the tough naval commando unit, Shayetet 13. Brom, as leader of the IDF infantry, supervised the training and operations of the various sarayets regardless of service. Sarayet Yatom as the ad hoc unit was simply called, was known only to a tiny group of cleared officers, men and civilian officials. In any case, did not officially exist.

The underground briefing room was modestly crowded when Feldhandler and Mina were ushered in. Feldhandler was given a seat near the center of the massive conference table, while Mina was shunted off to a chair on the periphery, where a few aides and mid-level officers were seated. In total there were slightly more than two dozen people present. All had been fully vetted and briefed about the Device and the successful mission against Iran the day before.

Feldhandler was happy to see Yatom at the table, also looking uncomfortable. Feldhandler liked Yatom, although he sensed that the grizzled commando did not return the sentiment. Feldhandler knew that in Yatom’s world, guys like him just didn’t matter. Indeed, Feldhandler got the impression that Yatom felt that way about just about everybody else in the room with the exception of his immediate superior, Brom. Yatom would likely be in line for that job if he survived his current stint.

The Prime Minister began the proceedings in a typical insincere way, congratulating Feldhandler and Yatom for their success on a mission that “may well have saved the State!” He praised the commandos’ bravery and the technical prowess of the Dimona facility, which had fostered such a success, but he did not mention the Device itself.

The assembled worthies accepted this hyperbole without comment, though both Yatom caught Feldhandler’s eye, and they both silently noted the hypocrisy of the sentiment. The Prime Minister had been reluctant to launch the mission, hemmed and hawed until the last possible moment, and put the two men through at least a dozen false alarms before the mission finally got a solid go. Feldhandler though, was flattered that Yatom had looked his way.

The Prime Minister turned the floor over to the Dov Harel, the Chief of Staff, who assessed the latest intelligence from Teheran. Harel reported that the Iranians had not publicly acknowledged anything amiss, other than an accident at the Natanz plant. A modest evacuation of neighborhoods downwind of the facility was underway. This was as good a situation as the Israelis could hope for diplomatically. Militarily, the Iranians had placed all their forces on alert, including their missile units, but done nothing more. There was a general murmur of satisfaction through the room.

The Chief of Staff continued his analysis. It was unlikely that the Iranians would act. How could they? They only knew that somehow, one of their hated enemies, either Israel or the U.S., had penetrated a vital and secure facility and destroyed it. The Iranian leadership surely figured that if Natanz could be raided so easily, why not other strategic sites, including the leadership hierarchy itself? The Iranians could appear brash and aggressive, but they proceeded in most cases like chess masters, carefully plotting several moves in advance. Somehow they had been checked out of the blue.

Attention now turned to Zvi Levy, the head of Mossad and a former air force general himself. Levy confirmed Harel’s analysis on Iran.

Again, murmurs of hopeful assent coursed through the room. Levy continued.

“Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, we do have a problem, and it’s a sticky one, because it is not with our enemy, but with our friend” said Levy. Levy didn’t need to mention the friend—Israel really had only one that counted.

“The Americans are, to put it bluntly, pissed off. Unlike the Iranians they are certain the strike was ours, and the President does like to be blindsided, even when events are beneficial.”

“Just like Osirak” added the Nimrod Arbel, the Defense Minister, a man who could not remain quiet for long. He referred to the Israeli air raid on Iraq’s nuclear reactor in 1981, which was almost universally condemned at the time, including by the United States, but proved to be a boon to the Americans when they found themselves facing Saddam Hussein in Kuwait in 1991.

“True” said Levy “but it is much more complicated now. “In 1981 we flew American jets and dropped American bombs—problems in their own right to be sure. But on the other hand, our friend knew exactly what happened and how, almost as soon as it happened—through satellite imagery, electronic intercepts, and their own knowledge as to the capabilities of their own aircraft and munitions.”

“But now they are completely in the dark” said Arbel, completing Levy’s thought “and they don’t like it.” He smiled, as did a number of people at the table, but not the Prime Minister.

“I’d wipe that smile away” the PM said condescendingly. Few at the table liked the Prime Minister or much respected his judgment.

But all feared his political ruthlessness and skill. “I received a call from the President yesterday evening. Although we had planned a pat response, it did not go over well.”

“What was said?” snapped Arbel, a long-time rival.

“I can now tell you only the immediate consequence of my discussion…”

“Okay, let’s go…” said Arbel impatiently.

“Tomorrow and American team will arrive in Tel Aviv, led by Argus Crowley, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, with several officers and technical experts. They expect to be fully briefed on the operation.”

“Impossible!” shouted Arbel. “Crowley is openly hostile to us. This is the worst possible situation.”

“But it’s the situation we are in” said the Prime Minister angrily.

“We must deal with it.”

“You should put them off.” said Arbel, and before he could say more, it seemed as if the room erupted as six or seven men and women started speaking loudly and simultaneously. It was turning into a typical Israeli conference.

Yatom grimaced, and looked over again at Feldhandler. Instead of bemusedly returning Yatom’s look, as he had just moments before, it seemed now as if the scientist would explode. His face was red, his jaw set tight, and his eyes were as wide as a jackal’s on a moonless night.

“Minister Arbel is correct!” shouted Feldhandler over the din. The room quieted a bit. “We cannot brief the Americans—not the way they want. I won’t permit it.” Only a couple of people continued to shout at each other. “It will not happen!” Feldhandler concluded with a final bellow, and the room fell silent.

Now it was the turn of the generals and politicians to roll their eyes at the enraged scientist. Arbel who spoke first, and if he was pleased that Feldhandler had just supported him he did not show it.

“Who are you to tell the leadership of the State what to do!” the defense minister barked.

Feldhandler turned to him, fury still in his eyes. “You yourself just castigated the Prime Minister for allowing this…”

“Yes, but I am the Minister of Defense, not some mid-level bureaucrat at Dimona. And besides, I only think we should put off the matter—delay—play some games.” He looked over to the Prime Minister who nodded approvingly. Arbel went on. “You have no idea what you are talking about Dr. Feldhandler. No conception of the broader issues the country faces. You were asked here to give technical advice, not your feelings on state policy.”

“Clearly, we have to cooperate with the Americans” the Prime Minister said, looking now directly at Feldhandler. “Whether we do it tomorrow or next month it must be done. And you, Professor Feldhandler, will have to cooperate when I tell you to cooperate. That is not negotiable.”

Feldhandler stared ahead fixedly, but said nothing.

The once boisterous room remained silent, waiting for the Prime Minister to continue. “We will cooperate with the Americans, but not fully, not yet” he said, and then looked over toward the Chief of Staff and then Brom. The COS nodded at Brom who took over.

“We have raised the prospect of another operation, gotten off quickly, using the Device and Colonel Yatom’s sarayet. The Prime Minister will bring it before the security cabinet, in accord with our protocols.”

There was an excited stirring in the room now, like a fresh breeze that blew out the poisoned atmosphere that hung over the table just moments before. Brom continued.

“We’ve dubbed the operation Kela, or some of us prefer the English word—for it: Slingshot. The operation can be carried out as soon as actionable intelligence appears and Yatom’s sarayet is brought up to full strength. According to Professor Feldhandler, modifications to the device will allow Yatom to bring at least one additional man, and more equipment than we used in Iran.”

“And the objective?” asked Moshe Hagni, the head of Shin Bet, one of the few men sitting at the table who had not been previously briefed on the matter.

“Liquidation,” said Brom. “Liquidation the leader of Hezbollah by.”

Hagni, a sharp man, interrupted Brom and finished his statement. “By sending a sarayet back temporally after intelligence has located the target. We can’t miss.”

“Correct,” said Brom.

“Who exactly?” asked Hagni.

“Imam Mughniyeh,” said Brom matter-of-factly, as though they were going to deliver mail, not death. Brom had the attention of everyone in the room now, because Mughniyeh, Hezbollah’s defense chief had been at the top of Israel’s (and America’s) hit list for more than two decades. He was Islamic terrorism’s true boogey man—deadly, skilled and elusive. He made Al Qaeda’s leadership look like rank amateurs.

“Excuse me,” interrupted Yatom “but Mughniyeh is dead—killed by a bomb in Damascus in 2008. Or am I missing something?”

“Mughniyeh faked his own death,” said Levy. “As you may remember, Israel never took credit for the operation, and indeed we had nothing to do with it. It was an internal Hezbollah op.”

“There was some speculation at the time that the whole affair was faked, as a way of giving Mughniyeh free reign and at the same time giving Hezbollah a new excuse to mobilize their supporters and ‘strike back’ at us,” said Brom. “For once the idiot fringe speculation was true.”

Yatom pursed his lips as if to suggest he’d heard it all.

“We have two advantages now,” said Brom. “First, we know that in fact he is alive. And secondly, with the Device, as Hagni said, if we know exactly where Mughniyeh will be, before he gets there.” Brom, allowed his voice to trail off, and gestured with his hands, like a waiter presenting a filleted fish.

“But how far back do you go?” It was Adam Kaplinsky, the Prime

Minister’s science advisor, who had only recently learned about Slingshot, and was unwilling to discount its risks. “In the Iranian operation temporal displacement was a matter of seconds, which reduced to insignificance causality/paradox issues. But if I understand the concept of this operation correctly, you will need more time—minutes at least and perhaps more?”

Brom nodded, and looked around. The Security Cabinet ministers, other than Arbel appeared confused, as did a representative of the Home Command. “So we are all clear, the issue raised by Dr. Kaplinsky is the danger of causal paradoxes created by a time shift of more than a few seconds.”

There was some murmur of agreement around the room, along with several blank and confused stares.

“Perhaps this issue is best dealt with by Dr. Feldhandler,” said the Prime Minister.

“Fine,” said Feldhandler, and with that, stood and ushered over Mina from her perch on the periphery.

“I meant you professor,” said the Prime Minister sharply, his face a bit flushed. Feldhandler ignored him and allowed Mina to take his place at the table. She sat down confidently, evincing no qualms at the Prime Minister’s words. Feldhandler took Mina’s seat along the wall.

The Prime Minister’s face grew a shade redder.

“What General Brom and Dr. Kaplinsky are referring to is the danger of causal paradoxes should the device embark on a temporal distortion of more than a few seconds” Mina began. “The device was designed as a covert transportation vehicle for special operations forces, as demonstrated in the Iranian raid. But as we all know from basic physics, space and time are continuums, which are not severable. All spatial displacement also involves displacement in time. Where time itself is not a critical factor in the mission, temporal displacement need only last a matter of seconds. So far as we know, this is too little to create any causal paradoxes.”

Miriam Ben Nun was the only other woman in the room besides Mina and held the vague position of Minister Without Portfolio. She was another powerful political rival of the Prime Minister, who had forced her way into the security cabinet as a result of Israel’s brutal and counter-productive coalition politics, despite the fact that she lacked any background in military or scientific matters. Ben Nun had remained silent up to this time but now interrupted Mina’s mini-lecture.

“What, again, is a causal paradox? The Prime Minister briefed me about this, but I think he left out a detail or two, which he does now and again.” Arbel smiled, but nobody else did.

“In simple terms,” explained Mina, “a causal paradox could occur if an actor traveled back in time and altered future events in some way. The classic example being killing one’s own grandfather.”

“Like that old science fiction story where a man goes back in time and steps on a frog.”

“Butterfly,” corrected Mina the minister, “but yes, that’s the point.”

“The story was good but the movie sucked,” noted Arbel. That brought a snort from Feldhandler—the first good humor he’d shown. Yatom looked over at him again, this time stone faced. They were wasting the commando’s time.

“We don’t know if causal paradoxes are even possible,” Mina continued. “It could be nature forbids them in some manner. In all our testing prior to the Iran mission temporal displacements were so brief, that if there was any paradox causing event, we haven’t noticed it.”

“But how would you notice it?” asked Kaplinsky. “It’s happened in your past. You wouldn’t even know it. That’s been my objection to this project from the start. Now you’re talking about a deliberate temporal displacement of several minutes.”

“Let her finish,” said Ben Nun tartly, dismissing Kaplinsky with a wave of a well manicured hand.

“What we are proposing for Operation Slingshot,” said Mina “is a small temporal displacement of a few moments, that would allow Colonel Yatom’s sarayet to transit to the immediate past, after the target has come into the clear and been identified.”

“Our problem,” said Yatom speaking in his slow phlegmatic style “has been that the target is extremely elusive. The target only leaves his protected bunkers for moments at a time, before either reentering, or emerging into a situation—like a public rally or meeting—that prohibits an operation.” Yatom glanced around the room dourly. “If we had access to those few moments when he is exposed, we could liquidate him. We could do this by knowing in the present, through say observation via a drone, and by transiting immediately back to that time to make the hit. It would only be a few minutes.”

“Can’t an aircraft do this in real time—that’s what I don’t understand,” asked Arbel, ignoring Yatom and directing his question to the Chief of Staff.

“The short answer is,” answered Harel “that we would have hit the target already were that possible. So far it has not been. The actual OODA loop, which appears lighting fast in movies, is just not that efficient.”

“OODA loop?” said Ben Nun.

“An American term,” answered Harel “coined by a man named John Boyd. It stands for, in English,” he continued, now switching to that language from Hebrew “Observe-Orient-Decide-Act. The fact is, Hezbollah knows our OODA loop, and as a result can frustrate us—have frustrated us.”

“But not” concluded Yatom emphatically “if we can get within their OODA loop by moving, literally, back into it temporally.”

“We don’t believe that this will cause a serious paradox” continued Mina. “If it could, then the Device just would not function. In other words, we can’t use the device beyond nature’s own limits, and we appear to be acting within those. A displacement of a few minutes appears entirely feasible…”

“Okay, I think we’ve heard enough for now,” said the Prime Minister cutting Mina off with gusto. “The security cabinet will consider Operation Slingshot and inform the Chief of Staff of any decisions. In the meantime, we will work to put off the Americans for as long practicable. Minister Arbel will lead that effort.”

“Are we authorized to prepare for Slingshot?” asked Brom.

“Yes,” answered Arbel. “but don’t push any buttons! Understood?”

The military men nodded. Feldhandler sat silently, still seething, but happy that the conference was finally at an end.

On the way out Feldhandler pushed his way over to Yatom. They moved into a small anteroom outside the main conference area. “You are on your way back to Dimona?” he asked the commando.

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

“Not yet. Arbel wants me around for the Americans,” Feldhandler answered.

Feldhandler handed Yatom a scrap of paper upon which he’d written the newest loading guidelines for the capsule. The new parameters, as listed by Feldhandler, would allow Yatom two extra men, and more equipment. Yatom examined the paper briefly.

“This will help,” Yatom said.

“What’s your organization for Slingshot?” asked Feldhandler.

Yatom looked at the scientist doubtfully. Feldhandler always insisted on knowing every detail of preparation on technical grounds. Yatom usually was uncomfortable discussing operational matters outside his chain of command, but couldn’t deny that Feldhandler needed to know, that he needed the scientist’s technical guidance, and in the end, that the guy was scary smart.

“We’ll incorporate a replacement for our casualty. Mofaz has a qualified and cleared man that served with him in Shaldag—Itzak Belete, an Ethiopian as a matter of fact, recently out of Balad 1. He will be ready to go once oriented—that should only take a day or two.”

“Another officer?” asked Feldhandler. Balad 1 was the IDF officer qualification course—both he and Yatom attended it.

“He applied to the sayeret as an enlisted man, got the run-around from Brom, so attended the officer’s course.”

“Brom won’t like another immigrant,” said Feldhandler, surprising Yatom with his knowledge of the inner-workings of the sayeret.

“He’s not—his parents came over in 1979. He was born in Beersheba.”

“Even so.”

“Brom will live with it. He’s the best qualified man available. Mofaz has already made him his second—replacing Yoram.”

“Good. And your equipment?” asked Feldhandler. “Well, according to the guidelines you just handed me” said Yatom “we should be able to take our basic load of personal weapons and ammo, plus load the capsule with at least a machine gun or two, sniper equipment, demolitions, and an anti-tank weapon—am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Feldhandler. “Don’t skimp. Take plenty of ammo—I know you can’t take too much. I’ll check you out when I get back, but prepare to take what you need, and consider contingencies. We’ll review matters if there is a problem.”

Yatom wondered at Feldhandler’s sudden generosity. Yatom had fought hard to get stowage on the Iranian mission that would have allowed for extra operational flexibility. But Feldhandler nixed it, fearing it would overload the capsule. Now he was pushing weapons and ammo on the assault team like a Jewish nana forces extra matzo balls her grandkids. Well, thought Yatom, a few extra matzo balls, or grenades, never hurt.

Chapter 4

Yatom left the Kirya with thought of children, not war, in his head. His own child to be precise, a six year old princess named Ronit. She lived with her mother in Holon, a working class suburb of Tel Aviv, and easy drive from the Kirya. Yatom, as a sayeret commander rated his own car, though not his own driver, and he checked one out of the motor pool, advising the nineteen-year-old conscript clerk, that he would be driving on to Dimona. The skinny young soldier, was one of a huge flock of conscripts avoiding combat service by doing petty administrative service at the kira, usually by way of parental influence, gave him the paperwork and the keys as if he couldn’t care less if Yatom were driving to the moon. Such soldiers irked Yatom. It wasn’t like in the old days, when service in combat units, and especially elite commando formations was fought over by young Israelis, and a successful stint in the IDF was the was a necessary qualification for any male to advance in society. Now, these rear area mother fuckers—as Yatom knew the Americans called them—seemed to constitute the vast majority of troops. Well, at least they were doing some service thought Yatom. About twenty percent of young Israeli men now managed to avoid military service completely, through exemptions for religious study, mental or physical disabilities or criminal records. Jews should be grateful that they can fight in a real army Yatom thought ruefully—for two millennia of suffering and humiliation it was a right denied to them. But less than a century of Jewish independence was already sapping the will.

He shook these thoughts from his head as he pulled out onto Tel Aviv’s crowded Ben Yehuda street and drove for Holon. Instead he thought again of Ronit, and considered how he would keep things civil with her mother, Devora. His ex-wife’s name meant hornet in Hebrew, and in this case thought Yatom, the name fit. She’d stung him so hard and so many times, that the occasional piece of shrapnel felt like a relief. Well, an exaggeration; but the bad marriage had been the rocky result of two forceful personalities, and the divorce had been worse. Unfortunately, Yatom was tired and under pressure, while Devora had no patience for his problems. He knew that Ronit deserved a better father than a tired soldier who stopped by now and again.

Devora and Ronit lived in a new upscale garden style apartment on a quiet side street. Yatom parked the car, energized at the thought of seeing his daughter. He secured his weapon in the trunk of the car—no need for Ronit to see her dad carrying around an assault rifle all the time—and took the stairs two at a time to the top floor. They were waiting for him at the door.

“You’re late again” is all Devora said as Ronit leapt into his arms and he gave her a sloppy wet kiss. The little girl recoiled a bit from the saliva and his rough beard, but wore a bright smile on her face anyway. Yatom ignored Devora, and tousled his daughter’s hair.

“You can’t stay here, you know that“ Devora continued, in her disturbingly direct manner. It was no wonder they didn’t last—two people shouting orders at each other all the time. Yatom bit back his own annoyance.

“We’ll go to the movies!” he said enthusiastically to Ronit, eyeing Devora from the corner of his eye.

“And afterwards?” said Devora dubiously.

For the first time Yatom addressed his ex-wife directly. “We’ll find something to do. Come Ronit!” he said brightly to the child, “we’ll get some ice cream first…” And with that he pounded easily back down the steps, Ronit giggling in his arms.

Despite Yatom’s preoccupations, and the unpleasantness with Devora, he fell back into fatherhood gladly, at least for the first few hours. They ate ice cream and watched some silly American-made children’s movie with computer animations. He couldn’t follow the plot and dozed off several times, but Ronit seemed to enjoy herself, so he was happy. But by five o’clock he’d run out of things to do, Ronit was tired, and he was already anxious to hit the road. He dragged her to a too solemn dinner at too nice a restaurant just to kill time until seven. They arrived back at the Holon apartment a few minutes early and so waited in his army car and listened to the radio until Devora pulled in a few minutes late.

“Don’t even say it” Devora said waiving an arm dismissively at Yatom as she left her car and walked briskly toward the building.

“How long have you been waiting here with nothing to do—an hour?” she accused him, turning her own tardiness into a weapon. Yatom ignored her.

Devora swept up the child, who looked relieved to be home. The girl eyed Yatom over Devora’s shoulder as she was carried away, and gave her father a tired wave goodbye.

Yatom got back into the car feeling blue. It seemed so often the case that visits with Ronit, for all the initial enjoyment, left him depressed and saddened at the end—and not just because it meant he wouldn’t see the child for a few weeks. He hadn’t been a very good father or husband, and still wasn’t. That thought, for all its self-awareness, didn’t make him feel better. He started the engine, and shifted into first, then thought better of it, and slipped the stick back into neutral. He got out of the car, and retrieved his assault rifle from the trunk. He detached the magazine, cleared the action, reinserted the magazine, charged the weapon and placed it on safe. He put the weapon on the passenger seat and finally drove off. Even in the heart of Israel these days, thought Yatom, you couldn’t be too careful.

Chapter 5

Feldhandler wanted more than anything to return to Dimona, by car, aircraft or on foot if it came to that, but he was stuck with Defense Minister Arbel until after they could dispose of the Americans—if they could dispose of them. From Tel Aviv, a helicopter flew him, Mina, Arbel plus several aides, to Ramat David airbase in the north of the country. The selection of Ramat David was deliberate. It was far from Dimona—by Israeli standards anyway.

At Ramat David, Feldhandler and Mina were directed to a simple officer’s barack and allowed a few hours to rest. Afterwards, and reluctantly, they visited the dining facility and unenthusiastically nibbled at poor quality army food. If armies really fought on their stomachs, the IDF would have lost all its battles. Enough Israeli soldiers still smoked that their taste buds were deadened to the tasteless fare. This left the cooks, who tended to be derided in the army anyway, little incentive to try harder.

A jeep came for them at the next morning. Driven by a reckless Israeli airman, Feldhandler and Mina wound their way around the airbase to a bunker near a hangar complex for a squadron of F-16s.

Feldhandler had felt safer in the helicopter and was happy to arrive in one piece. The Defense Minister met them outside the bunker, pleasant and friendly, dressed in a pair of casual slacks and an open necked short sleeved shirt. They talked together on the tarmac, alone except for Arbel’s ever present security detail. It was hot under the late spring sun and the open tarmac didn’t help.

Arbel didn’t share the Prime Minister’s enthusiasm for giving the Americans whatever they wanted, but he understood the pressures that made successive Israeli governments do just that. Besides, he saw some benefits in unveiling the country’s—or Feldhandler’s—great discoveries. Wouldn’t that earn them at least a little international appreciation?

“No” answered Feldhandler. “Not for more than a day or two; before we’re castigated for one thing or another. Creating doomsday weapons, wrecking the environment, rending the very fabric of space/time… I’m more likely to be indicted as a war criminal than win the Nobel Prize.”

“But the fusion reactor has civilian applications,” Arbel offered.

“Not as presently configured, and not as a practical matter for many years to come” answered Feldhandler quickly. “In the meantime, we my find ourselves without a nation to power.”

Arbel didn’t fully share Feldhandler’s gloom as to Israel’s future prospects, but then again, he was a politician. He was paid to remain optimistic. But occasionally, Arbel had to admit, men like Feldhandler had a point. Israel had conceded land, legitimacy, and wealth to Arabs over recent decades, and had only become weaker for it. No matter what Israel did to curry favor in the world, the country’s efforts were deliberately misinterpreted. It seemed as if the Arabs, and even the Europeans, had caught a whiff of the death scent, and were circling for the kill. Divestiture movements against Israel in Scandinavia, boycotts of Israeli academics and scientists in Britain, embargoes on weapons from Germany—it all seemed of a piece. And plenty of leftist Israelis reveled in their own version of self-hate, joining the Arabs and Europeans in bashing their own country, not unlike the Judenrat officials that helped the Nazis round up victims for the death trains. Indeed, for much of Europe, and especially the elites, the consensus best way to cleanse the stain of the Holocaust was to erase Israel, the entity that made Europe feel guilty.

“America is not Europe.” said Arbel evenly. “It is our friend. Not an unconditional friend to be sure, but our only friend, and the only military, intelligence and technical advisors hashed out a protocol for use with the Americans the next day. There were multiple options and tracks available. Much depended on what the Americans already knew or had figured out, and that was something the Israelis did not know. Both countries actively spied on each other, but contrary to popular belief, it was the Americans that had a leg up in that area. They had advantages in resources, technical wizardry and most importantly, money, that Israel just could not match.

In the end it was agreed that Mina would remain at Ramat David and to act as Arbel’s advisor, and Feldhandler would be permitted to return to Dimona. That way, Feldhandler could continue to work on Slingshot, if and when it was authorized.

Feldhandler and Mina returned to the barrack at midnight and talked long into the morning. Feldhandler went to his room and dozed off for about an hour. At 4:00 he left the barrack and requisitioned a car from the motor pool, then set off straight for Dimona.

Mina slept well into the morning and breakfasted in the dull dining hall. A smart looking young air force officer intercepted her on the way back to her barrack room and told her to return to the secure bunker where they had met with Arbel the day before.

She noticed a difference at the bunker immediately in the form of several heavily armed American guards at the entrance. Although dressed in quasi-civilian garb they were clearly military men, probably Department of Defense security personnel. They mixed cautiously with a like amount of Israelis, who were less heavily armed, younger and somewhat smaller. As was the fashion, all of the men from both nations bore shaved heads or closely cropped crew cuts. Mina had noticed that both American and Israeli security personnel allowed the other to bear weapons on each other’s soil, which was either a sign of trust or a reflection of deep misgivings.

Arbel, Brom and several lesser aides and officers, including a couple of translators were already in the conference room when Mina arrived. Brom indicated that the American team occupied a couple of adjacent anterooms, evidently comparing last minute notes. Finally, at about half-past eleven the Americans emerged led by the dapper but sallow Argus Crowley. The Deputy Secretary of Defense sported a well fitted gray pinstripe, expensive tie and French cuffs. Arbel was in shirtsleeves, and Mina guessed a clip-on. Crowley’s civilian aides were similarly decked out, but an American general and a pair of American colonels were in plain old digital camouflage.

The Israeli officers present wore the same olive drab fatigues the IDF had been using for a half-century.

Crowley came right to the point in English. “The President asked me to come here because he wants you to level with us.”

Arbel feigned a bit of confusion over the idiom and turned to his translator. He smiled and asked Crowley in English what he wanted to know exactly.

Crowley said “First, we want you to acknowledge that you are responsible for the Iranian raid. If you do not, eventually international opinion may assume that the United States was behind it. That is unacceptable.”

Arbel tried to respond to this, but Crowley put up his hand, and frowned.

“Second, we want to know what is going on at Dimona. That’s it. You can end this meeting in a matter of minutes if you answer those two questions.”

Arbel again used the translator, to Crowley’s obvious annoyance. He’d spoken with Arbel many times and knew that the Israeli Minister’s English was top notch. But diplomatic protocol meant putting up with the charade. Finally, Arbel spoke.

“Let me say Mr. Crowley, first, how appreciative we are of America’s moral, military and economic support.”

“Cut the crap” Crowley broke in, very undiplomatically now. “I don’t think you need that translated, do you? I want answers, or I want to know that you will not provide answers, in which case I will report the same to the President.”

Arbel looked at Brom and then Mina. Crowley was no friend of Israel, had never been, and was living up to his reputation. That didn’t really bother Arbel. What did concern him was that an American President, generally held to be pro-Israel, would send in such a hostile interlocutor at this time.

“First” Arbel said in clear, only slightly accented English and deliberately using Crowley’s phrasing “Iran has not claimed that its facility was raided, by Israel, the United States or anybody else. So I’m not sure what international censure you are concerned about.”

Crowley flushed and his skin looked like it might begin to molt, but before he could reply, Arbel continued.

“Yes, obviously we did raid the facility, but that is a state secret, and while we share it with you now, we expect this information to remain confidential. As to what is going on at Dimona, we engage in peaceful nuclear research. As I tried to state before, we value America’s support and friendship, and so in that spirit have I answered.”

“Not by a long shot.” said Crowley, who laughed Arbel’s description of Dimona, and went on to accuse the defense minister of dissembling at best, lying at worst.

Mina turned the babble out and thought on technical issues she and her brother had discussed the night before concerning the reactor and transport device. When she finally looked at her watch Arbel, Crowley and their various aides and translators had been going at it for better than an hour.

The gist was that the Americans indeed suspected Israel had developed some kind of fusion device, and had for some time. They suspected a link between the reactor and the Iranian raid, but did not know what it was. American intelligence assets had monitored both the immense power surge from the Dimona facility and the almost simultaneous destruction of the Natanz facility. Yet it quickly became clear to the Americans that the Nantaz operation was a commando raid—which seemed to have little to do with nuclear research or power surges in Dimona. Crowley, and by extension the America’s research and intelligence assets, could not reconcile the two events, but clearly believed that they were related.

Pressed heavily, Arbel not only conceded the raid, but also admitted that Israel had made significant strides in fusion research—but with a lot of jockeying, refused to say more. He had not needed Mina so far, and none of the Americans had addressed her. She was hoping that she might be able slink off at a break and go home. Then following a further round of tough questioning by the predatory Crowley, Arbel offered Mina up to the Americans.

For the next hour Mina parried a series of technical and theoretical questions about the Dimona, without revealing that there was a fiincfioning fusion reactor at the facility. The technical depth of the discussion quickly went beyond both Crowley and Arbel, but the stratagem seemed to be working. The Americans were getting actual data, while the Israelis were withholding information they deemed critical. Crowley suggested a break after another hour, and the Americans retreated to their ante-rooms where the IDF had put out some rather unappetizing refreshments—all the more to hurry their guests on their way. When the two sides returned to the table, Mina took up where she had left off. Had she been able to finish her scientific kabuki dance with her American counterparts, much might have gone differently, but suddenly Crowley changed tack again, and forced the issue. He interrupted Mina in the midst of a discourse on plasma containment issues.

“I’ve had enough of this technical mumbo jumbo Dr. Feldhandler” said Crowley haughtily. “Minister Arbel, with all due respect to Dr. Feldhandler, who is quite clearly a talented and knowledgeable scientist, and also a quite capable dissembler, you continue to evade the question. I feel we are now wasting each others time.”

“What question?” blurted Arbel, annoyed. “I assure you…” continued the Israeli, but Crowley again cut him off.

“I will remain in country with my team for another forty-eight hours. I suggest you convince your Prime Minister to end this charade and come clean about what is taking place at the Dimona facility. If you do not have something useful to tell me in two days I will have to report back accordingly; and I can tell you assuredly, that the government and people of the United State will not be pleased in that case” Crowley concluded.

Mina felt sick. Arbel and the rest of the Israeli team looked stunned. Clearly the Americans already knew more than the Israeli team had reckoned. Arbel recovered his composure, stood up and offered his hand, which Crowley took with an insincere smile. An Israeli colonel, hurriedly consulted with the Americans over travel arrangements to the American embassy in Tel Aviv, where Crowley and his aides would repair, awaiting the Israeli response.

Arbel left Ramat David immediately for Jerusalem, leaving Brom and Mina behind. They left the bunker together and walked past fortified aircraft hangers crowded with maintenance teams. Inside the huge buildings, technicians fussed over sleek and fearsome looking F-16s. Israel had built itself a huge and powerful air force with American equipment and money. That support could not be taken for granted, nor such a patron long kept at bay.

“That didn’t go very well” said Brom, stating the obvious, but irritated by the gloomy silence.

“It’s worse” said Mina. “The fact that Arbel left us both behind means that he has basically made up his mind to give the Americans everything that they want, and very soon.”

“We can’t know that for sure.”

“I think we can. I do anyway” said Mina.

Just like the brother thought Brom. The air of certainty, moral, scientific, logical—that was a Feldhandler family characteristic. He’d have like to have met the parents—on second thought, no.

“What will you do now?” asked Brom.

“Go back to Arad for the day I guess” said Mina resignedly “and then to Dimona tomorrow. It’s not that late, but I’m too spent to work today.”

“You can fly back with me if you like. I have a helicopter.”

“That would be nice” said Mina. Brom forced a smile.

Chapter 6

The Dimona facility and the desert cities of Beersheba and Arad formed an inverted triangle, with Dimona at the southern apex. Beersheba and Arad were roughly equidistant from the facility, but Arad was considered by most Israelis to be the more pleasant city. It was near the Dead Sea and the Judean mountains, while Beersheba was in the middle of the Negev desert.

Arad was also close to Masada, the site of a famous last stand by Jewish rebels in 73 C.E. during one of many revolts against Roman rule. The Masada plateau had been the site of a Herodian fortress and palace, and subsequently a Roman garrison. Jewish rebels took the position from the Romans, prompting a counter-attack and siege by the Roman tenth legion. According to the account of Josephus, a Romanized Jewish historian, the rebels committed mass suicide rather than surrender to the legionnaires. Modem historians and archeologists had come to question some aspects of Josephus’ story, as ancient historians liked to embellish their narration and Josephus had reason to invent facts both as a Roman and a Jew. But that a desperate group of Jews made a final stand at the site is beyond cavil. Many IDF units required recruits to march up to the top of the plateau, there to vow that Masada would never fall again. Feldhandler himself had marched there and made the vow, though Yatom, belonging to a different unit, had not.

Most of Feldhandler’s team at Dimona, as well as Yatom’s sayeret—except for the youngest single enlisted men-lived in Arad. It wasn’t a requirement, but it did make security less problematic. Feldhandler and Mina shared a small house in a district near the city center. Yatom lived in an apartment nearby, as did Brom. Like Yatom, Brom was divorced and lived alone. Mofaz lived in a newer neighborhood called Rananim, with a more suburban feel that suited his large family. Despite their relative proximity in the small city, they did not socialize.

The IAF Blackhawk deposited Mina and Brom at the Arad municipal airport late in the afternoon. From there they took a bus to the city center. Neither felt like switching to another bus at the station.

They decided to walk towards their homes in the sizzling but clean desert air. They’d both missed that air, especially after breathing aircraft exhaust fumes all day. They spoken since they’d left Ramat David, and it’s pretty difficult to speak in a military helicopter, so they didn’t.

As they walked in silence, it occurred to Brom that they had not eaten since the morning. “Would you like to get something to eat?” Brom asked Mina. “I’m not much of a cook, so I need to eat out or starve.”

Mina considered the invitation in her quick but deliberate way. She’d known Brom for two years and she had never taken a meal with him, not even in the miserable Dimona cafeteria. This wasn’t exactly a date but the most logical analysis was that he obviously wouldn’t have asked if he preferred to eat without her. Besides, she needed to talk to him anyway.

“Beseder” she answered nonchalantly. Then with typical efficiency she noted that there was a Chinese place just around the corner, though she hadn’t tried it.

“Tov!” said Brom, as if he were talking to a young officer who had just quickly solved a minor tactical problem. “I-louse of Chin Le, I know it. The food’s tasty” he told her quickly, and he might have added, but didn’t, cheap.

They drank blistering tea despite the desert heat. Israelis of their generation were not much on booze. The food and drink was indeed good and inexpensive, and put Brom into a better mood.

“How do you like Arad?” he asked her as if she had just arrived. They’d both lived in the city for better than two years. “I like it.”

“And your brother?”

“Benny? I don’t think he cares at all where he lives” she said between bites, trying to be polite, but also eager to eat. “We’ve both moved around a lot, especially as our parents passed when we were still young. His home is where his work is, not where he lays his head at night.”

“And you?”

Her food was getting cold. Was he flirting, or being polite? She wasn’t quite old enough not to care, but she felt that she was close.

“I wouldn’t mind settling down here” she said. “What about you” she added as an afterthought, giving her space to chew and swallow.

Brom began a lengthy soliloquy, which didn’t seem to be his usual style, but which Mina found agreeable—not least because she was able to start in on a portion of Hunan beef. He liked Arad. It was a change from Tel Aviv where he had lived with his wife until she left him to move to America. His oldest daughter joined the mom, and now was a waitress in Manhattan. His son had just finished his army service and was somewhere in Thailand last he heard.

Finally it was Mina’s turn again. She couldn’t think of anything except to get back to business, which she needed to do anyway. The little interlude had been nice while it lasted.

“What are the chances do you think, that we’ll be able to move forward with Slingshot?“ she asked, keeping her voice down.

Brom gave her a worried look, uncomfortable talking shop openly in the restaurant. But the place was nearly empty, and what were the odds of espionage at House of Chin Lee? Still, surveyed the room before answering.

“We’re going to move forward. We wait for authorization” he said.

This she knew already. “But what do you really think are the chances that it will go?”

“After what we heard today, not good. It’s possible that Arbel will convince the PM to move forward quickly, just before caving into the Americans.”

“A last fling, so to speak” she said.

“If you want to put it that way” Brom said, offering her a wry smile. “But” he continued seriously “don’t count on it.”

Brom and Mina parted at the restaurant, each setting off on a modest walk home. It was just after 8:00pm. Ten minutes later, Mina reached the small rented house where she lived with her brother. She was surprised to his car already in the drive. She’d often take a bus back from Dimona at a reasonable hour, and leave the car for him.

Feldhandler was sitting at the modernish plastic and metal dining table in their cramped kitchen, nursing a container of yogurt. He looked up, seemingly pleased to see her, but also visibly apprehensive.

“How did it go?” he asked.

She just made a face and sat down. “Let me make you something decent to eat.”

“You’ve eaten?”

“Yes, with Brom, on the way back. At that Chinese place.”

“You could have brought me something” he said a bit petulantly.

“I didn’t think you would be home” she said quickly, but realized that she hadn’t even thought of it. He seemed to be slipping into one of his morose, almost childish moods. Feldhandler might be the smartest man on earth, but that didn’t mean that he had good temperament or the best judgment.

“So?”

“What can I say? It didn’t go well. Brom thinks that Arbel will advise the PM to give the Americans what they want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Pretty much everything.”

He curled his lower lip. “What do you think?”

She was tired and irritated. Between Arbel, the Americans, Brom and now her brother, she found herself thinking that she just wanted a lukewarm shower, clean sheets and sleep. “What do I know about such things? You could have gone yourself. Arbel would have preferred that.”

“The Americans too no doubt” he said. “Tell me something—anything.”

“I don’t know” she said with a shrug. “But if I had to guess, I’d say Brom was right. The days running our own fusion reactor and playing with the space /time continuum are numbered.”

“Okay” he said, with some vigor. “We’ve known this day would come, and planned well for it. You are still with me, right?”

“Yes. I’m not sure I like it so much anymore, but yes.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t affect you—”

“You don’t know that for sure” she said with some emotion. “And besides, it means losing you. That affects me.”

He reached out awkwardly for her. She pulled away. So much for tenderness in the Feldhandler family they both thought, and then recognizing their common wavelength, laughed.

“What chance does Brom give on Slingshot?” he asked, getting back to business.

“Low. But they are proceeding according to plan. By tomorrow the sayeret will be assembled, fully equipped and ready to go. It’s just a matter of getting them in the capsule…”

“And me—and Perchansky too.”

“So you are taking her?” Mina asked. “You know she will hate you, and not in just a feminine way. She will truly hate you.”

“They all will” he said resignedly. “But what choice do I really have. It’s too much of a risk to leave her—she knows too much. She could make life for you hell. And I will probably need her on the other side. You know I get too much credit for what I do.”

“That’s certainly true. But you don’t want to leave her.”

“What’s this with you and Brom?” he asked, ignoring her comment about Perchensky. Mina was too composed a woman to blush, but the question embarrassed her anyway.

“We had dinner after a long day. End of story. Do you have your own gear?” she asked, changing the topic again.

“Yes, it’s taken care of. Menachem, in the armory has it all for me, ready to go. I just have to grab it. It took a few shekels—he’s a greedy man.”

“What will be his story?”

“That I circumvented security and stole everything. I am the smartest man in the world after all” he said happily.

Mina smiled at him, saddened by his determination, but relieved that the discussion was done. It was time for that shower and a nice clean bed.

Chapter 7

The capsule looked a bit like a pharmaceutical but in fact was about the size of a midget submarine, ten meters long and 1.7 meters in circumference. Eight foldable seats ran along each side of the interior of the capsule, each with a set of shoulder harnesses. A control panel adjoined the forward-most seat on the left side, which was accessible to a strapped-in soldier. However, the men inside the capsule had little need to manipulate the controls. The capsule was almost entirely managed from the mission center deep within the Dimona facility.

The capsule theoretically accommodated sixteen combat troops. In actual deployments, both in testing and during the Natanz raid, loads were constrained by a combination of mass calculations, and the desire to limit losses in the case of a mishap. For Operation Slingshot twelve troops were approved, with all their personal equipment, plus an additional load of support weapons and gear. Slingshot was designed to go on the fly. The moment the Israelis received actionable intelligence on a movement by Mughniyeh, Yatom and his team would be alerted, strapped into the capsule and ready to go within ten minutes.

On the morning of May 24, two days after Arbel’s difficult meeting with the Americans at Ramat David, Yatom assembled the sayeret. All but Second Lieutenant Itzak Belete were veterans of the Natanz raid. He briefed them again about the mission objectives and laid out the requirements of their alert status. All twelve members of the sarayet would remain on station within at or near their special barrack within the facility, with personal weapons, ammo, load bearing harnesses, night vision goggles, radios, helmets and flack vests available at all times.

After the briefing, Shapira took Belete aside—lieutenant to lieutenant. Shapira was a big man, but with a swimmers lanky body, that gave him a particularly youthful appearance. He had a big nose and a big mouth. He’d attended Hebrew day schools in New Jersey and several summers on kibbutzim before immigrating to Israel on his own at eighteen. A competitive swimmer, he impressed his evaluators at the daunting tryout—called a gibush—for the Israli equivalent of the SEALs, Shayetet 13, then survived nearly two years of brutal training after that. He’d seen fairly continuous combat in the territories and Lebanon, finally attending Balad 1 after four years of service. He assumed that he would return to the navy, but found himself recruited into Yatom’s super-secret new sayeret, his new comrades commandos from Israel’s alphabet soup of elite reconnaissance units. Itzak Belete was nearly as tall as Shapira, and just as lanky. Like many Ethiopians, though he was brown skinned, his facial features were Semitic. His nose was thin and aquiline, his cheekbones, high.

He was a Falasha. His parents had been part of Israel’s massive rescue of Ethiopia’s Jews in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Though some orthodox Jews in Israel declined to accept the Africans as true Jews, most of the country welcomed the Falashas. Belete didn’t always have an easy time in his adopted country, but like most Israeli immigrants he the best of it. His parents gave Belete a traditional Jewish first name, and as Itzak grew up as an Israeli, not an Ethiopian. He never considered not joining the IDF, and his strength and intelligence got him through the tough gibush and training regime of sayeret Shaldag.

Shaldag was trained to operate deep behind enemy lines, and was charged with guiding the air force’s precision munitions to target.

Itzak met Mofaz in Shaldag. An observant Jew, like the Major, Belete had hoped to follow him into Sayeret Yatom. Belete wasn’t invited during the initial selection and so attended Balad 1 instead. Now a freshly minted Second Lieutenant, he’d been transferred into the sayeret unit to replace the fallen Yoram. Itzak happily became Mofaz’s radioman grenadier—and as an officer fourth in the line of command.

“Do you know anybody else in the sayeret besides Mofaz?” asked Shapira as he and Itzak walked from the briefing room.

“Ido Weiss. We went through the Shaldag gibush together” said Itzak. Ido was the unit medic. “He was always funny, making jokes.”

“Still does.”

“How about you—anybody else from the navy?”

“No” said Shapira “I’m it. Most of the men are from Matkal, like Yatom. The only other guy not a Matkalist is Roskovsky—he’s from Yahalom.”

“That makes sense—he’s the engineer, yes?”

“Right.” Sayeret Yahalom was the Engineer Corps commando outfit—but Yahalom men were frequently detached and assigned to other units.

“The men are already calling you Itzak—that’s good” continued Shapira.

“Is it? I heard Yatom can be a stickler for protocol, and I know Mofaz is…” In the IDF it was common for officers and men to address one another by first names, but it depended on the commander.

“Don’t worry about them. As long as you don’t call them by first name they won’t care how the men address you.”

“What do they call you?”

“Lieutenant—who knows why? Let them call you Itzak. It’s cool.”

Belete nodded. “Tell me about the capsule—is it as bad a ride as the men say?”

“How did you do on the simulator at the gibush?

“Not too well—I threw up. I wasn’t expecting it. Probably that’s why I didn’t make the initial cut.”

“Well, just try to keep your mind off it. Yatom will let you listen to music, or sing, or whatever you want to do during the ride in, just so long as you’re ready to fight once you step out.”

“I think I’ll pray” said Itzak.

“That works too” said Shapira.

They walked on to the armory to claim Belete’s gear. At Natanz the men in the sayeret all carried identical equipment, suitable for a close range firefight in an enclosed area. Their personal weapons had been American-made M-4 carbines, which had been the primary weapon of IDF special-forces troops for decades. The use of the American weapons also created a degree uncertainty as to the origin of the raiders.

Operation Slingshot, if it went off at all, would be different. Mughniyeh had been an Israeli target for many years, and Hezbollah a formidable enemy that generated much propaganda out of its skill and strength. When and if Mughniyeh went down, the IDF wanted credit.

Therefore, the sarayet would deliberately carry Israeli weapons with them this time. Instead of the M-4 the each team member carried a new Israeli-made Tavor assault rifle. Many of the men still preferred the M-4, but technically, the Tavor was a superior weapon, with a compact bull-pup design and integral reflex combat sight. Easy to use attachment points allowed for the addition of more advanced sights, grenade launchers, and other paraphernalia.

While Lieutenant Belete claimed his gear, Yatom walked over to the capsule where a heap of other military equipment lay about. Mofaz and several other members of the sayeret joined him. The commandos would carry their personal gear on them in the capsule, but this did not account for all the extra equipment that the unit would carry on Slingshot. Since Feldhandler eased the load restrictions, even encouraged Yatom to cover contingencies with extra gear, the sayeret leader planned to take all that twelve men could reasonably handle.

Yatom divided the twelve into three squads of four, led by himself, Mofaz and Shapira. The men were all sergeants, except for the newly commissioned Belete, and for the most part in their early twenties. All had completed three years of mandatory service and signed on for an extra two years to gain entry into Sayeret Yatom. They were not professionals in the American or British sense, but all were combat veterans who had worked their way through the various IDF infantry and special-forces units. They were almost all single, supremely fit both mentally and physically, and their morale was outstanding. If they were not the best soldiers in the world, they were damn close.

Feldhandler wouldn’t allow the sayeret to load the extra equipment themselves, and assigned a team of technicians to do the job. The first piece was Roi’s Negev light machinegun. Although easily carried by one man, it was just big enough that it had to be stowed within the tight confines of the capsule.

The Negev was an Israeli-made gun, similar to the American SAW, and just as prone to jamming. Soldiers loved it when it worked, and hated it when it broke. During the course of a short mission maintenance usually wasn’t an issue.

Next in were the squad radios. Each man carried his own personal radio set and Madonna, while each assistant team leader—Nir, Chaim, and Itzak—carried a larger more powerful squad unit which had to be stowed separately. The assistant team leaders also carried 40mm grenade launchers slung under their Tavors. In this way they were the team leader’s communication and fire support center all in one. Extra cases of 40mm grenades followed the radios. It was highly unlikely the unit would need them, but Feldhander permitted the extra grenandes so Yatom took them.

Sergeant Ilan Gvir’s SR-25 sniper rifle also had to be separately stowed. Like most snipers, llan didn’t like strangers handling his weapon, but with the extra sights, camouflage and ammo that accompanied the weapon, Feldhandler insisted it be loaded as extra gear. Ilan winched as a technician bumped the gun case against the side of the capsule. Mike Bolander, standing next to him, shoved an elbow into the sniper’s ribs.

“At least you get a real sniper rifle” groused Bolander. “I only get this.” He patted the Tavor STAR hanging at his hip. STAR stood for Sharpshooting Tavor Assault Rifle, and was assigned to the unit’s designated marksman, second fiddle to the sniper. The STAR didn’t have to be loaded separately but was still an impressive weapon. A Tavor with a lengthened barrel, bipod and improved sights, it was a deadly and accurate rifle out to 500 meters. Beyond that, Ilan handled things.

“Don’t cry baby” said Ilan mockingly in English. Ilan spoke excellent English, having attended the U.S. Marine Corps sniper school the year before, a fact that he hardly ever let Bolander—who had dual American citizenship—forget. Though both men had attended the IDF sniper academy, the Israeli school was considered much less demanding than the Marine Corps course. Instead of a challenging course staffed by experienced snipers as in the Marines, the IDF offered a decent, but relatively easy course on advanced marksmanship—not true sniping. Like many IDF courses, the trainers were mostly female soldiers who were smart and motivated, but not actual infantry snipers. As a result the instruction was well organized, efficient and theoretical—just not very taxing or practical. After the 2006 Lebanon War, where the Israeli sniping proved less than impressive, the IDF increasingly sought to get their most talented marksmen coveted billets in the Marine sniper course.

Ilan most impressive achievement was the assassination of Syrian General Mohammed Suleiman in 2008. llan had been detached from Sayeret Matkal to the Mossad for the mission. Suleiman, who ran arms to Hezbollah, liked to relax at his vacation home near the Syrian coastal city of Tartus, a fact that Israeli intelligence had picked up.

Mossad agents posing as wealthy Gulf Arabs chartered a fast pleasure yacht in Cyprus. The boat met an Israeli submarine en route to Syria and llan transferred to the yacht with a suppressed SR—25 rifle. The agents plied the yacht nonchalantly along the coast, a few hundred meters off shore until Suleiman, as was his habit, entered his garden for a siesta. Ilan put a single bullet into his head, following the one-shot one-kill mantra of the Marine school. That exploit, unknown to everybody in the sayeret but Yatom, Mofaz and Shapira, got Ilan into the unit. llan wanted badly to tell Bolander—who got into the sayeret based on his own heroics, but kept his mouth shut.

“I’m still waiting for personnel to approve me for the Marine course” complained Bolander.

“They are not going to let you go, Bo” said Ilan, continuing in English. “You’re a U.S. citizen. They figure you’ll get to the States and never come back.”

“C’mon—I’m in Israel since I was nine! I’m as Israeli as you are—and a fucking hero to hoot.”

Ilan nodded and laughed because Bolander really was a flicking hero, and everybody knew it. A couple of years before Bolander joined the sayeret, like many conscripts, he was pulling guard duty on the Lebanon border. One night, while working as a designated marksman in support of an outpost of lazy reservists, he spotted a Hezbollah kidnap squad preparing to launch an assault. That was as far as the Hezbollah got. He gunned down the entire five man squad before the terrorists, or the reservists, knew what had hit them. That performance Bolander into Matkal, despite the fact he was American born—but Ilan knew that they’d never send him to the Marine sniper school.

Bolander was about to continue the argument when Roskovsky came over. Of all the stuff being crammed into the capsule, his was treated the most gingerly. In his various packs were claymore mines, EFPs—explosively formed projectiles capable of destroying main battle tanks—chunks of plastique, transmitters, detonators and priming cords.

“Careful with that!” called Ilan playfully as a technician hoisted a sack firll of two kilo blocks of C-4. The man almost tripped and Roskovsky shot Ilan a dirty look. “Sorry bro” said Ilan in English again. Roskovsky, almost a head taller than the diminutive sniper, gave him a wink and walked away.

Ido’s extra medical packs went in easily enough including the IDF’s unique folding stretcher assembly. Israeli troops practiced evacuating casualties religiously, and carrying those loaded stretchers caused no end of pain during training marches.

The last extra weapon was also the unit’s biggest, a B-300 rocket launcher. Yatom decided to take the B-300 instead of a more powerful anti-tank rocket or missile launcher because of its simplicity and versatility. Israel made the world’s most sophisticated portable anti-tank missile, called the GiI—marketed as the Spike—but it was a large two man piece of equipment. The IDF also had a simplier one man rocket that was somewhat more advanced than the B-300 called the Shipon. But the Shipon was heavy and disposable, which meant to get three shots you had to carry three launchers—also too much for the capsule. The B-300 was small, light and reusable. A B-300 with three rounds was more manageable than either a Gil or Shipon—and plenty deadly. Israeli-made, it was used by the U.S. Marines where it was called the SMAW—for Shoulder-launched Multi-purpose Assault Weapon. It could knock out most tanks or fortifications depending on the round fired.

It took a good hour to properly stow all the gear, with Feldhandler’s technicians firssing and measuring their work along the way. When they were done Yatom told Mofaz to round up the rest of the men and give them a tour of the loaded capsule, so every man knew where and how his gear had been stowed. Then Yatom set off towards the canteen for more coffee.

Before Yatom had taken three steps Feldhandler popped out from behind the capsule and waved at him. “I don’t need this” thought the tired commando, but he walked over to the scientist like he was on the parade ground and clapped the smaller man hard on the shoulder.

“That capsule is crammed tighter virgin’s twat” snapped Yatom, hoping to embarrass the diffident scientist and make him go away. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Tov!” said the scientist, ignoring the commando’s profanity and the awkward metaphor. “If you and the men are up to it, I would like to run some more drills tomorrow.”

“Beseder,” said Yatom. “We’re just scratching our dicks anyway.” Feldhandler blanched and the colonel walked off.

Feldhandler hung around while the rest of the sayeret did their walk-through of the capsule, the officers and men studiously avoiding him. After they finished and went off to rest or eat, Feldhandler grabbed one of the internal telephone lines near the capsule bay. He called for Mina to join him. She arrived a few minutes later and entered the capsule while Feldhandler waited outside. Mina worked at the computer terminals for about an hour, reconfiguring the software, while he sat in the capsule doorway playing with his Blackberry. That was enough to keep unwanted visitors away. Finally she completed her task.

“I shouldn’t have an appetite after this” said Mina “but I do. You should eat too.”

“I have to talk to Brom” Feldhandler said tiredly.

“So let’s go to the canteen” said Mina. “He might be there about now anyway.”

Feldhandler grimaced and shrugged, then followed her towards the little cafeteria. He noticed immediately that Perchansky was not there, nor was Yatom. Several of Yatom’s enlisted men were spread across two tables, greedily wolfing down a mess of burgers, falafels and Israeli salad. They appeared to be in high spirits. Feldhandler marveled at them. He was a knot of anxiety. Seeming to match his mood was Brom, who sat alone, dyspeptically nibbling an unappetizing piece of overcooked chicken. The general looked up at them and waived them over. He pushed a plastic seat across the table out with his boot for Feldhandler and swung the seat next to him out with his arm for Mina.

“Have you heard from Jerusalem?” asked Feldhandler without saying hello.

“Benny, let me get some food and then we can talk” said Mina still standing by the table. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you order is fine.” Mina shrugged and walked to the serving area.

“So, now tell me…”

Brom wiped chicken grease from his chin then motioned toward Mina as she walked away.

“We’ll update her in a minute” said Feldhandler.

“You won’t like it.” Brom was used to delivering bad news and good at it—quick and to the point. “They are going to shut the reactor down.”

Feldhandler’s expression changed from his usual impassivity to incredulousness. Then he laughed.

“It’s no joke.”

“Yes it is” Feldhander practically shouted. Several ofYatom’s men looked over at the table, as did Mina from the serving line. She threw down a few shekels at the cashier’s station and hurried across the room.

“The reactor can’t just be shut off like a light” said Feldhandler like he was talking to a child. “It can’t be shut down at all, in a conventional sense, any more than you can shut down the sun.” Mina arrived and set down a tray of soups and salads too quickly. The soup spilled over creating a mess. She ignored it and sat down.

“It can be shut down” Brom said calmly “as you know better than anybody, when the fuel supply is exhausted. According to Dr. Perchansky that will be the day after tomorrow—unless the machine is refueled—and it won’t be unless we get some specific authorization from the government.”

Feldhandler and Mina exchanged crushing glances. The iron siblings had been hit hard Brom thought, noting the hint of a tear in Mina’s eyes.

“It’s still ridiculous” protested Feldhandler. “Why do the politicians fear the Americans? We could send Yatom’s sarayet into the White House if we had the balls—how would the President like that?”

Brom ignored him.

“There is a tiny silver lining, however.” said Brom. “Slingshot is a go, provided we get some actionable intelligence in the next day or two.”

“That’s just a sop—they know the chances of that are next to nothing.”

“Arbel had to fight for that” said Brom earnestly. “It’s not meaningless. If the intel comes in it’s a go.”

“I don’t believe it” said Mina, turning her head from Brom.

“Benny’s right.”

Brom shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and walked off.

“Well, that’s that” said Feldhandler. “It’s now or never.”

Mina just sighed and nodded her head.

“Tomorrow morning then” said Feldhandler.

Chapter 8

Early the next morning the sayeret assembled fully equipped for another drill, loading in and out of the capsule. Climbing in and out of the capsule was boring but seconds would be critical if the capsule happened to land at the wrong place or at the wrong time. Movements had to be automatic.

The three commando teams boarded the capsule in reverse order of the planned exit. Shapira’s team went in first. The lieutenant jogged to the capsule and ushered in Chaim, his radioman/grenadier, the marksman Bolander and Roi the machine gunner, before climbing in behind them. Mofaz repeated the process with team Bet, filing in after Itzak, Ilan, and Roskovsky the demolitions man. Finally, Alef boarded, with Ido, and the B-300 gunner Rafi going in first, followed by Yatom’s radioman/grenadier, Nir and the sayeret leader himself. Yatom. the last man to board would be the first man out.

All the commandos carried the same basic gear: standard IDF olive drab uniforms, personal radio headsets, helmets, and a unified ceramic vest. The vest doubled as a bullet proof flak vest and a load bearing equipment set. The standard set-up allowed for rifle magazines, additional pouches for grenades, canteens, compasses, GPS units, personal radios, canteens, night vision goggles and medical emergency medical kits. Properly outfitted, a fully loaded commando looked like a man in a fat suit.

Individual commandos customized their set-up according to their jobs. Ilan, the sniper, carried his magazines in specialized pouches for his 7.62mm SR-25 rifle. Likewise, Roi, the Negev gunner, only had a pistol to hand, although otherwise, his body was virtually covered in customized pouches and sacks held 600 rounds of ready 5.56 bullets for the machine gun.

The Tavors were equipped with the ITL MARS battery operated reflex sight and removable flash] sound suppressors. The sights allowed the commandos to shoot accurately and instinctively and with both eyes open. It gave them excellent situational awareness even while shooting a specific target. In addition, all team leaders carried handheld MARS hand-held thermal imagers, which were capable of sighting and designating distant targets in the dark or through fog or smoke.

Bolander carried a more powerful TA31 daylight scope and a NOGA NL61/3 night vision scope for his Tavor STAR, along with his own thermal imager. He also humped extra ammo for Roi.

All the men carried 9mm Sig 228 automatic pistols as a backup weapon. The budget conscious IDF didn’t automatically issue pistols, even in the best units. But Yatom’s sarayet did not want for money, and the men liked the compact black handguns.

During the loading drill Yatom noticed that several extra military style containers had been stowed under benches in addition to the extra squad weapons and equipment on his list.

He made a mental note to ask Feldhandler about that. Then instead of repeating the drill, he ordered the men to eat and drink, and then use the latrine.

When they were done, still, harnessed into all their gear, Yatom sat the sayeret down a dozen meters from the capsule and discussed the various possible scenarios that they could encounter, likely in Lebanon, if and when the government gave the authorization to launch.

At about 6 a.m. Feldhandler finally appeared with several of his ubiquitous assistants including Perchansky and Mina. Oddly, neither Feldhandler nor Perchansky wore their usual white smocks, but instead they were dressed simple army fatigues and light dessert style combat boots.

Yatom, Mofaz and Shapira walked over to the scientists. “What’s with the outfits” asked Yatom.

Feldhandler just stared, preoccupied as usual.

“If you won’t answer that question, then explain the extra cases in the capsule.”

“We’re going to make the drill a bit more useful” said Mina.” Drs. Feldhandler and Perchansky, will load with you to simulate two additional troops. The extra crates are just there to test estimates of expanded load parameters.”

“Why?” said Yatom, still looking at Feldhandler. “Is Brom suddenly expecting something?”

Feldhandler met Yatom’s eyes and walked over to the bigger man, and lightly took the commando’s left arm, pushing him gently away from Mofaz and Shapira.

“Have you talked to Brom?” asked Feldhandler in a whisper.

“Of course” replied Yatom with a curious look. “He told me the bad news. It wasn’t exactly unexpected. How many times did we call off the Iran operation?”

“Ten, if I recall” said the scientist.

“So?”

“So, the point is we should keep preparing” said Feldhandler with an air of disappointment. “The more men you can take, the better your chance of success. If we better the odds, it’s more likely they will give us a go-ahead.”

“Fine, but that’s not going to make a difference between today and tomorrow—when you have to shut down” said Yatom bitterly.

“Twelve or fourteen men; who cares? We’ll be back at our old units by next week probably.” He paused and looked at Feldhandler who seemed to be examining his own feet. Mofaz seemed tired and bored, Shapira lost his own thoughts. Feldhandler continued to stare down and said nothing, so Yatom went on.

“Okay humor yourself—you and Perchansky want to ride on the capsule while you have a chance is that it? Well we’ve got nothing else to do, until they disband the sarayet, eh Mofaz?”

The Major looked over with a dull stare. Yatom couldn’t tell whether he’d overheard the conversation or not. Yatom noted that Shapira and Bolander both seemed to be eyeing Perchansky—what did the Americans see in her, he wondered? Several of his men were nodding off. It was silly, he thought, a final drill for no purpose—everyone either knew it or sensed it. But the drill was scheduled and the risks minimal, so why argue with the professor if he wanted to play around. Perhaps he just wanted to flip it on one last time.

“Well then” said Feldhandler quietly “let’s load the device.”

Yatom shrugged and called “Jalla!” the Arabic term for “let’s go” adopted almost universally in Israel. The soldiers groaned, got up and reorganized themselves by teams.

Mina walked over to Yatom, who called over Shapira and Mofaz. Something about Feldhandler’s sister gave Yatom the willies.

“Drs. Feldhandler and Perchensky will sit at the front of the capsule to monitor the instruments” Mina said to the officers. “I’m just going to engage to device, give you guys a little shake and roll, and them come out of it. Beseder?”

Yatom nodded. He moved off with his men, who entered the capsule smoothly if lethargically. Neither Yatom nor Mofaz encouraged the soldiers, viewing the process as a waste of time. With it now widely known that the reactor was to be shut down, the group dynamic within the sarayet had gone from upbeat professionalism to a kind of resigned boredom.

The two seats at the front of the capsule were reserved for the sarayet commander and his deputy. Feldhandler entered then reminded Mofaz and Yatom that he and Perchensky would need their seats for the test run.

“Do you mind?” said Feldhandler with unusual deference.

Yatom sighed and shrugged. He and Mofaz took seats among the men. This amused the commandos, who now pretended to grumble and make farting sounds for the benefit of their leaders. Feldhandler and Perchansky took the front seats at the controls.

Shapira looked over to Itzak. They’d drawn up specific procedures for deployments in the capsule and now Yatom was simply ignoring them because Feldhandler and his girl Friday wanted a ride. Shapira opened his mouth but then thought better of it. He raised his eyebrows at Itzak as if to say “see what you’ve got yourself into?”

The controls at the front of the capsule didn’t do much anyway, at least according to Shapira’s understanding. A pair of computer screens gave a complex series of digital readouts, hut operation of the device was slaved to the control center now operated by Feldhandler’s sister.

All the people in the front seats could do was disengage the device in an emergency, and that didn’t seem likely during a quick training ride.

The soldiers doubled checked each was tightly strapped in. The capsule produced a wild ride—even in training run the shaking could be severe. Feldhandler and Perchansky tightened their harnesses as well. Then the professor typed a few strokes on the computer and sent a message to the control center. A return message popped up. Feldhandler twisted as best as he could in his seat towards the heavily burdened commandos behind him.

“They are ready. Everyone here set? Colonel?”

“Let’s get on with it” said Yatom laconically. In the control center Mina typed instructions into the enabling computer, and received assurances from her the other technicians that all systems were online and operating within normal limits. Brom entered the control room and stood over her shoulder.

“Mind?” he said.

“Not at all” Mina replied coolly. “We’re ready to run the test. Not much to see though—the capsule will only be gone for a second—maybe two.”

She communicated with the capsule entirely through the computer, and sent Feldhandler a final message. She typed so fast and sent it so quickly that Brom, though he glanced down, didn’t get a look at it—not that he really cared.

“Engaging reactor” Mina said.

Several seconds later power surged into the capsule bay and the device appeared to tremble and glow. This persisted for several moments. Mina turned to the technician beside her. They stared out at the capsule bay through the thick, tinted and polarized safety screen of the control center. “Ready?” The technician nodded. Mina carefully typed a coded instruction into the enabling computer and hit the “enter” key.

There was a shuddering roar. A flash lit the capsule bay. Inside the control center Mina, Brom and a dozen technicians instinctively turned their heads from the flash, and then immediately looked up. In that first second none of them were surprised. The capsule had disappeared, just as it was designed to do. It was the second third and fourth seconds that sent shock waves through the room. The capsule did not reappear.

Inside the windowless capsule the soldiers were illuminated by faint red lights. They had mentally prepared themselves for two or three seconds of shaking, then arrival back at the capsule bay, followed by a standard unloading and security drill inside the Dimona facility. Instead, after about four seconds the capsule twisted and turned and then flipped over. Ten seconds later in it flipped over again. Yatom looked around as best he could and saw concerned looks on the commandos’ faces, but no fear or panic. This was standard for a regular mission, but not a quick training run. At fourteen seconds they had been underway longer than on the Natanz raid, and much longer than any other training ride. At twenty seconds the capsule flipped again and Feldhandler threw up. So did Itzak. Perchansky began to scream. Yatom sought out Mofaz’s eyes and detected, for the first time a hint of fear. Two or three of the men were quietly offering prayers.

The lights flickered out, plunging them into pitch blackness. Yatom gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead, where he knew Mofaz would be.

Thirty seconds in the lights came back on. Perchansky was screaming hysterically now, and Feldhandler groaned. At thirty-four seconds the capsule swung violently counter-clockwise and struck something. Then they felt a series of jarring impacts. The vehicle seemed to slow and finally came to a quivering stop. The commandos found themselves hanging from their harnesses. The capsule was upside-down.

Training took over. An inverted landing had always been a possibility and the soldiers now followed a specific drill. With one hand the men grabbed handholds that had been put on the floor, while with the other they unhooked their harnesses. Once free they swung down in a quick deliberate motion. There was much bumping and swearing, as the commandos piled into each other and hit the inverted ceiling, but the entire process took all of ten seconds. Only puke covered Itzak had any difficulty, and his was slight.

Feldhandler and Perchansky still hung from their seats moaning, but Yatom ignored them. The exit hatchway was now overhead. Yatom reached up, popped the hatch and planting a foot against another emergency handhold, grabbed onto the door frame and pulled himself out Yatom’s team followed, then Mofaz and his men. Yatom’s squad formed on one side of the capsule, Mofaz on the other. Shapira’s team climbed out last.

Inside the capsule Feldhandler came to his senses, and managed to swing down from his seat. Perchensky was barely conscious and mumbling. He carefully undid her harness and let her fall on him, knocking them both onto the roof of the capsule. They both moaned and lay there.

Outside the commandos crouched around the capsule, Tavors at the ready. Without their primary weapons, Roi and llan drew their pistols. Roi looked at Yatom. “Colonel, can I retrieve my weapon?”

“Go!” said Yatom. “Unload the capsule.”

Roi leaned back into the capsule, finding Perchensky and Feldhandler at the entrance. He pulled the pair out. Then the machine gunner, followed by Ilan, and Rafi dropped back into the capsule. The three men started handing out olive green sacks and cases with their extra equipment, including the mysterious extra crates stowed by Feldhandler. These were quite heavy.

Yatom ignored the unloading and looked around. It appeared to be early morning. The area near the capsule looked like a tornado’s aftermath. They were in a forested area, but at least a half-dozen large trees, and many smaller ones, had been uprooted or knocked over by the capsule. The wrecked trees provided excellent cover, and with a few hand signals from Shapira and Mofaz, the commandos swarmed over them, setting up weapons, and looking for targets. But there was nothing to shoot at except birds and fleas.

Yatom rested his Tavor on a large uprooted tree with a rough whitish trunk—a birch. “What the hell” he thought. He didn’t know why they were not back in Dimona, but if they were anywhere else, he expected it to be in Israel or Lebanon. He’d seen birches in Germany and the U.S. but not Israel or Lebanon. He pulled out his GPS. The unit came on but indicated no signal. Yatom looked over towards Mofaz who was also fiddling with his GPS, and then Shapira, who was doing the same.

Yatom trotted over to his deputy, and motioned Shapira to join them. “Does anybody have any idea what’s happened, or where we are?” he said quietly.

They shook their heads.

“Is everybodys’ GPS down?” asked Yatom. The two other officers nodded. All three men prided themselves on their ability to think and act quickly, but they were so obviously befuddled that Yatom just put on a disgusted expression. At least the men were doing their jobs, alertly guarding the landing area, but they were clearly awaiting some guidance.

Yatom, with nothing else to do or say at the moment looked up to see Feldhandler leaning against the capsule, his chest still wet and covered with little pieces of vomit. Perchensky stood nearby, looking a baffled as he felt. The professor attempted to wipe himself down a bit, then stood up and started to search around the area, until he recognized one of the extra crates he’d stowed. The commandos had set it aside but not bothered to open it. Feldhandler started fumbling with the clasp.

Some of the men looked over at the scientist and Yatom gave his first order since arrival. “Eyes front!” he hissed. They looked away and continued scanning for unseen targets. He took a few steps toward Feldhandler, who had finally gotten the long crate open.

“Need a hand professor?”

“I’m fine” said Feldhandler, pulling olive green canvas sacks from the crate.

“You don’t look fine” said Yatom evenly. Feldhandler ignored the comment and reached into one of the green bags. To Yatom’s astonishment the doctor pulled a large assault rifle, an Israeli Galil ARM. The Galil ARM was a heavy, expensive and unpopular assault rifle issued by the IDF in the 1970s and progressively run out of service over the years by the M-16 and it variants, and now the Tavor. Some gun enthusiasts called the Galil the best AK-47 ever made, as it had many of the more famous weapon’s assets and flaws. It was rugged and reliable, but heavy, and while more accurate than the AK it was less precise than the Tavor or the M-16. The ARM was a multipurpose version of the weapon, with a built in bipod, a heavy barrel, and the option to launch grenades from the muzzle. In the hands of a modestly trained soldier and set on full automatic it could do some real damage.

Feldhandler set the rifle aside and continued to pull equipment out the crate. This included a unified ceramic flak vest like the rest of the sarayet wore, but with a couple of large pouches on the front designed to hold big 50 round magazines for the Galil, in addition to the usual 30 round pouches.

Feldhandler busily stuffed these and auxillary pockets with magazines, grenades and other gear pulled from yet another bag. The back of the vest had four cylindrical pockets into which he stuffed canisters containing muzzle loaded rockets for the rifle. Finally, Feldhandler hoisted the heavily laden vest and put it on, finishing his dress with a standard IDF hehnet and radio headset. It occurred to Yatom that with his Galil and bulky gear, and slight pot belly, Feldhandler looked like an out of shape reservist about to fight the 1982 Lebanon War. Not pretty, but then again, those guys had done pretty well.

Finished equipping himself, Feldhandler walked back to the capsule and glanced at Perchensky before stooping to examine another nearby crate. Perchensky hadn’t puked on herself, hut otherwise looked disheveled and shaky. Perchensky examined herself in her olive fatigues as if she’d never seen the outfit before. Then she instinctively felt along her legs and backside for wounds or blood. Finding none, she resumed her perplexed look, saying nothing.

Feldhandler pulled duffle from the second crate, and removed from that a black flak vest, like the kind police officers use. Strapped to it was an older style IDF harness loaded with 9mm magazines for an Uzi machine-pistol, plus canteens, a radio, and a first aid packet. He stood and handed this he handed to Perchansky without a word. She took the rig but didn’t put it on. Then Feldhandler pulled an Uzi submachine gun from the crate and offered it to Perchansky as well. She balked at this, and stepped away from the scientist.

“You know how to use one of these, don’t you?” he asked her.

“Of course I do” she said suspiciously.

“Well then take it” Feldhandler insisted. “You will probably need it.” Yatom stepped toward the two civilians and noticed that inside the crate were several more Uzis lined up in a neat row and next to them bandoliers stuffed with extra magazines for the weapons. Ignoring Yatom, Feldhandler pulled out an extra bandolier and offered this to Perchansky too.

This finally roused Mofaz, who like Yatom had been staring at the scene as if it were a kabuki performance.

“Why will she need it Doctor?” asked Mofaz sharply.

Not waiting for Feldhandler to answer Yatom broke in. “Where the hell are we? Do you know what happened?”

“Wait” said Feldhandler. “Open the other crate. There are spare batteries, ammunition and food. That’s for you.”

“What is going on?” pressed Yatom.

“Come with me” said Feldhandler as he began to walk beyond the makeshift perimeter. He motioned for Yatom, Mofaz, Shapiro and Perchansky to follow.

The commando officers hesitated but went along, automatically sighting through their Tavors and moving in a crouch as took a few steps into the surrounding woods.

Feldhandler stopped and smiled at them. “You can relax fellows. I think we’re safe for now. ”

“Safe for now? What does that mean?” asked Shapira.

“I assure you Lieutenant that there are no Hezbollah guerillas out there—maybe a few cows or peasants.”

Yatom looked quizzically at Mofaz and Shapira who offered nothing in return.

“Itzak!” called Yatom. The newly minted lieutenant ran up to the colonel. “We are going for a stroll outside the perimeter. Take command here while we are gone. Radio check.” The sayeret checked their radios, which worked fine. Yatom waived to Nir, his own radioman. “Come with us.”

The little group walked into the forest. It was growing warm, and the air was muggy. Fleas darted around their faces. The undergrowth was modest. The trees, while large, were not old growth. The soldiers looked around nervously. Perchansky, now wearing the flak vest and carrying the Uzi slung over her shoulder, brought up the rear. Feldhandler reached a small clearing about fifty meters north of the capsule and stopped. “This should do” he said.

“Where are we?” demanded Yatom again. “Why don’t our GPS units work?”

“I have a theory?” Feldhandler said innocently.

“You’re not theorizing—you know” said Perchansky suddenly and angrily.

Feldhandler pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows stupidly.

“Don’t play games” Yatom growled, stepping very near the scientist. Feldhandler stood his ground.

“I believe that the device sent the capsule quite far off course and not just in terms of space” said Feldhandler. He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. “As you all know, and Andrea especially, the transport device, like all modes of transport, moves through space and time. It has been a primary objective of this project to move significant distances through the former, and very little through the latter. Until today we’d succeeded in that. But now I fear we have failed.”

“Failed? How?” asked Yatom.

“It’s apparent there was some kind of malfunction that sent the capsule off course, spatially and temporally.”

“What malfunction?” said Perchensky doubtfully.

“Andrea, you know as well as I do that it’s impossible to control the capsule from inside. All we can do is monitor and execute the directions of the control center and their computers.”

“Your sister operated the control center” said Perchensky. “You are saying she sent us wildly of course in the midst of a two second test?”

“Something else is wrong” said Shapira. “You brought all this extra equipment—extra supplies. You’re calm. I agree with Andrea—you know where we are.”

“Maybe.”

“Tell us what you know,” said Yatom, trying to stay calm. “Now.”

Feldhandler paused. “Look around you. Where do you think we are?”

“We’re wasting time” snarled Mofaz.

“Europe” said Shapira quickly, unable to ignore Feldhandler’s game.

“Good” said Feldhandler like a teacher encouraging a precocious student. “I can’t be sure until I walk around a bit further, but I believe we are in southeastern Poland.”

“When?” said Perchansky ominously.

“Again, until we move off a little further I can’t say for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say 1942. Judging by the sun and the temperature, it’s a fine spring morning. Just like the day we departed.”

Chapter 9

Feldhandler’s words left the little group dumbfounded. Even Perchansky, who had reoriented herself somewhat after her miserable time aboard the capsule, and suspected that they’d hit a temporal rift, was shocked and confused. While they stood around speechless, Feldhandler walked off toward the north.

“Where are you going” called Yatom, still not having absorbed Feldhandler’s bombshell, but unable to come up with anything better.

“I’m looking for a rail line” called Feldhandler without turning back. “Tell your men to scout to the west—there should be a sizable stream about two kilometers from the capsule.”

Yatom ignored Feldhandler’s suggestion—he wasn’t sending his men out willy-nilly into these strange woods. “Maybe should send out scouts” said Shapira. “Not yet” Yatom snapped.

Feldhandler strolled along almost jauntily, allowing his slung Galil to bang noisily against his vest and webbing. The commandos followed holding their weapons at the ready, Perchansky still at the rear. They walked in silence for a few more minutes. Yatom figured that there was no point in pressing Feldhandler until they knew whether he was talking sense or had gone completely mad.

About a half kilometer north of the capsule’s landing site the woods gave way into an open field of knee high grass. The sun was rising to the east, and the sky was dappled with bland white clouds. Most significantly, a railroad track ran atop a small embankment roughly 200 meters from the tree line. Along the track on the north side was a line of telephone poles. Otherwise, there was no sign of human habitation. Feldhandler pulled out his binoculars and all the officers immediately followed suit. Perchansky felt around her webbing for a pocket with her own pair but came up with nothing. Feldhandler hadn’t packed her one.

Even with the binoculars nothing else significant was visible. Yatom could tell nothing from the railroad tracks—how could you tell a 1942 railroad bed from one seventy years later? The telephone poles did look antique. But then again they were supposedly eastern Poland. It wasn’t hard to believe that the modern Poles still had an antiquated phone system.

Feldhandler put down his field glasses and reached into a back pocket on his webbing, producing a mit’znefet which meant “clown hat” in Hebrew. The mit’znefet was a loose camouflaged net covering that went over the combat helmet. It looked somewhat silly, but it effectively broke up and distorted the helmet’s shape, making for a more difficult target. In grassy and wooded terrain it was particularly useful. Yatom looked over at Mofaz and Shapira and shrugged. They took out their own mit’znefetim and put them on. Yatom was annoyed.

He wasn’t thinking for himself but was following the lead of a middle-aged scientist. Yatom radioed Itzak.

“Have the men put on their mit’z’nefetim” he ordered.

“Already done” Itzak radioed back. Yatom scowled. “Send Chaim and Bolander to patrol due west of the landing site—no more than two clicks.”

“Acknowledged.”

While Yatom spoke Feldhandler walked off into the open field.

Yatom started to follow, but Mofaz grabbed him by the sleeve. “Let him go” said the Major.

Mofaz turned to Perchansky. “What do you think?”

“Madness?” she offered.

“Maybe” answered Mofaz. “In any case, I don’t see this as anything that requires our action. Even if the professor is right, our job is to get back home, not run around in some strange place and time.”

“Agreed” said Yatom. He looked over at Shapira for unanimity, but the Lieutenant looked doubtful. “What Lieutenant?”

Shapira gave a quick shake of the head, and pointed toward Feldhandler. “Look at him.”

The officers raised their binoculars again. Feldhandler was on the railroad embankment crouched along the track. He removed an item from his equipment bag that looked like a dun colored stone, but it had a detonator embedded in its side. It wasn’t a stone, but a small piece of plastique that Feldhandler had molded into that innocuous shape and then spray painted. They’d all seen many similar charges laid by Hezbollah in Lebanon.

“He’s laying a charge” said Yatom.

The scientist then trotted down the embankment toward the west and for a moment disappeared behind a copse of trees nearer to the tracks. He emerged a few minutes later.

“He placed another charge,” said Shapira. “He’s going to bomb a train.”

“Shit,” said Yatom in English. He raised Feldhandler on the radio. “What are you doing?”

“It’s obvious isn’t it?” Feldhandler radioed back. “I’m going to attack a rail transport. I could use some help.”

“You’re mad.”

“You’ll see that I am not—were wasting our batteries. Meet me in the field.” Feldhandler waved and pointed to a spot on the grassy field between the tracks and the tree line.

Yatom radioed Itzak. “Any word from Chaim?”

“Affirmative.”

“Report.”

“They are a click out. Just more woods. A small stream in the distance.”

“He’s been correct so far,” said Shapira, who like all the commandos monitored the same communication net. “If we are where and when he says—and right now I’ve no reason to doubt him—it’s likely that train will pass by here eventually—a German train.”

“He can’t seriously consider attacking a German train by himself—even if it’s 1942,” said Yatom, incredulous that he was even having this ridiculous discussion.

“We don’t have any authorization or orders to attack anything,” Mofaz reminded him. “German, Polish, Lebanese—it doesn’t matter. We are on a training mission. Our duty is to return to base.”

“Not really a German train,” said Shapira, taking back his own words, and ignoring Mofaz. “Feldhandler used the word transport. In southeastern Poland in 1942 the priority transport on the rails was not Germans…”

“It was Jews,” said Perchansky, finishing his sentence.

“Ach!” groaned Yatom, but for the first time since they’d arrived things were making sense to him. Yatom got on the radio to Feldhandler.

“Pick a spot and lay down. I’ll meet you. Out.” He turned to Mofaz. “Bring your team up, with Ido and Rafi too. Have Itzak call back the patrol and wait for them at the capsule.”

Mofaz looked at him as if he’d gone crazy too, and did nothing. Yatom decided not to get into it with the Mofaz at the moment. He told Nir to issue the order, which the sergeant promptly did.

“Ron,” Yatom said, turning toward Shapira. “When the men arrive, take Roi and move one click west of here, staying in the undergrowth. Stop right about where the tracks disappear behind those trees. Understood?”

“Yes commander!” said Shapira, relieved to get some orders and to finally have something constructive to do. He was so pleased he considered saluting Yatom, but thought better of it. It wasn’t the Israeli way. Instead he went off into the woods to meet the men moving forward.

Leaving Mofaz with Perchansky and Nir, Yatom set off to meet Feldhandler in the open area between the tree line and railroad track. The field contained plenty of high grass and while it looked flat at a distance, it actually undulated a good bit, offering plenty of cover.

Feldhandler lay in a defiladed position in a dried up ditch surrounded by a mass of thick Polish weeds about fifty meters from the track, just east of the first bomb. The scientist unlatched the Galil’s bipod, set the weapon on the lip of the depression and looked down the sight. He inserted one of the 50 round magazines, charged the weapon and set it on safe. Satisfied, he sat up, leaned back against the ditch and pulled a Powerbar from a food pouch on the back of his webbing. He was munching the snack contentedly when Yatom reached him.

Yatom was doubly irritated watching Feldhandler eat, not because he wished the scientist to desist, but because he hadn’t thought of it himself. He raised Nir on the radio and told him to make sure the men ate. Of course, the sergeant had already taken care of that. Feldhandler offered the sarayet commander a peanut flavored Powerbar but Yatom waived him off. He should eat while he had the chance, but had no hunger. Yatom sat next to Feldhandler, drank from his canteen instead, and looked around.

“This is a good position Doctor, but even with that,” said Yatom, pointing at the big Galil, “you’ll die quickly attacking a German train, assuming there is one and you are not flat out crazy.”

Feldhandler smiled. “I’m not crazy—at least not in the way you mean. A German train will pass this way.”

“Then you’ll die.”

“Not if you help me.”

“Not this time,” said Yatom dismissively.

Feldhandler chewed on the Powerbar. “I heard you order men forward on the radio, and Shapira to an ambush position near the second charge I set.”

“That’s only a precaution,” said Yatom. “We are not here to fight a war—wherever and whenever this is.”

“Maybe you will change your mind.”

“I doubt it.”

“A transport full of Jews is going to pass down these tracks sometime today. Some of the Jews on that train might well be your relatives.”

“Uh huh,” said Yatom disbelievingly, like he was humoring his daughter. “And how to you know that such a transport will pass this way?”

“Because about twenty kilometers down the track is a place called Sobibor. Heard of it?”

Yatom thought for a few seconds. “A death camp?” he said at last.

“Not as famous as Auschwitz or Trehlinka. There was a revolt there.”

“Yes,” replied Feldhandler, “but not until late 1943. By then hundreds of thousands had died.”

“And today is?”

“My best guess is May 25, 1942” said Feldhandler. “According to the German records, which were kept pretty meticulously, a transport of Austrian and Czech Jews was massacred in Sobibor today. I intend to stop that, and with your help destroy Sobibor before any more Jews die there.”

“You brought us here for that?”

“I told you, I can’t control the device from inside the capsule. Mina directed us here.”

“But with your connivance. You had this all planned.”

Feldhandler took another bite of the Powerbar, but didn’t say anything.

“What’s the point?” Yatom persisted angrily. “This isn’t a game; these are people’s lives you are toying with. We have family, friends, and careers. You’ve marooned us here and now want us to fight a war that isn’t ours to fight. You’re insane. So is your sister.”

“Regardless of my motives or sanity” said Feldhandler calmly, “you are the leader of an Israeli commando sarayet. Are you going to sit around and allow the Germans to massacre thousands of men, women and children today because you’re pissed off at me?”

Yatom rolled his eyes and looked up at the sky. “I want to go home” he said at last. “So do my men.”

“Did you ask them?”

“I don’t have to!”

“If I’m killed today” said Feldhandler, “you’ll never get home.”

“Does that mean you will return the capsule?” Yatom said hopefully.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Why?”

“First because I don’t want to” said Feldhandler. “Second because the capsule is controlled in Dimona, and in 1942, no such place exists, much less a fusion reactor and a time/ space transport device. So there is nobody to bring us back. There is no ‘back’ to go to.”

Yatom considered this. He had been briefed many times on time/ space theory, anomalies and paradoxes. And he knew that what Feldhandler had just told him was not necessarily true.

“You’re bullshitting me” said Yatom. “What you say is true, is only true.” Yatom paused and fought for the right words. “It’s only true if the transport did not create a rival timeline. But it could have. If we are in a new timeline, they could, in theory, return us.”

“Maybe” conceded Feldhandler. “But even I don’t know which case is true. Nor do you, or Dr. Perchensky. It’s theoretically possible for me to reprogram the tachyon transmitter and send a signal. But even assuming we could send a message into the future—or to a rival timeline—Mina would have to acknowledge it and she would have to bring us back.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Who knows” said Feldhandler with a shrug. “Is she is even in charge at Dimona anymore?—assuming Dimona exists. But if she is not in charge there I can assure you, nobody will ever return.”

Like a condemned man grasping for a reprieve Yatom ignored all of Feldhandler’s qualifications. “It’s possible?” begged Yatom.

“Anything is possible Colonel. But if I’m dead, I can’t do anything.”

“What do you really want?” said Yatom, recognizing a devil’s bargain.

“Help me take the train, and Sobibor” said Feldhander. “When that’s done, I’ll give Dr. Perchensky some guidance on reprogramming the transmitter. But there are no guarantees, and there will be more to do after Sobibor.” Yatom sipped his water. “What’s to stop me from carving you up piece by piece unless you reprogram the transmitter right now?”

“The problem with the transmitter is not simply a piece of missing code or a series of numbers that I’ve memorized” Feldhandler explained patiently, confident that Yatom would not actually harm him. “Mina controls it—broke it, so to speak. How I don’t know. Perhaps I could resolve the problem, with enough time, Dr. Perchensky’s help, and under circumstances conducive to that kind of work. Torturing me would not be such a circumstance.”

Yatom had not seriously considered that, but knew that some of the men might not see things his way. Crazy or not, Feldhandler had them cornered.

“I’ll talk to the sarayet” said Yatom non-committally. “Try to stay alive in the meantime.” He set off back to the tree line, leaving Feldhandler in his ditch.

At the tree line Yatom found Mofaz and Perchansky seated on a fallen tree sharing a can of loof, a kind of kosher spam that Israeli soldiers have been eating and complaining about for generations. The sarayet had better and more modern rations but some soldiers actually liked the stuff. Mofaz was cutting himself another slice of the rubbery beef with a sharp combat knife when Yatom stepped through the brush. Mofaz offered his commander the slice—a peace offering. Yatom took the Ioof despite his lack of appetite and chewed it sluggishly. It really wasn’t all that bad. More likely his body just needed the food.

Yatom recounted his discussion with Feldhandler, omitting nothing. He expressed his feeling that they would have to go along with Feldhandler’s proposal, at least for the time being. “I’ll put it to you and the rest of the men to decide” he concluded. “But if Feldhandler attacks the train, and it’s defended, I don’t see that we have much choice in the matter. We’ve got to keep him alive.”

“I still don’t buy it” said Mofaz sensibly. “Why not just drag him back to the capsule, and keep him safe, until he starts thinking straight.”

Yatom considered this. He knew that of all the sayeret Mofaz would be hit hardest if what Feldhandler said was true, and the he would be feeling it now. Mofaz was a devoted family man who’d left behind a wife and three young children. Other than Mofaz, only Yatom and Roskovsky were fathers, and only one other man, Rafi, was even married. Being lost forever in time was frightening enough for the estranged and conflicted saycret leader. For Mofaz, a man with a decent family life it was crushing. Besides, what Mofaz said made sense. They still had little evidence that Feldhandler was telling the truth.

“Let’s see if any more evidence turns up that what he is saying is even true” suggested Yatom. “I don’t want to provoke a fight with Feldhandler—he may even be suicidal. What do you think Dr. Perchensky?”

“I agree that he might be self—destructive” Perchensky said, seemingly recovered from her ordeal in the capsule and taking on a scholarly mien. “One thing to remember is that he’s very clever and has had a long time to think about this—same with Mina. I’d be careful about trying to cross him.”

Yatom wished he could just shake off the dilemma or leave it to somebody else, but it was his rall—unless Mofaz continued to flat out refuse his orders. Then he’d have more problems.

“Motti” said Yatom, using Mofaz’s first name in an obvious bid for cooperation—“I’ll assemble the sayeret and leave Feldhandler to his devices for now. Let’s wait for a train and see what happens.”

Mofaz downed the last of his Inof. He hated Feldhandler at the moment, and he realized that emotions might cloud his judgment. Yatom was correct—they needed more information. There was also the fact that Yatom was his commander, and for all their occasional differences, he respected the chain of command.

“Beseder” said Mofaz guardedly. “I can count on you?”

“Danny” said Mofaz, gratuitously playing the name game too “you are the sayeret commander. If you don’t order me to do anything illegal or immoral, I’ll follow you.”

The sayeret gathered over the next several minutes, including Chaim and Bolander, back from their patrol to the stream. Only Shapira and Roi were absent, secluded in the copse of trees where the track disappeared. The soldiers were confused by the situation, but not in bad spirits. Yatom and Mofaz had agreed that there was little point in going through all the theories and permutations of their current situation with the men. The important thing was to prepare tactically and then decide what to do once their actual circumstances less muddled.

Yatom sent Chaim and Bolander, still sweating from their trek from the stream, to hike out and join Shapira, reuniting team Gimmel. The two commandos set off without a word of dissent, but Yatom was guessed there would be plenty grousing about their flaky officers en route. Mofaz took his team and deployed among the trees on the ridge to the east. There Ilan set up a sniper’s nest. Joined by Perchansky, Yatom’s team shifted to the west a few dozen meters in the direction of Shapira’s men. All the teams checked their radios again, which continued to function normally. The GPS tmits were still out, as were cellphones—which the men were not supposed to have with them, but they carried anyway.

Yatom then set off on his own to have a chat with Shapira and check his position, arriving a few minutes after Chaim and Bolander. The American lieutenant seemed more at ease with the situation than anybody. Perhaps thought Yatom that was because Shapira was used to leaving loved ones behind for a principle—and why he immigrated to Israel in the first place, that is, made aliya. Aliya, is the Hebrew for “ascension” or “going up.” It suggested that the immigrant had moved up to a better, more appropriate place. An American especially, Yatom knew, gives up much making aliya.

Yatom explained the situation to Shapira as best he could.

“So you just intend to wait for a train to arrive?” asked Shapira after Yatom finished, “to see if Feldhandler is being truthful?”

“Yes. I’m going to give it an hour or two and if nothing happens we’ll reconsider. I’m hoping that Feldhandler might come to his senses.”

“What are we going to do if it is a train full of Jews heading to Sobibor.”

“It’s still not our business” answered Yatom.

“I’m not sure I agree” said Shapira.

“Whether you agree or not, I need to know that you will follow my orders.”

“Of course” said Shapira mildly. “You know, if Feldhandler does stop a train, and it is filled with Jews, they will be our responsibility. There will be thousands of them. They’ll need food and water.”

Yatom said nothing.

“Feldhandler picked this spot because it’s a good ambush site, and because of the stream” continued the lieutenant. “That train is going to come, and it’s going to be our problem colonel—with all due respect.”

Yatom frowned—not because Shapira was questioning his judgment, but because he feared that the young lieutenant was right. Shapira’s equanimity about their situation allowed him to analyze the situation dispassionately—something that was impossible for Mofaz and that Yatom found difficult too.

“Beseder Lieutenant. Let’s see what happens. But under no circumstances shoot without an order from me.”

Yatom stalked back to his own team. The sun was higher in the sky, the air was hot and muggy, but the exercise encouraged him. By the time Yatom reached his little command post, set up by the resourceful Nir, he’d calmed down a little. He scanned the field with his binoculars. Feldhandler was still in his ditch lying by his weapon. Yatom was about to go back out and talk to Feldhandler again when Shapira came on the radio.

“Commander” said the lieutenant “there is a train approaching.”

Chapter 10

Abraham Jezek’s life had come down to this—guarding a square meter of space for himself and his family, in a baking, stinking freight car, already filling with the dead. They had been underway for nearly a day he reckoned, from a decrepit Polish ghetto. The ghetto was infinitely worse than Prague, from which his family had been forcibly removed a year before; the train, infinitely worse than the ghetto. Nothing could be worse than this, could it?

People had been pissing and shitting themselves for hours, the pair of buckets the Germans provided had overflowed long ago. There had been no food or water since they’d left the ghetto. Men and women had stripped to their underwear to escape the oppressive heat. Children went naked, barefoot in the filth. There wasn’t even room to sit. He stood miserably in the corner and allowed his wife, Ilse, and twelve year old son, Abner, to lean against him. Other hopeless people, strangers, leaned in turn on his small family. Under foot were those that could stand no further, trampled and covered in piss and shit, either dead or waiting to die.

Jezek was a Jew, like everybody else in the suffocating boxcar. He’d taught philosophy before the Nazi conquest. He wasn’t religious—in fact, if pressed, he’d admit to being an atheist. And the train was the final proof that he was right about God at least. Or maybe, he thought absently, Buddha was right, that desire was the source of all misery—in which case he was near nirvana. Jezek had abandoned all worldly desire, with the exception of water, and breath of clean air for himself and his small family. Too bad the train was filled with Jews instead of Buddhists.

Had Jezek been suffering on his own, with the knowledge that his family was safe and provided for, it might have been bearable. To see his young son and wife tormented while he remained powerless to help produced a sense of weakness and desolation he did not think possible. He couldn’t even bear to look at Abner, a shy and awkward boy, who hadn’t even reached his Bar Mitzvah. That he had been a soldier, a reserve officer in the Czech army before the country’s capitulation to the Nazis, made it worse. He would have preferred to die at his post in the Sudentenland in 1938 to enduring this hell—and yet neither he nor his countrymen had fired a shot. Jezek put his nose to a crack in the wooden cattle car and caught a few molecules of fresh air. He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend that he and his family were not dying.

On the same train, eight cars further down the line, Unterfeldwebel Hans Mueller passed the time in a second-class carriage playing cards with his deputy Obergefieiter Getz. They sipped on cold ersatz coffee and snacked on black bread and cheese. Mueller commanded the Ordnungs Polizei squad responsible for guarding the transport to Sobibor. Besides Getz and himself, Mueller had eight other policemen to guard over 2000 people and eighteen railcars. It was no easy task thought the sergeant. He’d be glad to dump his human cargo at the camp and get back to the battalion Kaserne outside Lubin.

This was a small transport—some trains pulled sixty cars and 6000 people—which is why Mueller had only his small squad to guard the cargo. Plus, they were proper German policemen—now incorporated into the SS—not semi-literate Lithuanian or Ukrainian guards. Mueller had made the run twice before. It was stressful but safe. There were a few partisan bands in the Polish countryside, but death camp transports were not a target. And the Jews did what you told them to do. A few German soldiers with rifles were enough to cow a multitude.

Mueller put down the cards and drained his coffee. On the return ride he’d break out the beer and schnapps. Mueller ran a tight ship on the outward bound journey, which is why he’d been given the duty more than once. Some train commanders allowed Jews to buy water or fruit—for outrageous prices—from Poles along the way, or even from the guards themselves. This led to theft, disorder in the boxcars, and trouble. Mueller locked up the Jews st the ghetto and left them.

He didn’t allow his men to steal or to extort money. They were soldiers, not peddlers. It was hard on the Jews, but it was hard on them no matter what. And they only suffered for a day or so—sometimes less if the train made good time. The German transport guards were not allowed into Sobibor, or any of the resettlement camps. They got off the train at the station and re-boarded after the transport was emptied within the camp. But Mueller knew what went on inside. As far as he was concerned it was more humane than what went on before.

He’d only been on one actual liquidation operation, and that had been hard. His police battalion had spent much of past year rounding up Jews from Polish towns and villages and shipping them to various ghettos, where they were warehoused to await their fate. But some ghettos became so overcrowded it wasn’t feasible to put in more people. When that happened the Jewish populations in some Polish villages were simply liquidated in place. Mueller’s battalion had taken care of the Polish town of Biala, not so far from Sobibor. Something like 1,500 Jews had lived there, but the Sobibor resettlement camp wasn’t ready yet, and it didn’t make sense to ship the Jews back to a ghetto, only to return them to the east later. So his unit was assigned to clean it up.

The battalion arrived in the town with lists of Jews mostly provided by the local area Jewish councils. These were supplemented by the town’s Poles who pointed out those Jews missing from the lists. Mueller’s company went down the roll carefully, calling the Jews from their homes and organizing them. Men were separated from the women and children, and the two separate groups were placed in holding areas. This took most of the morning.

After the roundup was completed his company received a briefing by the battalion doctor as to how they were to accomplish their next mission. The doctor traced an outline on the ground, shaped roughly like a person. The doctor then demonstrated how the policemen were to shoot the Jews. First the victims would be made to lie upon their stomachs, faces on the earth. The doctor told the policemen were to use their bayonets as a shooting guide, by placing the bayonet on the ground at the point where the victim’s neck and shoulder joined, so the muzzle of the rifle was pointed at the nape of the neck. This, the doctor assured them, would make for a quick and clean death.

Before this lecture the men had no idea that this would be their mission that day. They had assumed that the Jews would be shipped off as usual. But to the battalion’s credit no men shirked their duty, nobody stepped forward in protest or requested to be relieved of duty—at least at that point.

After the doctor’s briefing, Mueller’s company boarded trucks and rode out to a heavily wooded area a few miles from the town. After dropping off the policemen the trucks went back to the town for the Jews. Thirty minutes later the trucks returned, each with thirty to forty women and children. Mueller’s platoon was assigned a truck and each man in the platoon assigned a woman or child. Then Mueller and the other policemen walked into the woods with their victim to an area selected by the officers. Upon arrival the policemen ordered their companions to lay face down on the ground as the doctor had instructed.

On the first go-round Mueller was assigned a young woman, he guessed in her late teens, weeping begging for her life. Though he wasn’t happy about it, Mueller put his bayonet into the ground, lined up his rifle and shot her. After that, it got easier.

As a senior squad leader it was Mueller’s job not only to shoot his own Jews, but to ensure that each of his men did their duty. Most did.

But some found it too difficult, particularly those that were paired with the children. One of his men, Gefreiter Popel, found himself with boy of about six. The boy sobbed and cried for his mother. Popel made the boy lay down, put his bayonet in place, but couldn’t pull the trigger. After shooting a girl of about ten, his third victim, Mueller looked over at Popel still standing over the squirming boy, alive and uninjured, still weeping, but surrounded now by dead Jews, including in all likelihood, his mother and siblings. Mueller ordered Popel to do his duty, but the private begged to be excused. Disgusted, Mueller pushed Popel away and sent him back to the trucks, where several other men without the stomach for this work busied themselves with other tasks. Mueller placed his boot on the boy’s back to hold him down, aligned his bayonet, and fired.

Mueller shot twenty Jews that day by his own reckoning. By the end of the day his uniform was covered with blood and bits of bone and brain. Once or twice, as in Poppel’s case, he shot children as a favor, when this man or that had had enough. Mueller reckoned it was a good deed both to his own men and the children—he was more like an angel of mercy than a killer. After all, the child’s parents were dead, and there was no hope, only suffering, grief and fear. Mueller’s bullets ended that.

Mueller remained proud of himself and his men for their conduct that day. It had not been pleasant, not been easy, but they had done their duty. As for Popel, he wasn’t punished for his weakness that day, and still served in the unit; though Mueller made sure he got extra duty and the worst jobs. That was why the timid Gejreiter was riding shotgun outside between the railcars, instead of in the comfortable second-class transport car with most of the squad.

Anyway, thought Mueller, Sobibor was only about twenty kilometers distant, and whatever fate awaited the Jews there, it could not be worse than what had been meted out in Biali. He roused his men, and buckled on his pistol. Soon they’d be done with another successful transport. He’d have another feather in his cap, and perhaps a leg up on promotion to Oberfeldwebel. At least he would have a pleasant and drunken ride back to the barracks.

Chapter 11

Shapira noticed the train by a telltale smudge of smoke on the horizon. He raised his binoculars, looked again, and gasped. It was one thing to accept the possibility that they were nearly a century in the past. It was another to actually find proof of it. The big antique steam engine slowly making its way to his position was pretty convincing.

Yatom, despite himself, also felt a sense of wonder at Shapira’s report. A steam engine! Yatom had always liked trains, but had never actually seen a real steam engine outside of a museum. Yatom radioed Feldhandler, and told him the news, although the scientist had heard it too over the radio net. Yatom asked the scientist to let the train pass. Feldhandler said nothing.

In the ditch Feldhandler readied the RF detonator for the charges on the track, and checked and re-checked his Galil. He took weapon off safe and wiped sweat from his eyes. His helmet kept sliding down onto his face. He repositioned it irritably and waited for the train.

Mofaz came on the radio from his position to the east. “What are we going to do?” he asked Yatom anxiously.

“Stand by” said Yatom. Perchansky looked at Yatom but stayed silent.

The train came up slowly. In the heavy morning air the steam from the engine formed a vaporous cloud about the front of the train, slowly dissipating to the west. Using his binoculars, peering through the fog, Shapira got his first sense of the train’s size and configuration.

Behind the engine rolled a coal car and behind that a kind of old fashioned passenger carriage that looked like something from an old 1940s film. After the passenger carriage was a long line of wooden boxcars. Shapira counted eighteen. He reported all this to Yatom.

Feldhandler came onto the net, “Eighteen cars is a small train” Feldhandler told Yatom. “Probably 2000 people aboard, guarded by ten to fifteen men.”

“How do you know this?”

“History books.”

“Did you hear that, Ron?” asked Yatom. “Acknowledged” said Shapira.

“Lieutenant Shapira, please let me know when the end of the train has passed your position” said Feldhandler politely. Shapira said “Okay with that Colonel?”

“Yes” answered Yatom curtly.

Mofaz broke into the net to protest, but Yatom cut him off. “Stand by for orders Major.” In his position Mofaz gave Itzak a worried look, but the young lieutenant didn’t share Mofaz’s trepidation. He wanted some action. From what he could tell, so did Ilan and Roskovsky who crouched in the trees a few meters away.

Shapira and his men ducked into the brush as the train rolled slowly by team Gimmel. The old engine chugged on followed by the coal and second class passenger cars. Shapira noticed a soldier dressed in gray, carrying an old bolt action rifle, standing with between two of the box cars about half way down the train. It was a German soldier! Then Shapira saw the box cars up close. They were cattle cars, crammed with people. Small ventilation windows blocked with barbed wire were the only openings, and at each of these a few bloodied hands reached out in front of miserable pallid faces. From within the cars, over quiet rhythm of the passing train, the Shapira heard a cacophony of moans and cries. The stench came upon them more slowly, but was even more shocking, a squalid mixture of human sweat, feces, urine and fear. Shapira estimated that the train was at least several hundred meters long. The front of the train was already nearing the bomb by Feldhandler’s position, when the last boxcar passed by the bomb close to Shapira.

Feldhandler nervously watched the train approach. He knew that the train was relatively short, but it train looked immense. Like Shapira he noted only one guard in the open between the cars, but assumed that there was a second soldier on the other side of the train.

Feldhandler didn’t want to destroy or derail the train, just stop it. He planned to detonate the first bomb close enough to the engine that the engineer saw the danger, but sufficiently in ahead of the train to allow the engineer to stop.

Feldhandler’s radio crackled. “Shapira here. The train has passed.”

There was no point in waiting. Feldhandler detonated the first bomb. It exploded with a substantial flash and bang, enough to startle and terrify the two Polish engineers driving the locomotive. Chunks of rock, wood and dirt flew into the air, but as Feldhandler had calculated, the track itself remained intact. The engineers, unable to see the condition of the track through the smoke and debris of the explosion assumed the worst. They instantly applied the brakes to the locomotive.

The massive train shuddered and screamed as it ground to a halt less than twenty meters from where the bomb had exploded, quite near to Feldhandler’s hidden position.

Inside the hellishly overcrowded boxcars women screamed and children cried as the train shook and lurched to a halt. From his position between the cars Popel, and his mate on the other side of the train, Gefreiter Bieher were almost thrown to the ground. In the second class passenger car, Mueller stumbled and fell while the rest of his men grabbed at any available handhold.

As the locomotive screeched to a halt Feldhandler detonated the second larger bomb behind the train. Most of the Jews in the boxcars had not even noticed the first explosion but the second blast was much more powerful. Even at the front of the train, Mueller felt the vibration along the track as the plastique tore into the railbed. In his car near the end of the train Jezek heard the second blast clearly along with everybody else, which added to the terror and confusion in the jam-packed car.

It was critical to Feldhandler’s plan that the engineers driving the train believed that they were trapped unable to advance or retreat, even though the track ahead was manageable. To discourage them from investigating the actual damage Feldhandler aimed his Galil at the locomotive, took a deep breath and fired off several rounds. Bullets ricocheted loudly off the thick steel carriage. The gambit worked. The Polish engineers ducked down in the engine instead driving forward and testing the track. They would to stay hunkered down and await orders from the Germans, or from the partisans; whoever won the fight. It didn’t matter to the railroad men—they just wanted to go home alive.

Feldhandler slunk back down into his ditch, and didn’t move. He did not want to attack the train alone, and he still was unsure when or if Yatom would commit the sarayet. The only visible German was the single soldier riding outside the train. That man had been watching the back of the train, but had alertly turned in Feldhandler’s direction when he shot at the locomotive. The soldier was about 100 meters distant, and clearly searching for the source of tire.

Aboard the train Unterfeldwebel Mueller tried to get his wits about him. He was scared. Small bands of partisans were known to inhabit the countryside, but they had never attacked a Jewish transport. Polish partisans didn’t care about the Jews. Jewish partisans were too few, too poorly armed and too busy trying stay alive to bother with such a mission.

Mueller had a strong inclination to do nothing. He and his men could stay on the train. The partisans might lose interest and go away once they realized that the train had no value to them. Mueller’s policemen were not combat soldiers. Mueller prevaricated. Finally, his assistant squad leader, Corporal Getz, spoke up.

“Unterfeldwebel! What are your orders?”

Mueller still hesitated, fidgeting with his uniform. Finally, he said “We need to check the track for damage.”

“What about the bandits?” answered Getz, using the standard German military jargon for partisans.

“Popel and Bieber are outside already. Tell them to move up the track and check for damage. The bandits have probably fled.”

“The Jews? Some may try to escape” Getz persisted. All the Germans could hear growing panic commotion in the boxcars.

Getz was annoying Mueller. “Correct Corporal Getz” said Mueller.

“Take one man. Go check the condition of the engineers and the rails. Report back to me!”

Getz looked at Mueller incredulously. He had not intended to get himself this dangerous duty, but he could not refuse a direct order. And the order was sensible. Getz was the deputy train commander and carried the squad’s single automatic weapon, an MP-40 machine pistol.

“Jawohl Unterfeldwebel”, said Getz crisply, choking back his fear.

He grabbed the nearest policeman. “Come!”

Getz slowly opened the door on the right, southern, side of the train. He decided to exit there because of the large open field in that direction. On the left, the tree line was closer to the track, a good hiding place for bandits. Getz nervously stepped off the train followed by the policeman. Mueller slunk over the window, and pushed up the cheap blind to watch.

Getz’s immediate sensation upon hitting the ground was elation. Nobody had fired at him! The field ahead appeared quiet and empty. Indeed, but for the continued screaming, crying, banging and other commotion in the cars behind him, it was just a pleasant late spring day in the Polish countryside. He collected himself. Mueller was probably right. The bandits had set off their explosives, taken a few pot shots, and run away. He looked down the train at the coward Poppel, who gave him a quick wave, as if to say everything is okay. Getz turned and walked confidently towards the front of the train.

In his ditch Feldhandler watched as the two Gerrirans exited the passenger car. He noted that the first carried a machine—pistol and wore some insignia on his shoulder. Feldhandler aimed the Galil at the German with the machine pistol. He was trembling. He’d never shot anyone before. Sweat stung his eyes and his helmet felt uncomfortable and heavy. Feldhandler squinted down the iron sights of the rifle and squeezed off a single round.

The Galil went off with a pop that was almost smothered in the heavy air. The bullet missed Getz completely and ricocheted loudly off the coal car, well above the German’s head. The corporal ducked and swung round in Feldhandler’s direction. Feldhandler lowered the muzzle of the rifle and rapidly squeezed off five rounds at the German.

The first three hit dirt and gravel but the fourth struck Getz in the knee and the fifth in the stomach. The German slumped onto the ground clutching at his wounds. The policeman behind Getz raised his rifle but Feldhandler fired another quick succession of shots, also low. The German screamed and fell, blood pouring from a shattered foot and fibula.

Feldhandler’s heart was racing. Adrenaline poured into his system. He took a deep breath and looked at the two writhing Germans. He felt cold. He put his head down for a moment to relax and regain his composure.

A hundred meters down the track Popel saw his squad-mates fall.

He also saw the muzzle flashes of a rapid fire rifle coming from a weed covered ditch, although he couldn’t see the shooter. Popel, like most of the policemen, was armed with a KAR 98 Mauser rifle. It was slow firing, but a reliable, highly accurate weapon, and Popel was a good shot. He swung the rifle in Feldhandler’s direction.

From the tree line, Yatom watched Feldhandler gun down the two Germans who exited the railcar, but also saw that he had seemingly forgotten about a third German down the track, who now was aiming his rifle at the scientist. Yatom radioed urgently to Ilan, who was masked near a tree two dozen meters away.

Yatom keyed his Madonna. “Ilan, do you see that German?!” The sniper already had his SR-25 on the target—at least he guessed it was the target—the man man looked like a German from an old movie.

“Affirmative.”

“Take him.”

Mofaz broke into the net and said “No!” but it was too late…

At the same moment, concealed at the far end of the train, Shapira and Bolander also watched as Popel swung his rifle towards Feldhandler. Popel’s back was to Bolander, well over three hundred meters distant. It was a longish shot, but well within Bolander’s capabilities.

Shapira didn’t have orders from Yatom, but Israeli officers were supposed to make decisions on their own based on conditions at the scene. “Go” said Shapira to the marksman.

Popel stared down the sights of his rifle in Feldhandler’s direction. Through the weeds he detected a flash of human flesh below an elaborate helmet covering. He was surprised at the strange figure, but pleased he had a target. Now, he thought, he would make up for his qualms and failures at Biala.

Feldhandler saw the policeman’s rifle pointed right at his face. He’d forgotten about the third German in his nervousness and excitement. Now, shockingly, Feldhandler realized he would die before he’d accomplished anything, all for a momentary lapse of concentration! The scientist desperately tried to swing his rifle at the German.

Popel squeezed the trigger precisely at the moment Ilan’s 7.62mm bullet tore off his lower jaw. Poppel’s head snapped sharply to the side and his rifle jerked up at the last moment sending his bullet inches over Feldhandler’s head. A split second later Bolander’s 5.56mm round plowed into Popel’s right kidney and blew out of his body near his navel, trailing a bloody spool of intestine. Shock and pain filled the young German’s consciousness. He felt for his missing jaw and came away horrified. He couldn’t even scream. He watched his guts spill onto the graveled rail bed and fell on top of thern. He knew he was dying but didn’t think of his mother, his girlfriend or his country—only pain and horror. Instinctively, he scrambled for his fallen Mauser.

Feldhandler heard the German bullet snap over his head, the sound mixed with the reports of Israeli rifles. He looked up and saw the German slumped on the ground but grasping for his gun.

Feldhandler set the Galil on automatic and fired a long burst at the prostrate man. The Galil’s bullets slammed into Popel like angels of mercy, putting him out of his misery.

Yatom called over his radio to Feldhandler. “Doctor, are you alright?”

“Yes” stammered Feldhandler. “Thank you.”

“Stay in the ditch and don’t nrove.”

“Acknowledged” said Feldhandler resignedly and with relief. He would gladly let the sarayet carry the fight if that’s what Yatom intended.

Mofaz came on the net. “Commander, what are you doing?” It was as much a demand as a question.

Yatom wasn’t sure. He hadn’t made up his mind until he gave the order to Ilan, and that had been an almost instinctive response. But Yatom hated indecision and his own inability to choose a course had bothered him more that making the decision to join the fight. He couldn’t fully explain himself to Mofaz at the moment, but felt in his gut that he was doing the right thing. “We are in this fight Major” said Yatom. Then Yatom broadcast a message to the rest of the sayeret.

“We are engaged. Enemy is in gray. If he is armed you may fire. Yatom out.”

Mofaz tossed his helmet in disgust. Itzak, Ilan and Roskovsky looked at him curiously—embarrassed for their team leader. Itzak, who had more or less figured out what had happened to thenr, was pleased with Yatom’s decision. Ilan had already taken a shot and killed somebody, and Roskovsky was a disciplined engineer who didn’t like disorder. Mofaz seemed to recognize all this and recovered himself. He scratched his balding head and replaced his helmet, then caught the eye of each man in turn. He nodded his head, as if to acknowledge his mistake. “Okay boys” said Mofaz “we have our orders. Kill the gray guys.”

Inside the stifling and increasingly panicked boxcar Jezek actually felt a growing sense of hope. The explosions and irregular shooting outside could only mean some kind of partisan attack on the train. He looked toward the center of the car where two young men were talking excitedly in Austrian accented German. Like almost all Czech Jews, Jezek was fluent in both Czech and German. He told his wife to stay in the corner and pushed his way over to the youths.

“We have to find a way out!” he said to them in German. “How?”

Jezek looked at the piss stained floor of the boxcar. “These panels—we might be able to pry them off. Does anybody have any tools?”

Almost all the Jews aboard the train carried luggage, in the mistaken belief, encouraged by the Germans that they were off to be resettled in an eastern province of the new Nazi empire. Some were tradesmen who carried their tools.

“My father is a shoemaker!” said one of the boys, perhaps fifteen. He pushed his way to a squat older man, and as Jezek watched, spoke with him urgently. The man resisted, grasping a worn black satchel. Jezek forced his way over.

“Give us your tools!” he demanded of the older man. “We have to get out. Do you want to carry your tools to the grave?”

“Nein!” said the man, still clutching his tool bag. Jezek, who towered over the shoemaker, ripped the satchel from his hands.

“You’ll have your tools back” he said.

Searching through the bag they found hammers, a saw, awls, and screw drivers. Parceling out the tools, Jezek and the youths began to pry away at the old boxcar floorboards. In other cars along the track, desperate men and women were doing the same thing.

Still hidden in the brush near Jezek’s car Shapira’s team awaited additional orders. The distress of the people inside the cars was hard for them to take. They wanted to act. Then Shapira noticed a man in civilian clothes scramble out from Lmder a boxcar halfway down the track. He was followed by another, and yet one more. The trapped Jews were cutting their way out of the cars!

Shapira got on the radio. “Colonel, Shapira here. We don’t see any Germans. Do you have orders?”

“What’s happening?”

“The people are cutting their way out of the cars.”

Yatom paused for a moment. This was the last chance to back out, but it wasn’t his nature. “Acknowledged” said Yatom. “Take your team and clear the far side of the train up to the front passenger car.”

Shapira explained the mission quickly to his three men who had heard the exchange on their own Madonnas anyway. “Follow me!” grunted Shapira, clambering onto the rail embankment.

The team crossed the tracks at a run and pulled up behind the last car on the train. Shapira looked back at his men. Bolander was next to him, followed by his radioman/grenadier Chaim, and the Negev gunner Ro’i.

“On my signal” said Shapira, indicating that they would move around the car, and conduct an assault until they reached the distant locomotive.

At the front of the train, in the passenger car, Sergeant Mueller came away from the window drawn and pale, having watched corporal Getz shot down by a hidden bandit. The remaining five policemen in the car looked at him nervously.

Mueller turned to a policeman on the other side of the car. “Open the door. Look for Gefreiter Beiber. See if he is still there.” Beiber had been stationed on the other side of the train next to Popel.

Hesitantly the policeman did as Mueller ordered. Beiber was lying on his stomach next to the train, alive and uninjured. “Popel is dead!” yelled Beiber excitedly.

“Have you seen any bandits?” asked the policemen at the door.

“No. They are on the other side of the train! The Jews are escaping!”

Hearing the exchange, Mueller looked around, his face flushed.

There was an armed enemy outside, but he and his men were mere policemen. The worst thing they’d experienced was the massacre at Biali. Mueller told himself that he was a rational professional man, and in assessing the situation, decided that a tactical retreat was the best course. He guessed that none of his men would have a problem with that. “Achtung Jungs” he said, trying to convey confidence. “We will make a fighting retreat to the woods on the north side of the train and rally there!”

As he expected, the policemen nodded their heads approvingly.

He had just given them the okay to run away. “Krause!” he said to a policeman standing next to him. “Grab the grenade case” a box with a handle like a small suitcase containing ten stick grenades. “The rest of you grab extra rations. Hurry!”

The policeman frantically grabbed whatever they could and then huddled by the north-side exit door. ”Auf gehts!” yelled Mueller, and the policemen tumbled out the door at a run.

Shapira’s team maneuvered around the end car one after the other, their weapons raised to their shoulders. Far down the track they spotted Mueller’s men piling out of the train and making a run for the woods. Nearer to them Beiber was running away from them toward the rest of the fleeing Germans.

“Fire” said Shapira. The four commandos dropped to their knees and launched a fusillade of bullets at the Germans. Beiber was hit immediately in the back by a long blast from Roi’s Negev. A stray bullet from the machinegun hit also one of the nearby boxcars, penetrated the wood and killed an old woman sitting on the floor—nobody inside or outside noticed. The range was long for Shapira and Chaim, but their fire hit one of the fleeing Germans and drove the other two men to the ground. Bolander sighted them as they crawled along the exposed embankment toward a nearby copse of trees.

Uninterested in one shot, one kill precision, the marksman fired several rounds toward each man until he was certain he’d registered solid hits. When Shapira looked down the track with his binoculars all the Germans were still as stones.

Mueller had decided to go out the door last—he was the commander afier all and the train was his ship. He was just about to follow his men when he saw them come under fire. They were shot dead, one after the other, by a distant and deadly marksmen. Mueller’s bowels emptied into his pants. He slammed the door shut and fell to the floor of the railcar sitting in his own filth.

Shapira reported to Yatom. Feldhandler, monitoring the com net, counted up the German dead, then broke in and explained that the Israelis had likely wiped out the guard unit. Yatom ignored Feldhandler, told Shapira to continue the assault, and ordered team Alef to move with him on the train.

Feldhandler, feeling immensely relieved, rose up from his ditch for the first time in hours. Ahead of him the two Germans he shot at the start of the engagement still lay where they had fallen. The man with the machine pistol appeared to be dead. The second policemen had pulled himself up to a sitting position against the train. He was pale and barely conscious, blood soaked the ground around him.

Feldhandler approached the man like he was a wounded but dangerous animal, stopping when he was five meters away—then shot him the German in the head. He continued on to the locomotive and climbed up to the cabin, rifle at the ready. The two Polish engineers were on the floor. Seeing him they cried ”Polski, Polskil” assuming Feldhandler was a Russian soldier. Feldhandler motioned for them to remain on the floor, jumped back onto the railbed. Yatom saw Feldhandler shoot the wounded German as he led his team across the open field, while Mofaz and team Bet remained in the treeline with Perchansky.

“Feldhandler, stop!” yelled Yatom as he approached the train.

Feldhandler stood still and squinted at the sayeret leader, thinking Yatom was going to upbraid him for shooting the German.

“Stop” repeated Yatom. “Don’t move around the train. Shapira’s on the other side. I don’t want any friendly fire incidents.”

Feldhandler paused. The other Israelis looked over at the prostrate Germans. Yatom told Ido to assess the Germans, but not treat them.

“They’re dead commander” said the medic.

Yatom raised Shapira on the radio and told him that he was coming around the front of the train. Shapira reported that they were just a few meters away, outside the passenger car.

“Are there any Germans inside the car?” asked Yatom.

“Don’t know” answered Shapira.

Yatom walked toward the the front of the train followed by Feldhandler and the rest of Alef. On the way, Feldhandler explained to Yatom about the engineers in the locomotive. Coming around the engine Yatom’s saw Shapira’s team, which the lieutenant had deployed outside the second-class rail car, as if in a hostage situation.

Yatom cautiously moved up to the door of the railcar, pressed along its side, followed by Nir and Rafi. Around them lay the sprawled bodies of dead German policemen.

Yatom waived Feldhandler over. “Your German is better than mine” said Yatom. “Tell anybody still in there to come out immediately.”

Inside the car Mueller tried to calm himself. Whoever was outside the train spoke good German. Mueller’s pistol was still strapped to his side. He considered suicide. His fate at the hands of bandits, or Russian soldiers or whoever this might be, would surely be cruel. Or, he could fight it out honorably, once they came in for him. The man outside the car yelled again for him to come out. Mueller smelled his own shit and tried to think clearly.

Yatom climbed up the first two steps to the car, followed by Nir. Nir slipped off his heavy radio and handed it to Rafi to lighten his load. Feldhandler called out a third time. When there was no response Yatom went in.

Mueller was on the floor just past the door. As Yatom stepped through he almost tripped on the German. Nir, following, turned the other way to cover the rest of the car. Mueller pointed his pistol at Yatom. Too close to fire his Tavor, Yatom kicked the pistol aside with his right leg, and then slammed the butt of the Tavor into the German’s head. Mueller dropped the pistol and Yatom delivered another head blow, this time a kick with his left leg, as if he were driving a soccer ball. Nir shuffled past Yatom into the car, followed by Shapira. Yatom delivered a third blow with his foot to the German.

Mueller collapsed unconscious. Yatom shoved Mueller with his foot to make sure German was out, and then picked up the pistol. “Clear right!” yelled Nir. “Clear left!” echoed Shapira.

Yatom looked over at Shapira with disbelief; then down at the prostrate figure of Mueller, resplendent in his Nazi Polizei uniform.

“I’m having a hard time believing this.”

“It’s not easy” agreed Shapira. Mueller lay flat on his back, blood and spittle dripping from his mouth. They both gave a typical Israeli shrug. Yatom still held Mueller’s pistol in his right hand.

“Can I see that?” asked Shapira. Yatom passed him the the pistol.

Shapira examined the Walther P-38. He pulled out the magazine and cleared the chamber, then removed a round from the magazine and examined it, noting the Nazi factory markings by the primer. Shapira.

“Do you mind?” he asked Yatom, as he slipped the weapon into the cargo pocket of his pants. “Be my guest.”

In the boxcar near the end of the train Jezek wedged his fingers into a small opening between two planks on the floor and tore at the wood. His hands were full of splinters and slick with blood. He’d sweated much precious fluid in the awful heat of the car, and felt faint.

In over a day he’d had nothing to eat or drink, and yet he labored on, driven by adrenaline and desperation. Outside the car he heard the hammer of machineguns. Was he struggling to escape into his own firing squad?

Tovi, the shoemaker’s son working near Jezek was eighteen years old but looked two or three years younger. The boy, familiar with his father’s tools and had wrinkled out a plank from the bottom of the boxcar was hard at work on another. Jezek and a different youth were tugging at an adjacent plank, which was slowly yielding. Jezek grunted and felt the wood crack. Jezek and the other boy pried away the second plank. An opening perhaps fifteen centimeters wide appeared in the floor leading to the rail-bed. Jezek caught a whiff of fresh air scented with pine and rusted iron.

Tovi stuck a foot through the opening, then another and began to squeeze his body through the broken floor, while Jezek and the other youth tried to pry up a third panel. Tovi’s father saw his son disappearing and called on him to stop. Tovi ignored the old man and contorted his thin frame through the fissure.

“Ich bin raus! “he yelled back up to the car as he hit the railbed.

Jezek called for a man standing nearby to help him, and together with the second youth they ripped out the third panel from the floor. The gap was just big enough Jezek to fit through. He looked across to car to for wife and daughter. Through the mass of wretched people he caught the eye of Ilse.

“I’ll come back!” he called. Ilse seemed to reach for him, but he thrust his legs into the hole and dropped through to the ground. Jezek knew he was placing himself in great danger, yet felt a surge of wonderful relief to be out of the stinking railcar. He breathed in the air, and adjusted his eyes—though he was in the shade of the great train it was still much brighter beneath the car than within it.

Tovi was still there, lying on his belly upon the track bed. Jezek crawled over to him. “What do you see, boy?”

“I saw boots—soldiers boots—running toward the front of the train.”

“German?”

“I don’t think so.”

Jezek crawled forward as he had learned in the army. He reached the edge of the car and peered out. It was hard to see far flat on his belly. As he looked down the train he saw that several other Jews, having clawed their way out were doing the same thing. The shooting had stopped but it was impossible to hear anything else above the din of thousands of trapped people still inside the cars. Suddenly, one of the Jews hiding under the train, a few cars up from him, slithered out and made a dash for it across an open field for the trees. Jezek grimaced, expecting to hear rifle shots, but they did not come. Another Jew, obviously noting the same thing, took off.

“Wait here” Jezek told Tovi, who in the meantime had been joined by the second youth, and the man who had helped them in the car. Jezek rolled out from under the car, and rose up to a crouch, hugging the railcar. Far down the track he made out the forms of what appeared to be soldiers, although he couldn’t be sure. They didn’t look German. He shuffled forward. Tovi came out after him—the boy had no reason to take orders, Jezek realized. They continued together down the track.

Along the way, several other Jews came out from under the train and followed them. Several cars down they passed the bullet riddled body of policeman Bieber. His rifle still lay by his side, but Jezek left it there. Another man picked it up.

Nearer the front of the train Jezek paused and examined the men standing near the front of the train. One looked back at him, and turned away. The men were indeed soldiers of some kind, but not like any he’d ever seen. Their uniforms were brownish green, and bulky.

They didn’t carry ordinary weapons. On their heads, instead of helmets, they wore a floppy camouflaged cloth. But most importantly they completely ignored him and the other Jews creeping along the train.

Jezek stood up. For the first time he noticed that five dead German soldiers lay at the soldiers’ feet. One of the soldiers looked back at him curiously. The soldier motioned for him to come over.

Jezek glanced behind him and saw that he’d been followed by more than a dozen men and boys and at least one woman. Instinctively he straightened his filthy jacket and walked over to the soldier.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” asked Sergeant Bolander. Bolander” most of the other commandos knew a fair bit of German from occasional training with German special forces units.

“Ja. Wer sind Sie?”

Bolander paused, uncertain as to what he should say. He called over Shapira, who’s German was nearly fluent. The lieutenant climbed down from the passenger car and jogged over. “He asked who we are” said Bolander.

Shapira looked at the man, who though filthy and obviously exhausted stood straight, attempting to project a degree of pride. “We are friends” said Shapira in German. “Wait here” he said, pointing to the growing gathering behind Jezek.

“We need water. Our families are trapped in the railcars” said Jezek quickly and excitedly.

Shapira didn’t understand the whole sentence—he needed to adjust—but got the gist. He looked up to Yatom who stood at the doorway to railcar while Nir led the bloody, groggy, and bound Sergeant Mueller down the steps.

“Colonel,” said Shapira in Hebrew, “we need to do something for these people. We have to let them out of the railcars—they need water.” But Yatom didn’t seem to hear him and stalked off toward Feldhandler who stood by the locomotive.

Jezek, however had heard Shapira, and to his utter shock recognized the language. “Sie sprechen Hebraeisch!” he said, first to Shapira, then repeating himself to the folks behind him in case they missed it.

“Wait here please” Shapira told Jezek, switching back to German.

He started to walk away toward Yatom, then paused and handed one of his canteens to the man. Jezek took it gratefully and drank several deep swallows, and resisting his own thirst, passed it back to Tovi. The boy was immediately set upon by the others who began fighting for the water. Bolander and the other soldiers stepped in offering their canteens too, trying to calm the growing crowd. Shapira turned his back on the commotion, seeking out Yatom, who was speaking urgently to Feldhandler.

“Did you consider how to handle this situation…” Yatom was saying angrily.

“I did, Colonel, but at the time you didn’t want to listen” said Feldhandler.

“We need to get these people off the train” said Shapira. Yatom turned to Shapira. “Agreed” said Yatom. “Ron, open the doors and get those people out. Tell that tall man over there” he said, pointing at Jezek “about the stream. They seem to need water more than anything. Have him and other Jews from the train organize themselves. They are going to have to fend for themselves anyway.”

Shapira ran back towards Jezek, who was now arguing with the gaggle of people behind him about the water. Shapira pulled Jezek by the shoulder.

“Wie heissen Sie?” Shapira asked Jezek.

“My name is Abraham Jezek, from Prague.”

“I am Lieutenant Shapira. Listen to me carefully” he continued, his German improving with each word. “Open the train doors and let your people out. There is a stream half a kilometer from here in that direction.” Shapira pointed to the other side of the train. Take your people there. Once you have done that, you return to me. Bring some other people that you think can help lead your group.” Jezek nodded. ”Danke!” he said, then paused. “Can I ask why you are speaking Hebrew?”

“I will explain later” said Shapira. “Now help your people!” Jezek politely returned Shapira’s canteen, and ran back to Tovi and the others. He told them about the stream and begged them to attempt to organize the people as they came off the train. Those that had found their way out first, said Jezek, must lead for now. As for the future who could say? Then fueled with excitement a few ounces of water, Jezek sprinted back to his wife and daughter.

Shapira returned to Yatom. The sayeret commander radioed Mofaz and told him to take his team back to the capsule and bring forward the extra supplies, then secure capsule, cover it with camouflage netting and rejoin the rest of the sayeret at the train.

Mofaz paused. He didn’t like the idea of abandoning the capsule, or hauling the extra supplies, but he bit his tongue. Mofaz asked about Perchansky. Yatom told him let her do as she pleased. In the meantime Feldhandler had fetched the two Polish engineers from the locomotive, bound them, and dumped them off near Sergeant Mueller, who lay groggily on the ground nearby.

While the commandos waited for orders they stood about watching the strange scene unfolding before them. The freed Jews flung open the doors to the boxcars, and a miserable but relieved flood of humanity poured out. Jezek and a few of the others attempted to bring some order to the chaos. Scores of people milled about, and some just ran off, but most heeded Jezek’s shouted instructions and roughly organized themselves about the train.

Nir and Bolander strolled back to the cars to get a better look.

After the able-bodied left the trains, young men and women assisted the elderly and the children. The people looked at the soldiers curiously as they approached and kept their distance. Finally, Bolander peaked into one of the emptied boxcars and recoiled in horror. Not only was the stench overpowering, but inside the car were nearly a dozen bodies, mainly elderly people who died along the way, but including at least one, apparently orphaned child. In other cars the scene was the same. Of nearly 2000 people who had been loaded onto the train the day before, close to 300 had died en route to Sobibor—a number neither particularly large nor small for a Jewish transport.

Jezek, rising to the moment, strode back and forth along the railcars, insisting that volunteers remove the dead, and that all the luggage and packages also be recovered. Many contained stashes of food, tools, or money. The Czech was now assisted by large bluff blond man, who spoke German with a pronounced Dutch accent.

Bolander and Nir returned to the area near the passenger car anxious to tell the officers about the condition of the refugees. Shapira was on the radio to Mofaz, urging him to move quickly. The two soldiers told the lieutenant about the mounds of dead within the boxcars and Shapira nodded knowingly. Yatom walked over and Nir repeated the story. Yatom pulled Shapira by the sleeve and the two officers walked over to where Feldhandler stood over Mueller and the engineers. Just as they reached him Perchansky emerged from around the front of the train, carrying her Uzi at the ready.

“What now?” said Yatom without preamble. “We can’t care for all these people and we can’t stay here.”

“I’m sure Benny has considered this problem already” said Perchansky sarcastically.

Feldhandler looked at Perchansky with a mixture of hurt and desire then turned away. “I have considered the situation, and I’ve already explained to Colonel Yatom that we have to destroy the death camp, called Sobibor, without delay.”

“Why?” demanded Perchansky. “Because we should” said Feldhandler. “What do you think Ron?” asked Yatom. “I think we should do it” answered Shapira. “We are here. The situation is what it is. You heard what Nir said about the condition of the train—at Sobibor the horrors are worse. We should do it regardless of what Dr. Feldhandler wants. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Mofaz does not agree” said Yatom. “What about the men?”

“The men will do as you say, commander. But if you have doubts, put it to them. Those that don’t want to help can sit by the capsule if they like—I think they will all come in the end—even Mofaz.”

“Where is Mofaz?“

“Still hauling the extra supplies” said Shapira. “It’s a hig joh.”

“Beseder. Let’s talk about Sobibor then. How do we take the place? We have no maps, intelligence, or transport.”

“Not so” said Feldhandler. He handed each officer a Xeroxed plan of Sobibor camp, annotated with an estimate of German strength and dispositions.

Yatom looked at the scientist. “History book, again?”

“The history of Sobibor is relatively well-known” said Feldhandler. “I can show you some of the books if you want—I’ve got them in my pack.”

“Not now” said Yatom. “Ron, what do you know about this?”

Shapira looked at the paper. “This seems right. There was a successful revolt at the camp in 1943, so there were dozens survivors who lived to give accounts. These camps did not have large garrisons, a few dozen SS men and Ukrainian guards of poor quality. Almost everybody who arrived at one of these camps was immediately gassed, so they were relatively small.”

“How would you take it?”

“Well, I’d interrogate that guy” said Shapira, pointing at Mueller “and the two engineers. Then, unless they tell us something that suggests it wouldn’t work, I’d drive this train right into the camp and start shooting. With the element of surprise we could overrun the place in thirty minutes.”

“Alright” said Yatom. “Let’s get team Bet over here, develop a plan and put it to the men. And also figure out how to best help these people.”

It was already mid-morning by the time Mofaz and his men arrived at the train, drenched with sweat from their exertions. They’d secured the capsule site and hauled the supplies as far as Yatom’s old command post in the treeline. Mofaz was tired and in a foul mood, but Yatom refused to indulge his pique. “What did you bring?” asked Yatom. “Everything commander” said Mofaz, wiping his brow for a second or third time.

“What is that? How much extra stuff did Feldhandler stow.”

“All heavy shit” exclaimed Ilan, taking over for Mofaz. “Extra rounds for the Tavors—at least a thousand. A few hundred extra for my piece, and two dozen more 40mm grenades” puffed the sniper, putting on a bit of a show. “Plus extra batteries for the MARS devices, thermal sights, NVGs and radios—and two rechargers.”

“Good.”

“He’s also got five additional Uzis along with bandoliers and ammo” added Mofaz. “For what reason I don’t know.”

“Did you.”

“Yeah, we brought them too.”

“And two extra cases of loof” ltzak interrupted. “Major Mofaz insisted that we not leave any loof behind.”

Mofaz shrugged, and cracked a small smile. “I like loof—is that a crime?”

Yatom pulled Mofaz aside and recounted his discussion with Shapira, Feldhandler and Perchansky. As expected, Mofaz objected.

“Look” said Yatom. “I’m not going to force you to do this—and I’ll put it to the men. But once they have all seen what happened on this train I don’t think anyone is going to say no.”

“I just don’t understand what’s going on” said Mofaz. “And neither do you.” The Major paused and wiped his face yet again, then shrugged. “If the men are willing I’ll go to.”

“Good” said Yatom. “We need to make some arrangements for these people and come up with a practical plan.”

At that moment Shapira walked up accompanied by two Jews from the train. One was Jezek, the other the Dutchman who had helped evacuate the trains. Shapira introduced them to Yatom and Mofaz.

“This is Abraham Jezek and William De Jong” said Shapira. “They speak German, and at least for now represent the refugees.” The two men listened carefully to Shapira’s unusual conversational Hebrew, trying to pick out familiar words.

“Ich bin Oberst Yatom, hier ist Major Mofaz said Yatom in halting German. “Where are you from?”

“Prague” said Jezek.

“Holland” said the big Dutchman simply.

“They both have military experience” said Shapira. “De Jong has expressed an interest in joining us.”

“Joining us?” said Yatom. “As what?”

“A fighter. A number of the refugees want to join us. That’s why Feldhandler brought the extra Uzis—didn’t you know?”

“No” said Yatom “I didn’t know. They’ll have plenty of fighting to do on their own. We are not going to stay and protect them—do they know that?”

“They know” said Shapira. “I’ve spoken with Feldhandler. He’s thought this out. We can give groups of these guys some rudimentary training—like in the next few hours—some on the Uzis, some on the German weapons. Or we just give the German weapons to veterans in the group. We take a small group with us—say a dozen and leave some with the refugees.”

“What are they going to do—you can’t train a man in two hours” said Mofaz. “This is just another of Feldhandler’s hair-brained schemes.”

“No” said Shapira. “You don’t understand. These guys went through hell on that train—so did their families. They know that they were going to die. Now they want revenge—to fight. They’ll take bullets instead of us. And if they survive, they’ll form a core of resistance to the Nazis.”

Mofaz removed his helmet, under which he wore a small kippa clipped to the remaining tufts of hair on the top of his head. He wiped his brow again, readjusted the yarmulke, smirked unpleasantly, but stayed silent.

“Lieutenant Shapira if you want to organize this, and lead these men, do it. Take this guy,” said Yatom, pointing at De Jong, “with the other volunteers, but be quick about it. Use Bolander and Ilan—they speak decent German.”

Yatom motioned at Jezek, still standing quietly in front of him.

“What are we doing about getting these people water and shelter?”

“Colonel, if I may” said Jezek, having discerned the gist of the Israelis Hebrew conversation “we are ready to start moving groups of people to the stream you described. We are grateful for our rescue. But there are nearly two thousand people here. Can you offer us any more assistance?”

Yatom called over to Feldhandler, who was arguing with Perchansky.

“What can we do for these people, Doctor? Did you think that part out?”

“We saved their lives, Colonel. There’s a limit to what we can do. Did Shapira tell you about arming the refugees?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suggest that alter they refresh at the stream, they find a nice isolated Polish village and move in.”

Mofaz rolled his eyes. “Tell him that” said Mofaz, pointing to Jezek. Feldhandler did, sympathetically but firmly. Jezek looked at Feldhandler as if he’d been told to land on the moon.

“Herr Jezek” repeated Feldhandler “I’m sorry to say you are going to have to fend for yourselves. We’ll give you a few weapons. But you must make your own way.”

“Danke Herr Oberst” said De Jong. He offered Yatom a sharp salute, which the Israeli returned awkwardly. De Jong and Jezek nodded at Feldhandler then walked back toward the other Jews waiting to go into the forest.

Chapter 12

Midday was bright and clear as the sun reached its zenith. In the field between the train and the tree-line Bolander and Ilan were instructing thirty men in the use of Uzis, Mauser rifles and German stick grenades. Other teams of men, organized by Jezek and De Jong, cleaned out the reeking boxcars of extra baggage and the dead.

Further on large groups of Jews walked off toward the stream, and beyond that a large hill, which lay kilometer or two southwest of the suyeret’s ambush site. The Jews carried their luggage and small children, guarded by two men from the sayeret.

Shapira walked over from the weapons training site to join Yatom and Mofaz who stood with Perchansky and Feldhandler in a small patch of shade by the locomotive.

“How is the ‘training’ going?” asked Mofaz sarcastically.

“Surprisingly well, Major” answered Shapira, brushing aside Mofaz’s doubt. “Those men are smart and ridiculously motivated. Some are Polish or Czech army veterans. I found a man to lead our little detachment.”

“Who” asked Yatom “that De Jong fellow?” Shapira nodded.

“Tov” said Yatom. “Let’s decide what to do now and how to do it.

We don’t have much time. I’m surprised another train hasn’t come along.”

“That’s unlikely, at least until tonight or tomorrow” said Feldhandler.

“Why?” challenged Mofaz.

“Because this track is used mainly as a spur line to Sobibor, and the track itself is in poor repair. Historically, the line was shut down in mid-1942 for repairs—a few months from now. So we probably have a little time, though I agree we should hurry.”

Yatom turned and walked off toward Mueller and the Polish train engineers. Perchansky and Mofaz exchanged comical glances, as if they were participating in a farce, but followed along after the sayeret commander. Mueller had regained consciousness and lay bound in the high grass next to the bodies of his dead comrades. The two Polish engineers sat nearby, also bound, but uninjured. Yatom walked over to Mueller and dragged him like a sack of potatoes until he was propped up against one of the hot roadwheels on the passenger car.

Mueller winced and groaned. He watched his captors, fear and bafflement in his eyes. They spoke a language he didn’t recognize and wore outlandish if functional looking uniforms. His head ached from his beating at the hands of the grim soldier that stood in front of him.

Mueller realized that it had been stupid trying to shoot the man at the last moment, but felt that he had also been quite brave to try.

Another soldier walked up, a bit older, and fatter than the others, carrying a large automatic weapon. Behind them was a woman, an attractive, dark complexioned girl wearing pants, and carrying some kind of machine-pistol herself. Two other soldiers stood nearby.

Mueller had just about collected himself when the older soldier kicked him in the testicles, sending the German back into a world of confusion and pain. “Why did you do that!” protested Perchansky.

Feldhandler ignored her and turned toward Yatom, looking for a sign of either disapproval or assent. The colonel’s face was a mask.

“Go ahead” said Yatom phlegmatically. “You speak the best German.”

Feldhandler raised his leg as if he were going to kick again. Mueller flinched. Feldhandler began speaking in precise fluent German.

“I am going to ask you a few questions about this train and your mission on it. I already know all the correct answers so do not try to deceive me. if you tell me the truth you will live. If not, my friend here” continued Feldhandler, pointing to Yatom, “will cut you limb from limb. Verstehst du?” Mueller nodded, obviously terrified. “Tell me your name, rank and unit.” Mueller answered truthfully. He knew they’d taken his identification papers.

“What was the destination of this train?” Mueller paused to think.

He wanted desperately to live and also to avoid torture. But something in his pride and training compelled him to test whether these strange soldiers really knew what they claimed. How could they? Sobibor was a state secret. Perhaps he could cooperate and still maintain a shred of his oaths.

“The train is for resettlement of its passengers in the East. That’s all I know mein Herr.” Mueller sensed his questioner craved respect.

“I’ll ask you once again” said Feldhandler, now pointing the muzzle of the Galil against Mueller’s knee. The barrel was warm from its recent firing and the growing summer heat. “What destination?”

Mueller hesitated. Feldhandler’s finger moved on the trigger. Perchansky grimaced and looked away. The German noted both, and lost his nerve.

“Sobibor!” he blurted, at the same time turning his head so as not to see his kneecap explode.

Feldhandler moved his finger from the trigger, but left the muzzle in place.

“And what is Sobibor?”

“I don’t know!” Mueller shouted, partially in truth. Officially he did not know what occurred there. He’d never been inside the place, nor had he been told by his superiors. On the other hand, he did know.

But his tormentor seemed to buy this bit of dissembling.

“Why don’t you know?” asked Feldhandler. “Because train guards are not allowed inside the camp” answered Mueller eagerly, believing his ploy had worked. “What happens when you arrive?”

“The place is most secret” continued Mueller. “The station lays a few hundred meters beyond the camp, which is well screened by foliage.” Mueller paused, sensing he was gaining the confidence of his captors, while not revealing matters of importance.

“Go on” said Feldhandler. As Mueller spoke, both Shapira and Perchansky moved in closer to hear. Even Mofaz, whose German was spotty, seemed interested.

“At the station we leave the train, along with the Polish crew. A special German crew takes over to bring the train into the camp. After the train is unloaded the train returns to the station. We reboard with the Polish crew and return to our own Kaserne. ”

“Does this special crew include additional guards?” asked Feldhandler.

“No” said Mueller truthfully.

“How does the camp know when the train is coming” asked Shapira.

“They have a schedule” said Mueller to his new inquisitor, as if the man were an idiot.

“What if the train is late, say because of problems with the track” pressed Shapira.

Mueller understood what the man was driving at now. He considered dissembling but didn’t see how any of this was harmful.

“There is no way to let them know if we are running late—you see there is no radio. I suppose they just wait. When the train is a few hundred meters outside the camp, the engineers blow the whistle.”

Feldhandler continued questioning the Gennan about details crew transfer, and of what Mueller had observed about the exterior of the camp. All this Mueller answered truthfully, certain his own role in this business was now plainly innocuous. He was offered water, which he drank gratefully. Mueller allowed himself to relax a little. He’d proven useful, innocent, and cooperative.

“You said a moment ago that your unit is Polizei Battalion 201,” said Feldhandler, matter-of-factly.

“Yes, mein Herr” agreed Mueller quickly. “We are a police unit, not real soldiers. Almost civilians, really…”

“You know the village of Biali then” interrupted Feldhandler. “It’s not far from here” he smiled sickly, pointing generally to the southeast.

Mueller’s blood froze. “Nein, mein Herr.”

“I told you I already know the truth. Tell my friends” Feldhandler pointed to the Israeli officers and Perchansky “what Polizei Battalion 201 did at Baili a few months ago—or I’ll shoot off your balls.” He pressed the assault rifle’s muzzle hard into Mueller’s groin.

“Bitte” begged Mueller, knowing that telling the truth would likely result in the same fate anyway.

“Leave him be!” said Perchansky in Hebrew. “He’s answered your questions.”

“Not my last. You’ll want hear this Andrea. You’ve always been a seeker of the truth.”

Yatom checked his watch, annoyed by the bickering and Feldhandler’s manner, but curious. He interrupted the two scientists by lightly kicking away Feldhandler’s rifle, and slipping out his combat knife which he placed on Mueller’s neck.

Imperfect in German Yatom said simply “Antwort.”

Mueller shook his head lightly, and tears formed in his eyes.

Yatom pressed the knife until it drew blood. Mueller felt the flow and the increasing pressure of the razor—sharp blade.

“I was there, but I refused to participate!” he lied. “Some of the men you killed though, one named Popel in particular, was very involved!”

“You’re lying!” growled Feldhandler.

“Nein! What I say is true. They taunted me, Popel especially” sobbed Mueller convincingly. They said I was a coward for standing by the trucks. But I couldn’t do it—kill innocent people like that. They almost took my rank from me!”

“We don’t have any more time for this” said Yatom quickly in Hebrew, satisfied that they’d gotten enough from the fetid German.

“Gag him put him on the train.”

Feldhandler blanched. “You’re crazy. He’s a Nazi murderer. Do you know what happened at Biali? We need to shoot him now.”

“Nu!” said Perchansky.

“I’m not shooting anybody in cold blood if I don’t have to” said Yatom. “Besides, he’s been helpful, and maybe still.”

Feldhandler pulled a filthy sock off one of the dead Germans nearby and stuffed it into Mueller’s mouth. Then he and Yatom dragged the bound man onto the train and left him there.

They walked from the train and rejoined Mofaz, Shapira and Perchansky.

“Was he being truthful?” asked Yatom, putting the question out generally.

“I think so” offered Shapira. “Mostly anyway. And there doesn’t seem any reason why our plan shouldn’t work.”

“This plan of yours” said Mofaz looking at Shapira “to ride the train into Sobibor—it’s too complicated.”

“What are you talking about?” said Shapira. Shapira resented the Major’s resistance to everything that they’d tried to do since arriving.

“It is the simplest solution to the problem.”

Mofaz ignored Shapira’s tone. “Not if we have to change railroad crews. Is what he said correct Feldhandler--you’ve read the history.”

“Yes” agreed Feldhandler. He’d grown to despise Mofaz over the course of the morning for all the anger and contempt he’d displayed. but Feldhandler had to admit the Major had a sharp mind and quick grasp of military problems.

“It’s not a simple solution” continued Mofaz. “We either have to coerce the German crew at Sobibor into assisting us, or eliminate them and have the Polish crew bring the train in to the platform—all without the Nazi’s in the camp becoming suspicious.”

“So, what’s the alternative?” said Shapira.

“One would be to forget this whole enterprise, take Dr. Feldhandler” back to the capsule and force him to take us back to our own time and country” hissed Mofaz.

“That’s not going to happen, Major” said Yatom calmly. “What is your next suggestion?”

Mofaz cast Feldhandler a hateful glance, hut got back to business.

“We ride the train in to within a kilometer or so of the camp, disembark, and assault the place conventionally. That’s the simplest solution.”

“Sobibor is surrounded by a minefield” said Feldhandler.

Yatom blanched. “What?”

“It’s in the history. It was the only death camp with a minefield. Here, read it for yourself.” Feldhandler reached into the cargo pocket of his fatigues and pulled out a wom copy of “Sobibor: The Forgotten Revolt” by Thomas Blatt, one of the camp’s few Jewish survivors.

Yatom flipped through a few pages, stopping at a map of the place half-way through the teXt—the same map Feldhandler had copied for them.

Yatom quickly perused a few more pages. “Why didn’t the German sergeant mention the minefield?”

“He probably doesn’t know—why should he.”

Yatom handed the book back to Feldhandler. “Major, I appreciate your assessment, your points are well taken, but we’ll do it Shapira’s way. When the train stops at the station we’ll eliminate the German crew—you and me personally—and have the Poles drive the train into the station.”

“Yes commander” said Mofaz resignedly.

“Assuming the men agree to all this.”

“They’ll agree” said Yatom.

“We’d better talk to the Poles, and collect the men” said Feldhandler excitedly. “We don’t have much time.”

Perchansky gave Mofaz a quizzical look, as if to say, why did you give in?

Mofaz shrugged and said “I tried. But I’m a soldier too.”

Yatom radioed the men to join him by the locomotive. Some were over a kilometer away so it took thirty minutes before the srryeret was reassembled. The afternoon was wearing on and Yatom feared their window of opportunity was rapidly diminishing. How long could the hijacking of the train remain unknown to the Germans?

The men sat in a circle before the officers, some munching on the extra Powerbars provided by Feldhandler, others on their Israeli iron rations. The soldiers were always happier if they knew that they could eat. ltzak sat with the men despite his technical rank. Yatom explained truthfully, as best he knew, what had happened and where they were, although all the men had figured it out. Nonetheless, Yatom considered it important that they hear it formally from their commander.

“For now now there is little or no chance of returning to Israel in our time” said Yatom carefully. “So we find ourselves Israeli soldiers in Poland in the midst of the Holocaust. Do any of you have a question as to what our duty should be now?” Itzak spoke up. “I don’t question that we ought to fight Nazis. But will our actions now change our own future?”

“Good question” said Yatom like a school master. Feldhandler could answer the question better, but Yatom wanted to keep the scientist out of the discussion at the moment—both because he was poison and would undoubtedly complicate the issue.

“My understanding of the theory is that having diverged from our own timeline so dramatically, anything we do here will establish a new timeline, without effect on the timeline we lefi behind. Nature prohibits paradoxes, so the fact that we are here and functioning seems to indicate that’s the case.”

“That’s correct” said Feldhandler without being asked, although both he and Perchansky knew it wasn’t so simple.

“Dr. Perchansky, do you want to say anything?” asked Yatom.

Perchansky wanted to say a lot, but doubted it would do much good. Why torment these men with doubt when all their fates seemed sealed anyway. “No” she said.

“Beseder” continued Yatom. “Our intention is to attack a German death camp today—Lieutenant Shapira will brief you with the details in a few minutes—and to keep attacking the Nazis for as long as we can, or until we can return to our own timeline. We’ve seen with our own eyes today, what before we only read in history books, experienced in museums, or learned in sleepy history classes. Before today is done I fear we will see much worse. Still, I cannot in good conscience order you to join me. Any man that doesn’t want to participate can stay behind at the capsule, or with the refugees. If you want out, go now.”

He looked out at the young commandos, contentedly munching on their snacks. They looked around at each other, then back at him. Yatom nodded. He’d known before he started the speech that none of the men would leave, and none did.

Chapter 13

Two hours later Shapira and the rest of his team found themselves in a reeking boxcar several as the engine pulled them ever closer toward Sobibor. In the car along with the Israelis was an ad hoc assault platoon made up of Jews freed from the train and led by the big Dutchman, De Jong. The Dutchman, as Bolander and Ilan had discovered during target practice, was a former naval officer who had been transferred from a POW camp to a Jewish ghetto. Upbeat despite his grim surroundings, De Jong laughingly explained to the Israelis, in excellent English, that his name meant “William the Young.” In fact, De Jong wouldn’t see fifty again, but he was in reasonably sound physical condition, and an experienced officer, even if his career had been spent on ships, not in the infantry.

De Jong and most of the other Jews recognized, if they didn’t fully understand, the modern colloquial Hebrew of the Israelis. The Israelis had finally explained their presence to Jezek, De Jong and the other leaders of the rescued Jews, by claiming that they were Palestinian Jews in British service, sent on a rescue mission. It was close enough to the truth, and much less far-fetched than the actual story. De Jong and companions appeared to accept this. In any event, they cared less about their rescuers than the fact that they had been saved. De Jong and his men also knew, that in return for their salvation, much was now expected of them. The fact that their rescuers were fellow Jews only enhanced their sense of duty, and heightened their longing for revenge.

There were twenty-five men besides De Jong in the makeshift platoon, several of whom had experience in the Polish or Czech armies. They were armed with the five extra Uzis brought by Feldhandler, Mueller’s Walther which Shapira had given up, and ten German stick grenades, taken from the train guards.

Two teenagers, dressed up in German uniforms taken the Polizei, rode outside the car pretending to be guards, in the fashion the Israelis observed just before the ambush. They were armed with Mauser rifles. The rest of the men men carried no weapons at all.

Yatom had ordered that all the remaining weapons captured from the German policeman be given to the Jews who remained behind, under the leadership of the Czech Jezek. De Jong’s unarmed men were to pick up weapons as they went along—hopefully from fallen Germans; if not, then from fallen Jews.

Given the situation, Shapira had organized the men into five squads, each led by a seemingly experienced or reliable man armed with an Uzi. With each squad-leader were two men armed with a single grenade each, and three other unarmed men. Ilan and Bolander had done their best, in the short time available, to instruct the men in the use of the weapons, and described some rudimentary tactics.

Basically, the men with the Uzis were to attack, with the grenadiers and unarmed men in tow. How, or even if these men could function under fire was unknown. Shapira reminded all of them, repeatedly, of the fate they would have met in Sobibor had the death train not been stopped. They were in effect dead men given a second life to spend. Hopefully, though Shapira, they would spend it courageously.

The Israeli plan called for De Jong, armed with the pistol, to lead his men off the train. Shapira’s team would follow and support the ragged Jewish band with disciplined fire. At the front of the train, Yatom would lead the rest of the sarayet from the second-class railcar.

Both assault groups would sweep down the platform, eliminating SS men and Ukrainians along the way. Then they would turn, in echelon, into the camp itself. Once inside Shapira’s men would seize the so-called Forward Camp, which contained barracks, offices and the camp armory, while Yatom would take Camp 2, consisting of assembly yards and storage sheds filled with looted goods. Yatom’s men would also be responsible for taking out the camp’s four watchtowers, and a tall forester’s tower in the center of the installation. It was a relatively simple and sound plan, thought Shapira. Surprise and modern firepower would be on their side.

By throwing De Jong and his men at the Forward Camp Yatom hoped to reduce the risks to the sayeret. Feldhandler’s map showed that the Forward Camp contained Sobibor’s headquarters buildings and the home of the commandant, in addition to barracks for the SS and Ukrainians. Most of the enemy not immediately killed on the platform would probably rally in that area. By comparison, Yatom expected that Camp 2, with its administrative buildings and sorting sheds, and would be lightly defended. Another sub—carnp, designated Camp 1, was located directly behind the Forward Camp and contained the barracks of the Jewish prisoners—this Yatom intended to ignore.

The last area of importance was Camp 3, which held the gas chambers and burial pits. This area, the real business end of the death camp, was defended by a separate force of SS men and Ukrainians. Yatom hoped that these men would flee or surrender once they realized the fate of their comrades in the rest of the camp. If they stayed, Yatom would reduce Camp 3 with a deliberate assault. Surprise was the key. The train would proceed slowly past Sobibor camp to the station located a few hundred meters to the east.

There, Yatom and Mofaz would eliminate the German railroad crew whose job was to bring the train into the camp via a special siding. This time, the Polish engineers would back the train in. When the train halted, presumably with many if not most of the Germans and Ukrainians awaiting it along the platform, Yatom would initiate the action by fire from front of the train. At that point, Shapira would throw open the boxcar doors, hose down any Germans or Ukrainians within view, and send De Jong and his men on their way, with his team following and providing fire support. That at least was the intention.

Shapira reviewed the plan with his men and De Jong repeatedly on uncomfortable journey, there being little else to do. Finally, after chugging forward slowly but steadily for nearly an hour, the train came to a stop.

Roskovsky jumped down from the second-class carriage, where Yatom’s group rode in relative comfort, and trotted over to one of the telephone poles along the railroad right-of-way. The engineer quickly scaled the pole and clipped the wires. It was a safe bet that all telephone communication from Sobibor ran along this line.

The train got under way again. In the fetid boxcar Shapira sat against the door which was opened a few inches to let in fresh air, and to keep the men oriented. They had only moved a couple of additional kilometers when Bolander, peering through the door, said excitedly “There it is!” Shapira craned his head around to look. A kilometer down the track was Sobibor. The train stopped again. The the engineers blew the whistle and waited a few minutes, before continuing toward the camp.

Sobibor looked innocuous enough to Shapira, which was intentional. The Germans had interlaced pine branches in double barbed-wire fences, which helped the death canrp to blend into the surrounding countryside. The camp itself consisted of clusters of small simple wooden buildings, which looked no more menacing than what you would see at a simple summer vacation retreat. It was easy to see how the camp’s victims were misled as to Sobibor’s true purpose and the fate that awaited them within.

As the train moved slowly past the camp Shapira slid the door shut except for a small crack to keep oriented as to their position. It was hard to get a clear perspective, but all along the platform, several dozen meters away, scores of men in a variety of uniforms scurried to positions in an obviously well choreographed drill designed to empty arriving trains quickly and efficiently.

In the front of the train the rest of the sayeret had a better view through the second-class coach windows, which were screened by partly opened blinds. The commandos kept their heads low, peering as best they could at the sight before them, both fantastic and prosaic at the same time.

Yatom and Mofaz rode separately from the rest of the commandos in the locomotive with the Polish crew. This allowed the Israeli officers to ensure the Poles did not deviate from the plan, and provided a position from which to jump the special German crew that would be waiting to drive the train into Sobibor camp itself.

The train passed the platform and headed for the small rail station two hundred meters down the track. The station consisted of a small wooden building set by the track, another nearly identical hut a few meters behind, and what appeared to be a decrepit outhouse alongside the second building. On a worn plank platform stood three uniformed but unarmed German railroad men. The Germans were short, stocky, stolid looking men, like brothers from the same peasant clan, who regarded their straightforward task with childlike seriousness.

Steam hissed from the engine as the Polish engineers brought the massive locomotive to a stop directly in front of the German crew. Yatom, already holding his suppressed Sig in his right hand, motioned for Mofaz to join him at the engine door. Mofaz held his own Sig at the ready. The commandos exchanged glances but no words. The task before them was obvious.

“Bleib still” Yatom whispered harshly at the Polish engineers.

Hearing Yatom’s German, spiced as it was with a guttural Hebrew accent, the Poles reacted with the wide-eyed fright, as if facing an outlandish golem.

With a single fluid movement Yatom slid open the engine door and raised his pistol. Directly in from of Yatom stood the three German railroad-men, their heads almost level with the barrel of the Sig, barely a meter away. Yatom shot the first man directly in the forehead. The German fell, the barest hint of surprise on his face.

Before his comrade on the right could move or utter an alarm he was struck in the neck with a bullet from Mofaz’s pistol. The third German could have yelled an alarm, but chose to flee instead. He managed to turn his body half-a-step when Yatom put a round into the the back of his head. The two Israelis exchanged another glance—Mofaz had finally committed himself, and thought Yatom, looked relieved.

Yatom looked back down the track. From his position on the train, he could not see onto the German platform in Sobibor. It stood to reason that he was likewise out of the view of the Germans in the camp. Satisfied, Yatom jumped onto the platform and without breaking stride burst into the small station office building, pistol at the ready. Mofaz followed him covering his blind side. The building was empty. “Follow me” said Yatom.

Together the two men moved quickly around the station office towards the second hut in back. Yatom strode calmly up to the door and opened it. Inside were two more German railroad men, playing cards and drinking beer. Yatom shot them both before Mofaz got through the doorframe.

“Yalla. Let’s go” said Yatom. The two commandos jogged back to the train, then climbed back into the second class coach and reported that the special train crew had been dispatched. Then, according to plan, Feldhandler left the coach and climbed into the locomotive with the Polish engineers, along with his Galil, for the ride back into the camp—insurance that the nervous Poles stayed true to their new job.

Chapter 14

Ordinarily, before a transport arrived in Sobibor, SS Commandant Franz Stangl received a phone call from the Fahrplanbuero Sonderauggruppe, which was the train scheduling office of the SS special trains unit. This organization was entirely devoted to shipping Jews to the extermination camps in Eastern Poland, which had top priority on the Polish rail system, even above military transports to or from the Russian front.

The Fahrplanbuero didn’t actually know when a transport was close to Sobibor. They phoned the Commandant based on their own arrival schedules which given the vagaries of the wartime Polish rail system, were usually overoptimistic. In fact, Sobibor was so isolated and the rail-bed in such bad repair, that a large section of track was scheduled to be shut down in July for renovation, which would effectively halt operations at the camp for awhile. All the more reason, thought Stangl, to keep Sobibor operating at top efficiency through June.

This day, May 25, 1942, Stangl had received the warning phone call at about 9:00am, indicating a train was en route. That meant arrival in an hour or half a day. Regardless, Stangl immediately issued warning orders to assemble the many SS men, Ukrainian guards and Jews of the Bahnhof Kommando to prepare for the train. When, not unexpectedly, the morning lapsed into the afternoon without further information about the train, Stangl ordered the men to stand down at their posts, while keeping the several dozen Jews of the Bahnhoff Kommando at the ready and under guard.

After a lunch of sausages and beer, Stangl decided to retire to his office for a catnap and to do some paperwork, putting Oberscharfuehrer Gustav Wagner in charge of the incoming transport. Wagner was known about the camp as der Spiess—the equivalent of Sergeant Major in the British or American armies—the man who got things done. Wagner was more than capable of supervising things. Stangl felt that his own time could be best used chumming through the heaps of red tape that running a successful death camp entailed.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon the train blew its warning whistle. Wagner hastily reassembled the platform personnel. Stangl shook himself awake and took a quick glance out the window of his office. The transport appeared to be a relatively small one—not more than 2000 people, and not in any unusual distress. It would be an easy load for Wagner to handle, allowing Stangl to concentrate on the technical aspects of disposing of the “cargo.” Stangl preferred to think of the train passengers as loads or cargo. He couldn’t yet look the Jews in their faces—but it was becoming easier with every passing day. By dinner the transport would be history and the cargo on its way to burial. Stangl looked forward to another meal of Polish sausages, kraut and beer, and maybe a bit of brandy for a nightcap.

Before turning to his paperwork the Commandant called in Obergefrieter Paulaner, his radio/telephone clerk. The SS corporal, smart in his fitted field gray uniform, snapped sharply to attention.

“Paulaner,” said Stangl, briefly looking up at the young man “call the trains unit, and tell them that one of their special trains was late again. Very late.”

The SS man saluted and left the room, only to return moments later. “Herr Commandant, the phone lines are out, and the radio, as usual, is not working correctly.”

Stangl waved Paulaner off. Such problems were common in far eastern Poland. He’d add his communication problems to his complaints—later.

At the platform Der Spiess eagerly awaited the new transport. Wagner was a big man, with close-cropped blond hair, a square jaw and blue eyes. He was the very image of an SS man. To heighten the effect, Wagner liked to wear his white SS dress uniform blouse when greeting a transport as the officer-in-charge.

Next to Wagner was an old gramophone, booty from some foolish Dutch Jew who lugged the machine all to way from Amsterdam. Set on the turntable, also plunder, was Felix Mendelssohn’s “Lieder ohne Worte”. The music was not exactly Wagner’s cup of tea, but he liked the irony of playing the Jewish composer as a train was unloaded. It calmed the Jews. The Jews should not know their fate until they smelled the gas. Usually that was exactly the case.

Arrayed with Wagner were nine other SS non commissioned officers, a platoon of twenty Ukrainian guards, and fifty Jewish prisoners, dressed blue coveralls. The Jewish prisoners were charged with unloading the train passengers and baggage. Besides Wagner and his nine men, the only other SS in Sobibor were the Commandant, Paulaner, three men sleeping off night duty in the barracks, and four SS men in Camp 3 who operated the gas chambers. A Ukrainian platoon guarded the perimeter and manned the four watchtowers; another was stationed in Camp 3, while the fourth was also sleeping off a night shift. The German SS were, like Wagner, mostly armed with pistols, but a couple of men carried MP-40 submachine-guns. Two of the Germans held large guard dogs, already straining at their leashes. The Ukrainian rank and file was armed with bolt-action Mauser carbines, while their own NCOs carried MP-40s.

Wagner stood on a small platform abutting one of the sorting sheds, while most of his men and the Jewish prisoners stood in the dirt by the railroad tracks. Sobibor still lacked a proper railroad platform, which made unloading the trains doubly difficult. Small children and older people in particular had difficultly dropping from the railcars to the ground.

But such minor difficulties were small beer to Wagner. In just a few months Sobibor had become the Reich’s most efficient “resettlement site,” an even smoother running murder machine than Belzec, the first death camp. Through dozens of transports and tens of thousands of victims, Wagner had only witnessed serious trouble once. A few weeks prior, a transport of Polish Jews rioted during unloading, forcing the guards to open fire as the Jews were still coming off the train. Wagner lost count of the people he’d shot that day, dozens at least. He’d pulled the trigger on his pistol so many times he’d developed a blister, which had since turned into a treasured callous. Wagner rubbed the callous contentedly as the train finally pulled in. Der Speiss was a confident man, and contemptuous of his victims. He wasn’t concerned that the uniforms of the two outriding guards were out of order, that the train had been delayed at the station some extra minutes, or that it now arrived in an unusually herky-jerky fashion, as if the special train crew had been drinking. Maybe mused Wagner, they had.

The train stopped for the third or fourth time with a hiss of steam and brakes. It was unusually quiet—where was the usual moaning and groaning? Wagner also noted that there was not the usual mass of desperate hands clutching at the few barbed wire windows. He exchanged a nervous glance with Feldwebel Granz, standing beside him and clutching an MP-40. Der Spiess, affecting nonchalance, winked at Granz. There was for Wagner a powerful aesthetic in the order and efficiency of the operation, enhanced by the racist ideal inherent in the process itself, the act of cleansing. Wagner started the gramophone and then, as if he were conducting a symphony, motioned for the Jewish prisoners to open the cars and release the cargo into his hands.

Chapter 15

Yatom forced himself to relax and control his breathing as the train backed into Sobibor camp. The train had started, stopped and jerked forward again at least four times since leaving Sobibor station. The Polish engineers were either incompetent, trying to give them away, or scared shitless. Yatom assumed it was the latter—what with a crazed Israeli scientist poking them with the big Galil, as Feldhandler was likely doing. Yatom stole a glance back at Mueller, well trussed and laying on the floor. Perchensy sat Indian style, and Uzi-in-hand, next to him. Beside Yatom at the windows were teams Alef and Bet, weapons at the ready.

Carefully parting parting the blinds, Yatom and the Israeli commandos took in the extraordinary scene. Dozens of German and Ukrainian soldiers stood several meters away from the tracks, and a unit of Jewish prisoners in their filthy blue coveralls was in position near the train.

“Don’t shoot the men in the blue,” Yatom reminded his men. “Everyone else is fair game.”

“Shoot the gray guys, eh Major,” cracked Ilan. Mofaz, his eyes still wide in astonishment, ignored the sniper’s jibe.

In the center of the enemy throng, was a German officer, in bright white uniform jacket, setting a needle to a record on a large ancient gramophone. Yatom lined him up in the Tavor’s sight.

“The big guy in white is mine,” he whispered. “Select your targets—let’s not have two people shooting at the same man.”

“Wait for me…” said Yatom.

The train jerked to a stop yet again. Three cars down Shapira and his men waited nervously for the action to start. Which stop signaled the end of the road wondered the lieutenant? Why hasn’t Yatom opened fire? Shapira resisted calling Yatom on the radio. The colonel had issued his orders and Shapira would follow them. Wait for Yatom to initiate the action.

Yatom had had enough as well. The train was not exactly where he imagined it should be to unload two thousand innocent souls into the hands of murderers, but it didn’t need to go further. Evidently the big German in white thought so too, and when he waived nonchalantly toward the train Yatom squeezed the trigger.

Wagner didn’t hear anything, he just felt something solid hit him hard in the chest. His initial thought was to brush it off, but even as he tried to do that, he felt his legs giving way under him. Wagner wanted to say something, give an order or shout a warning, but was impeded by a second blow which struck him in the belly. This twisted him around toward the gramophone which he knocked over awkwardly as he fell off the platform into the dirt. On the ground Wagner noticed that the air was alive with popping sounds and shouts of alarm. He realized he’d been shot, that something bad was happening, and he was in agony. But by the time Sergeant Granz fell on top of him, with a bullet through the brain, Der Spiess was dead.

After shooting Wagner Yatom cast about for another target, but the rank of commandos next to him had not left many. The boys were business-like but excited, occasionally shouting or gesturing to each other, as they kept firing. The shooting was at close range, and easy—they were well practiced in distinguishing targets—terrorists from innocent victims—and the bright multiplicity of uniforms served as an easy guide. Once in awhile a German or Ukrainian would get off wild shot or two, which caused some cursing and flinching, but for the most part it was a turkey shoot. Yatom finally found a confused young Ukrainian guard who seemed unsure whether to run or shoot. Yatom put two bullets into him, and then hit an SS man who’d thought the better of valor and was already fleeing into the camp.

The commando leader paused to get a better picture of the fighting. Within a minute the Israeli commandos had gunned down all the SS in the platform area and most of the Ukrainians. A few were in mid-flight. Yatom didn’t see any German who made it away, although he assumed a few did. Some Jewish workers lay dead as well, hit by stray or misaimed Israeli bullets, or shot down in a last bloodletting by the desperate Germans. Fortunately, most of the Jewish workers had fallen to the ground, out of the line of fire.

Yatom ordered Ilan to the top of the rail car in order to snipe at any Ukrainians in the guard towers that surrounded the camp. The men in the towers, armed with deadly MG-34 machine guns, had not opened fire, most likely, Yatom figured, out of confiision and a lack of orders. Yatom decide to leave Perchensky in the car with Mueller, and sweep the platform with teams Bet andAlef. He left the car, his men hard behind him, and moved into Sobibor.

Shapira waited to hear the sound of gunfire from the front of the train before pushing open the heavy wooden door on his cattle-car. Next to Shapira were Bolander, the machine-gurmer Roi, and his radioman/grenadier Chaim Ben David. As the door slid open, Shapira saw several Jewish men in blue coveralls standing directly in front of him. Immediately behind them was an SS man with an extremely large dog and four Ukrainians. Shapira had hardly squeezed the trigger on his Tavor when the scene in front of him erupted in fallen bodies and blood. Roi and Chaim had been fast on the trigger too. Shapira managed to plug the SS man with the dog, but spared the animal, which wisely scampered off. The Jews in front of them also escaped, fleeing over the German and the dead Ukrainians.

Shapira ordered De Jong and his platoon out of the car. William the Young leapt from the train like a man twenty years his junior, followed by the newly minted soldiers who rushed from the door of the railcar like men possessed. De Jong led them with a guttural yell that only a real Dutchman could bring forth, and they imitated him, screaming in three or four languages as they piled off the train.

De Jong steered the gaggle toward the Forward camp at a run.

They moved so quickly that Shapira momentarily froze, uncertain of his next move. Bolander didn’t wait for orders, and opened fire on a guard tower that loomed across the camp to the northwest, about 100 meters away. Bolander hit the guard tower with a burst of fire that knocked out the two machine-gunners just as they directed their weapon at the train. The marksman swung his Tavor about looking for other towers, but he couldn’t see any from his position by the train.

“Where are the other towers?” he shouted excitedly to Shapira.

The lieutenant turned his head toward Bolander, whose words shook Shapira out of his momentary funk. “I don’t know!” he shouted, but we can’t stay here—let’s go!”

De Jong and his men had almost reached the Forward Camp, forty meters or so from the train. A locked gate guarded by two Ukrainians with rifles barred their way. De Jong gritted his teeth and raised his pistol as he continued toward the Ukrainians. They raised their weapons uncertainly. De Jong saw them talking excitedly to each other, panic in their eyes. Ten meters from the gate the Dutchman abruptly stopped aimed the pistol. Behind him his men awkwardly halted, some running into the men in front of them, or tripping, shouting and cursing.

De Jong swung the Walther at the two Ukrainians, who in turn raised their Mausers. For an eternal second, the adversaries stared at each other without firing. Then De Jong pointed the weapon at the chest of the closest Ukrainian and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He was stunned—like everybody else, he’d taken his weapon off safe as soon at the train stopped at the camp.

“Shoot them!” cried Porchak, one of De Jong’s squad leaders, who though armed with an Uzi had also neglected to fire.

The Ukrainians instinctively turned toward Porchak and both shot at him, managing to hit him with one bullet in the shoulder.

While the two Ukrainians desperately worked the bolts to their Mausers to load another round, De Jong cleared the chamber of the pistol and pulled the trigger again. This time the Walther worked. De Jong emptied the magazine at the Ukrainians, his ears ringing, unused to the loud 9mm blasts from the small handgun. Somehow he managed to hit them both. Through the dust and his gun smoke he saw the two grey clad men on the ground, one wreathing in pain, the other trying to crawl away.

De Jong had the presence of mind to reload his weapon, while one of the other squad leaders forced open the gate. The Dutchman glanced back at the wounded Porchak, then put it out of his mind and stepped into the Forward Camp. Behind him a couple of the unarmed Jews grabbed the weapons of the fallen Ukrainians and finished them off by smashing their heads with the butts of the heavy Mausers.

Another man grabbed Porchak’s weapon.

Directly ahead of De Jong, according to the rough map that Shapira had sketched out for him, were the two Ukrainian barracks, and beyond those, the quarters of the camp commandant. A third Ukrainian barrack was across the way to the right. He was to attack the Ukrainians first, then move onto the commandant’s quarters.

Beyond these buildings and several others, were the SS barracks. He would attack those last if it proved necessary. In the meantime he had to watch out for fire in that direction.

Shapira stopped his team just outside the gate to the Forward Camp. He’d barely seen De Jong’s confrontation there, but was pleased with the result. A wounded Jewish man lay on the ground nearby, comforted by a comrade. Shapira had neither the time nor resources to help. From where his team stood they could put fire on the Ukrainian barracks, but not those of the SS, which were blocked from view. He watched nervously as De Jong struggled to organize his men and get them moving against the Ukrainian buildings. They didn’t know if barrack buildings were occupied, but assumed at least one or more must contain the night watch platoon. In fact, the Ukrainian watch platoon was located in a single barrack building—the one nearest to the commandant’s quarters. Inside, the twenty-three Ukrainian guards had been roused by the sound of fire coming from the unloading area, but generally ignored it.

There was occasional gunfire in Sobibor, either from troublesome Jews during unloading, during the execution of older or infirmed Jews who couldn’t manage the walk to the gas chambers, or from target practice by their fellow Ukrainians or the SS. Most of the soldiers simply turned in their bunks and attempted to get back to sleep. Only their Ukrainian platoon sergeant, Gorobets, who feared the SS, got up and bothered to look out a window. What he saw turned his bowels to water. The gate into the Forward Camp had been breached and the two guards lay face down in the dust. Around them was a motley group of armed prisoners heading straight towards the barrack. He turned and screamed frantically at his drowsy men.

De Jong led his men to the first barrack building, gritting his teeth and squinting, expecting at any second to be fired upon. Behind him his men ran instinctively hunched over, as if they expected a heavy rain. They reached the building without incident. De Jong went directly to the door, his men crowding behind him. Had the building been defended they would have made inviting targets, but a few quick glances through the windows indicated that this building was empty.

De Jong called forward one of the young grenadiers anyway, and ordered him to toss a grenade inside. The boy, about sixteen, ran up to the door, opened it—it was unlocked—and tossed in the grenade without pulling the charging cord. It landed on the wooden floor with a thump.

“Scheisse!” yelled De Jong in German. The embarrassed and otherwise unarmed boy ran into the building after the grenade.

“It’s empty!” the boy exclaimed, retrieving his grenade.

“Congratulations,” said De Jong, “you’ve taken our first objective.”

The boy smiled crazily.

It quickly became clear that their second objective, the barrack that lay just beyond, would not fall so easily.

“Look!” exclaimed Natan Fliegel, a Silesian Pole who was another of De Jong’s squad leaders. Fliegel pointed to the next barracks where the front door had quickly opened and then shut again. Seconds later the barrels of several Mausers poked out of open windows.

The two buildings were lined up end to end, so that the Ukrainians did not have a clear shot at the Jews next door. Rather they had a view across the open space to the gate, and Shapira’s squad, while Shapira had a direct view of the Ukrainians. The Israeli saw rifles emerge from the barrack windows. He pointed to the building and team Gimmel opened fire. The Ukranian barrack was instantly splintered by dozens of 5.56mm rounds, particularly from Ro’i’s Negev, which he raked along the length of the building. A few Mausers fell from the window sills or were pulled back by the stunned Ukrainians.

Shapira called over to Chaim, who crouched a few feet away. “Put a couple of grenades into the building.”

Chaim put a 40mm high explosive grenade into the Tavor’s launcher and sent it expertly through one of the barrack windows where it exploded with a bright flash. He put a second grenade through the next window. Smoke poured from the stricken building.

Shapira looked toward De Jong who was cringing with the rest of his men against the wall of the first barrack, watching in amazement as the Israelis poured fire into the second.

“Los! Los!” Shapira called to him in German, swinging his arm in a forward motion, the universal military sign to advance. “Aufgehts!” he yelled for emphasis.

De Jong knew what was expected of him, but felt as if his courage had been drained. He turned toward Fliegel. “Go” he told the other man. “You lead them.”

Fliegel took a deep breath, hunched over and waved to his men.

He was scared but there was nothing for it. They either had to see this thing through or die. “After me!” he cried.

Fliegel was brave, scared shitless, and sensible. The Silesian ran over tn the second barrack, but as he reached the building threw himself to the ground and began crawling toward the front door out of the view of the Ukrainians inside, and out of the way of any remaining Mausers in the windows. His men, recognizing a good idea when they saw it, followed. Shapira watched at a distance, impressed. Not only were the attacking Jews out of the view of the Ukrainians in the building, but the Israelis could still put fire on the building over their heads—which they did—carefully.

Shapira was just about to shoot some rounds of his own into the building when Chaim handed him the radio handset. It was Yatom.

“Report,” ordered the colonel.

“Ready and in position at the Forward Camp—De Jong’s men are attacking.”

“Tov,” replied Yatom. “Continue. We’ve taken the platform and most of Camp 2. We are behind you now. We are taking down the remaining watchtowers and that the big forester’s tower—there’s a radio antenna on it.”

Shapira turned and glanced at the tall wooden tower in the center of the camp. A couple of seconds later the antenna exploded hit by a 40mm grenade fired by one of Yatom’s men.

“Acknowledged” said Shapira, as he turned back towards his own battle.

The second Ukrainian barack resembled a charnel house. Most of the men inside were dead or dying. The rest hid as best they oould behind bunks. A few had altogether given up on fighting and sought escape through the windows on the back side of the building.

Gorobets hunched by the door gripping an MP-40 and cursing his men, calling them girls and cowards—tr’ying his best to make them hold. As grim as the situation was, he still feared the SS more. There was no lock for the door and there was no way to block it because the SS had bolted the Ukrainian bunks to the floor. The SS didn’t trust their auxiliaries. There was no way for Gorobets to bar the door except with his own body.

Outside the barrack, Fliegel reached the door and stood up. Next to him was a squat young man he knew only as Baruch who carried a stick grenade.

“Geh!” Fliegel urged the man in Yiddish.

Baruch, guessing the door would be locked or blocked turned the handle and thrust into the room with his shoulder, plowing into Gorobets. The Ukrainian fired his machine gun wildly, managing to hit Baruch once in the stomach. Baruch fell forward onto the Ukrainian, but Gorobets managed to kick the door shut as the wounded Jew collapsed on top of him.

From the doorway, Fliegel watched Baruch disappear into the building. He wondered why the young grenedier had not tossed his grenade. Fearing the worst, but without another option, he waved in the next rrian, who carried a rifle liberated from one of the Ukrainian guards at the gate. This fellow looked like his cousin Karl, if Karl had been shit-stained and terrified, but amazingly the man pushed at the door and went in anyway. Fliegel saw Karl’s doppelganger crumple as a Ukrainian guard fired into him at point-blank range. Fliegel instinctively backed away from the doorway.

Out of Fliegel’s view, the badly wounded Baruch grappled with Gorobets on the floor, now slick with blood. As the Ukrainian who shot Karl worked the bolt on his Mauser, Fliegel screwed up his courage and stepped into the abattoir. The Silesian gripped his Uzi hard to depress the safety on the back of the grip as he’d been taught just hours before, and pulled the trigger, spraying the room wildly with bullets. He nailed the Ukrainian with the Mauser and forced the rest to duck for cover. Behind him came De Jong, who’d pushed his way back to the front. De Jong fired his Walther at a shadowy gray target in the burning room. Fliegel ducked out the way, methodically trying to reload his weapon.

In the corner near the door Baruch pounded Gorobetz’s head repeatedly against the floor, even as he bled profusely from his stomach wound. Fliegel, Uzi reloaded, sprayed the room with fire again as De Jong ducked away. A few other Jews, some armed, some not, rushed into the shattered barrack.

Their ears ringing and bodies tense with adrenaline Fliegel and De Jong stood stock still in the middle of the building and looked at each other. Gorobets and Baruch were dead, the Jew atop the Ukranian. The only other Ukranians left in the barrack were dead or dying. De Jong ordered the men still without weapons to arm themselves with the rifles of the fallen and fled guards, plentiful now. Then he and Fliegel stepped back out into the dirt and dust of the Forward Camp.

Shapira and his team moved up to join them, their weapons now trained on the SS Barracks across the parade ground, and the nearby Commandant’s house. Across the camp there was an occasional shot or shout as Yatom’s men cleared Camp 2. In the Forward camp things were now strangely quiet.

The Israeli lieutenant approached De Jong and Fliegel, at a cautious crouch, while they stood upright, as if oblivious to the fact that they were still involved in a battle. It was clear that the pair, and the rest of the Jewish platoon for that matter, had shot their bolt. Shapira realized that he and his men would have to take down the Commandant’s house and the SS barracks.

Between the Ukrainian barracks and the Commandant’s house was the camp armory. Shapira moved his team outside this building, but did not enter it. The Commandant’s house itself lay only a few meters beyond. It looked like a cheap Alpine chalet, visible from incoming trains and the rail platform, the better to lure camp victims into a false sense of security. The front door and a few windows were the only way into the building. His team was well practiced at this sort of operation and Shapira did not intend to make a production of it. He signaled towards the windows and doorway. “Ready?”

The team answered with a silent, collective nod.

Inside the chalet Obergefrieter Paulaner crouched by the front door. Paulaner had watched the developing battle through the chalet windows, and once or twice had chanced to open the front door a crack. He didn’t like what he saw. What appeared to be a motley group of prisoners, assisted he guessed, by Russian commandos, had broken into the forward camp and taken the Ukrainian barracks. Now, inevitably, the chalet would be next. All communication was out, and like Stangl, Paulaner was armed with nothing more than a pistol.

“Herr Commandant,” Paulaner called down the hall. “They come!”

Stangl crouched behind his desk, frightened and at a loss. He’d avoided watching the developing disaster, preferring to rely on Paulaner’s increasingly frantic reports, in the hope the the young Obergefreiter exaggerated. But the continuing rattle of gunfire, the explosions, the lack of communication and the failure of any of his men to come to his aid gave increasing credibility to Paulaner’s panicked narrative. Stangl considered fleeing through the window, he considered fighting it out, and he considered suicide. But he did nothing but remain huddled near his desk, a terrified ghost in SS grey.

The Israelis entered the chalet a moment later. Chaim kicked in the door and Shapira tossed a flash bang grenade. Bolander went in behind exploded grenade. Paulaner, stunned by the blast, retreated to a far wall and stood dumbly. Bolander killed the German with a shot to the head, that smeared the white painted wall with blood and brain.

Shapira followed and seeing that the front room had been cleared headed down the short hallway towards the Commandant’s office.

Shapira decided to save a flash-bang and instead moved around the doorway, rifle at the ready. It was a mistake. Stangl, still crouched behind his desk, fired at the Israeli, striking Shapira in the chest.

Shapira felt the bullet and stumbled backwards, loosing a burst of his own at the German, hitting Stangl in the left shoulder.

Bolander pounded forward a second later to find Shapira still standing and shaking off the blow. Stangl’s bullet had been stopped by the Israeli’s thick ballistic vest, but Shapira felt like he’d taken a hammer blow. Bolander swept around the desk, rifle at the ready to find Stangl sprawled on the floor, clutching his shattered shoulder and whimpering. Bolander considered shooting the German but thought better of it. He pounced on the wounded Commandant, flipped him on his stomach and quickly bound him with flex cuffs. Bolander pulled the sobbing German to his feet. Blood soaked Stangl’s previously immaculate uniform blouse. Shapira stepped forward as the German looked uncomprehendingly at the man held just shot a moment earlier.

Shapira suppressed his own urge to finish Stangl off. The German might die of blood loss soon enough anyway, and looked about to faint.

“Bind the wound with any old cloth,” Shapira told Bolander.

“Don’t waste a good bandage on him.”

The Israelis led Stangl outside, and put him in the hands of De Jong and his platoon. The Jews stared at the wounded SS Commandant but otherwise let him be. Stangl swung his head back and forth like an animal, as if the movement might reorder his world or make the pain go away.

Shapira and team Gimmel bounded over to the SS barracks across the square, while several of De Young’s men, recovered and again anxious for action, trailed behind. But there was no fighting there. As Shapira suspected, any remaining men in the SS barracks had run, since the Israelis had not drawn any fire from the building during the fight for the compound. The few SS that had been there must have fled up Camp 3, to make a last stand by the gas chambers. Shapira’s men secured the rest ofthe buildings in the Forward Camp and then broke open the armory. Inside were dozens of rifles, a pair of tripod-mounted MG-34s, a few MP-40s and cases of grenades and landmines. De Jong posted guards by the building and at the entrance to the sub-camp, and then he and half his men followed Shapira’s team as they moved into the main camp to rejoin Yatom and the main force.

Shapira found Yatom near the sorting shed in Camp 2, where Jewish prisoners had collected and organized the belongings of Sobibor’s victims for the SS. He presented Stangl, who promptly collapsed. Yatom ignored the German, while Shapira reported on the seizure of Camp 2 and the armory. Yatom noted the hole in Shapira’s vest and poked a finger at it. Shapira winced.

“What happened here,” Yatom said seriously.

“I was a careless.”

“Well,” said Yatom, leaving it at that “Sobibor is in our hands except for Camp 3.”

“We’ve freed the Jewish prisoners in Camp 2 and killed or captured all the SS and Ukranians” added Feldhandler unnecessarily.

Shapira also noticed Perchensky nearby. The captured German Sergeant Mueller lay trussed on the ground with several captured SS men and Ukranian guards. A half dozen freed Jewish prisoners guarded the group, still dressed in blue overalls but now armed with Mausers.

Mofaz arrived and reported that he’d posted teams Alefand Bet under the command of Itzak to watch Camp 3. He’d put Ilan in the forester’s tower, from where he dominated the camp, and could look into the gassing complex. Yatom told Bolander to join Ilan in the tower. Chaim and Ro’i left to join the other Israelis, while De Jong and his men stayed with the Israeli command group.

“Everybody drink” said Mofaz, pulling out his canteen. Staying hydrated in combat was an article of Israeli faith. The Israelis drank and passed their canteens to those Jewish fighters lacking water bottles.

“Let’s have an orders group and decide what to do now” said Yatom. The three officers plus Feldhander and Perchensky walked away from De Jong and his men, and squatted in the dirt where they had a view of Camp 3, or at least thick camouflaged fencing that surrounded the gassing complex.

Camp 3 was cut off from the rest of Sobibor by its own thickly built enclosure. The only entrance to the sub-camp was by a long fenced corridor that the Germans jokingly referred to as the HimmeIgang—or path to heaven. It was down this avenue that Sobibor’s naked and terrified victims were marched to their deaths. All the fencing around Camp 3 was carefully reinforced and obscured with tree branches. It was impossible to see into the camp from ground level, but presumably llan had a better view. Yatom raised the sniper on the radio.

“Yatom here—Ilan can you see into the camoflagued camp?”

“Yes commander. There are several small buildings and a huge trench that looks like it is filled with corpses. And the watchtower is reoccupied.” Ilan had shot a pair of men in the Camp 3 watchtower early in the fight—whatever Germans were up there now were either brave or foolish.

“Any other enemy?”

“Yes. A few more on the ground. They are scurrying around.”

“Take out the watchtower again, and any other targets that present themselves—Bolander is on his way to you.”

“Acknowleged” said the sniper.

Several seconds later two rifle reports echoed across Sobibor.

“That should do it for the watchtower” commented Mofaz.

Yatom offered a grim smile. “How do you propose we take Camp 3?” said Yatom, addressing the question to his deputy.

“Let Ilan and Bolander work on them a bit, and then demand that they surrender” said Mofaz.

“And if they don’t?”

“Send whats-his-name and his Jews down that corridor” said Mofaz, inclining his head towards De Jong who crouched with his men near the Himmelgang. “That passageway is a death trap.”

Beyond the Himmelgang, in Camp 3, the sergeant-in-charge, Scharfuehrer Schnabel huddled near one of the gas chamber buildings with the three remaining SS men.

This was Sobibor’s heart, the place where people were killed with factory efficiency. The gas chamber buildings themselves, like every other structure in Sobibor, appeared ordinary and benign to casual observation. The buildings and the chambers they housed were quite small—little more than large shacks really. The victims were packed in like sardines. Each of the gassing buildings was connected to an old Russian tank engine which pumped carbon monoxide into the sealed chambers until Schnabel and his associates were confident that everybody inside was dead. Over the months Schnabel had worked it down to a science. He was quite proud of his unit’s production and effectiveness.

As with Sobibor in general, Schnabel operated with a relatively small team. Two SS sergeants operated the gas engines while Schnabel’s deputy supervised a squad of 15 Ukrainians that rotated through—two more Ukrainians usually manned the machinegun in the watchtower directly above the sub-camp.

The dirty work in Camp 3 was carried out by the Jews of the Sonderkommando and their Kapos. The Sonderkommando consisted of 40 Jewish men, usually relatively young and strong, who’s job it was to empty the gas chambers of their victims, and transport them to the mass graves, really just large open pits, that occupied most of the space in Camp 3. Since the graves were already mostly filled with several months of murderous work, Stagl had ordered the Sonderkommando, when not otherwise occupied, to begin digging several open air crematoria nearby. The crematoria when completed would have been, like everything else in Sobibor, cheap, simple and efficient—large pits intersected with discarded pieces of iron railroad track. Fires ignited at the bottom of the pit would burn the bodies piled upon the railroad tracks to ash, much like a giant grill.

Schnabel had been preparing for the cargo with his usual focus and drive when he heard shooting break out at the main camp. The sub-camp had neither a radio nor a telephone, so Schnabel had no way of knowing what was happening in the main camp, although he assumed that the train passengers had rioted. Schnabel dispatched a Ukrainian runner to Der Speiss but the man did not return.

Concerned, but hardly panicked, Schnabel locked up the Sonderkrmrnrado within their barracks and alerted the Ukrainians, who could be lazy. Since there were no defensive positions within Camp 3 other than the watchtower, mostly everyone just stood about.

From the watchtower above the sub-camp one of the guards had reported that a battle appeared to be raging at the rail platform, and prisoners were running about. Seconds later, as Schnabel watched, the guard and his mate were killed by sniper fire. That’s when Schnabel fled behind one of the gas chamber buildings with the other Germans. Ten minutes after the tower guards died, Schnabel and his men were joined by three other Germans who had fled the SS barracks. These fellows, whom Schnabel knew and trusted, recounted the attack on the Forward Camp and the probable death or capture of Stangl.

Sobibor, it appeared, was under a general assault by a combined force of escaped prisoners, and some well armed foreign soldiers. Schnabel ordered two of the recent German arrivals, both mere corporals, up into watch-tower to man the machinegun and report on the situation within the main camp. Reluctantly, the two men complied, climbing the tower and heaving the bodies of the two dead Ukrainians out.

Shortly after manning the machinegun, but before they could describe the situation in the main camp, they were also shot dead.

Schnabel stared at his remaining German comrades, at a loss for words. A Ukrainian guard kneeling in the dirt a few feet from the Germans suddenly keeled over, a neat bullet hole drilled into his chest.

Another Ukrainian tried to run behind one of the gas chamber buildings but was hit several times before he reached safety. This unhinged the remaining Ukranian guards who now began to shout and crawl to cover wherever they could. Some made it, but many were also hit.

Schnabel knew that the only way to defend Camp 3 was to block the Himmelgang. Two Ukranian guards were already sheltering within the covered way, and Schnabel decided that at the very least he should reinforce them. He ordered Untershmfuehrer Blum, the last of the SS barrack escapees, to round up as many Ukranians as he could and bar the Himmelgang.

Instead of saluting and setting off like a good SS man, Blum looked at Schnabel and asked “Why me?”

“Because I ordered you, corporal“ said Schnabel nervously.

“Send one of your chums” answered Blum, nodding at Henshel and Magdeburg, the two gas experts. The gas men, who were older and plumper than most of the SS in the camp shook their heads as if a puppeteer where directing them. They looked as pale as puppets as well, thought Blum.

“We are skilled technicians,” said Magdeburg. Blum snorted at that.

Schnabel unholstered his pistol, and pointed it at Blum. “Do your duty.”

Blum unholstered his own pistol, as if he were going to fight, but then turned away from Schnabel, and looked out into the open ground between the gas building and the entrance to the Himmelgang. He turned back toward Schnabel and the gas men. “Cowards” is all he said.

Blum ran out into the open calling for Ukrainians to join him. None did. He looked back at Schnabel. Bolander and Ilan shot Blum a second later. Blum fell, pierced by two bullets, one of which took off the top of his head. Schnabel and his chums pressed their bodies against the building and shivered.

In the Sonderkommando barracks, twenty meters away from Schnabel, 42 Jewish prisoners and three Kapos huddled together in the cramped windowless building. Like Schnabel, when the shooting began, the Jews assumed that the Germans were just perpetrating another massacre on the platform. Several long minutes later it dawned on some of the Sonderkommados that the Germans themselves might be under attack.

Near the front of the building David Sandler, a 21 year-old who used to work in a iron mill, and a veteran of three weeks in the death camp, managed to pry apart a pair of wooden slats in the wall. Just as he forced an opening, to his astonishment and glee, he saw an SS man hit by rifle fire and collapse into the dust. A few meters beyond the German lay the body of a Ukranian. Off slightly to the left of the German corpse, Sandler could just make out the corpulent body of the SS gasman Magdeburg, cowering in the lee one of his buildings.

Sandler reported all this excitedly to the others in the gloomy barrack.

“Shut up you!” shouted Judah Hertzburg, the head Kapo of Camp 3. Hertzburg was a big strapping man from Lodz. Unlike the other two Camp 3 Kapos, Hertzburg was quick to use his whip, and uncurled it now.

Sandler rose. He was exhausted and almost starved, but sensed that the time to act had come. He would he killed in a few weeks anyway if he did nothing.

“The Germans are being killed out there Hertzburg. Do you want to join them?” snarled Sandler.

“I told you…” began the Hertzburg, when Adolf Burstin, another Kapo grabbed his whip hand. Hertzburg turned on Burstin, a small, squat man with dark eyes and thick forearms.

“Judah. Let’s have a look,” said the smaller man.

“You can look, but I’m following my orders!” Hertzberg shouted, turning head around the darkened barrack, challenging the other men.

“Do as I say or you’ll be shot like dogs.”

Most of the Sonderkommandos were terrified of Hertzburg and the power he wielded. They knew his threat was not idle. Death in Sobibor was only a moment away. The Sonderkommados did the most disgusting and humiliating work in the camp, just to live another day. Most had already surrendered their last vestige of pride or honor. They were not a rebellious lot.

Sandler’ looked to Burstin for support but found none. The smaller Kapo had been cowed. Sandler tried the rest of the men.

“We’ve got to get out of here now!” he argued. “It’s our best chanoe. We’re all dead men anyway.”

Hertzburg raised his whip again. This time Sandler charged him. Sandler was as tall as Hertzburg, but not as broad, and he was malnourished, while the Kapo l1ad a decent diet. Hertzburg struck Sandler with his whip handle. Sandler saw stars and stumbled, but managed to grab onto Hertzburg’s left leg. He drove into it, lifting the leg off the floor a few inches. Hertzburg struck Sandler again, but the younger man seized his advantage with savage desperation and levered the Kapo’s leg high enough to knock him off balance, and into a nearby bunk. This was enough for Burstin, who disliked Hertzburg anyway. Burstin smashed his own whip handle into Hertzburg’s eye, producing a ferocious howl from the big man. Suddenly, as if awakened from a daze, several more prisoners jumped onto Hertzburg, pummeling him with their fists and elbows, and knocking him to the floor. With several men now atop him Hertzburg struggled in vain. A Sonderkommando punched him repeatedly in the head until the Kapo lost consciousness. Then the man grapped Hertzburg’s head, and unimpeded by the Kapo’s thick but now slack neck, bashed it into the floorboards until a dark puddle of blood pooled underneath.

Sandler got to his feet, dazed and unsteady from the ordeal. He leaned on a bunk and wiped his bloodied face with a filthy shirt sleeve.

When he looked up into the gloom he saw that the other men in the barrack were now staring at him—even Burstin and the other Kapo. Sandler was now effectively in charge of the barrack.

Sandler shook out the cobwebs, trying to think. “Pry out these floorboards!” he ordered, and a dozen men fell to the floor and began beating and clawing at the floor, using the handle of Hertzburg’s whip and the few pieces of metal and wood they’d collected to hack at the planking. At the front of the building several more men tore at the loosened board through which Sandler had first caught a glimpse outside. Sandler turned to Burstin and two men stared at each other a moment. They knew that once the barrack was breached they must break out or die, and that either way quick death was the overwhelming likelihood.

Sandler over the din of tearing wood, shouts and sobs. He shouted in Polish and then in German: “Once we are through everyone must get out of the building and run! Kill any Germans in your way and run!”

Some men nodded, most ignored him, a few shouted encouragement. Sandler, adrenaline surging through his body moved to the front of the building and kicked at the partially torn out wooden slats until one, and then another cracked. Sitting on the flour, he, Burstin and five or six other men now kicked steadily until a gap was opened in the wall, enough for a man to slip through. Sandler looked through the hole and saw Schnabel and the other two SS sergeants still huddled by a gas chamber.

Schnabel turned toward Sandler and raised his pistol. The SS man fired several rounds but Sandler ducked back into the building. The bullets missed, but a man next to him, fell back groaning with a wound to his chest. Sandler lay on floor and looked out again. He saw Schnabel fumbling to reload his pistol twenty meters away. The other two SS men just squatted next to Schnabel, apparently frozen with fear. Sandler rolled out of the gap in the building, followed by Burstin.

From beneath the building several other Jews appeared, having wrenched out the floorboards.

“At them!” yelled Sandler. The prisoners, dressed in their stained rags, surged across the open ground toward Schnabel, and the SS gasmen.

From the forester’s tower Ilan and Bolander watched the barrack building come apart and several ragged Jews emerge into the sunlight. The snipers had already shot every visible German and Ukrainian in the gassing complex, but guessed that several remained hidden within or behind the camp buildings. Bolander saw the flash of a weapon and a Jew fall. Through his scope he saw part of a melee between the Jews and several SS men who had remained hidden behind the building.

Another Jew fell. Then he saw couple of Jews drag the body of an SS man across the ground while others kicked at it. Ilan nudged Bolander and pointed to a German running for the covered way while trying to reload his pistol. Bolander had the better angle.

Sandler had just grabbed the dying Magdeburger pistol and run out into the open space by the Himmelgang. He was about to take a shot at the fleeing Schnabel when the German collapsed, hit in the chest by a sniper’s bullet. Sandler looked up toward the forester’s tower and saw a pair of dark figures. He put two and two together and hoped he was right. Not knowing what else to do he waived toward the distant snipers. One of them waived back. Sandler fell to his knees and cried.

Bolander radioed Yatom. “Camp 3 is in friendly hands.”

Mofaz led his team, followed by a few of De Jong’s men, through the Himmelgang. En route he ran into a pair of fleeing Ukranian guards. Mofaz shot them and pushed on. At the end of the covered way he stopped and swept the open area with his Tavor then emerged into the light, where he was mobbed by dozens of smelly ragged and sobbing men.

Mofaz brought Sandler and the surviving Sonderkommando to join the other rescued camp Jews who had now gathered in the open area of Camp 2. This had served as Sobibor’s undressing area, and was the last place most victims saw before entering the Himmelgang on the way to the gas chambers. A yard of horror and humiliation now became a place of rejoicing, as the stunned prisoners recognized that they had been, at least for the moment, saved. When the Sonderkommando appeared, looking even more gaunt and disheveled than the other Jews, they were embraced and welcomed, in spite of the work everyone knew that they had done. Here and there friends and brothers embraced, as if suddenly returned from the dead.

It was early evening as Yatom wandered through the captured death camp, contemplating the situation. Besides the rescued Jews from Camp 2, Yatom had organized a prisoner holding area in the Forward Camp for about two dozen captured Ukrainians and a few SS, including the wounded commandant. He faced many problems, but foremost among them was what to do with each group. The Jews couldn’t remain in Sobibor. He couldn’t guard the captured Germans and Ukrainians for long, and yet he couldn’t let them go either. It was one thing to have captured the camp, another to deal with the aftermath.

Yatom called another orders group. Although De Jong had proved to be a brave and valuable leader he was for the present excluded, as was the young Sonderkommando Sandler, who evidently had led the revolt in Camp 3. The Israeli team leaders, with Perchensky and Feldhandler, sat at around a camp table between the Forward Camp and Camp 2, where Yatom could keep an eye on things. According to their adjusted watches, the time was a little after six in the evening. In Israel the sky would be darkening, but in this northern latitude the summer sky was only a medium blue. The sayeret had been hard at it now for over fifteen straight hours and they were all tired, but not exhausted. Rather than wasting the combat rations, which they might well need later, the Israelis munched on food taken from the SS kitchens, which was not half-bad. There were sausages, sauerrkraut, cheese, bread, and freshly boiled potatoes, made by the Jewish kitchen workers who themselves were preparing a feast for themselves and their liberated comrades. Mofaz and a few of the other men, who kept kosher, refused to eat the sausages, which were certainly made of pork, but Yatom, Shapira, Feldhandler and Perchensky stuffed themselves with the tasty meat. There was also plenty of beer and schnapps. Yatom the mostly tea-totaling Israelis disdained it. Judging from the increasingly boisterous camp Jews, most of them had not.

“It’s good Mofaz!” exclaimed Shapira, his mouth full of Polish kielbasa. “The rabbis say it’s okay to eat traif in desperate situations.”

“Not there yet,” replied Mofaz, his mouth stuffed with potatoes. “If I run out of loof maybe I’ll reconsider.”

“What now?” demanded Yatom looking sternly at Feldhandler.

Feldhandler somewhat daintly patted grease from his mouth with a napkin taken from the German officer’s mess. “Go on” said the scientist.

“First” said Yatom “how long before the Germans know this place has fallen and send reinforcements?”

“We probably have 12-24 hours” said Feldhandler picking his teeth. “It depends whether they got out a radio signal before we blew the antenna and took the transmitter—I doubt they did. But if they did, I’d still say 12 hours. A day if they didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” said Feldhandler defensively “I can’t be sure. But Sobibor is very isolated. It was built in the middle of nowhere—for obvious reasons. There are probably no substantial German forces nearby, and the road and rail communications out here are terrible. We have some time, for now.”

“Beseder,” continued Yatom. “Now, question two. What time is now?”

Feldhandler paused, understanding the question immediately, but taking his time, gnawing on a rind of bread. “It’s June 1942” he said, as if talking to a group of children. “We’ve been over this.”

“Not really,” said Perchensky angrily. “Is this June 1942 in our timeline or some other timeline? Can we get back home—and if we return, will we have destroyed the world we know through our actions here?”

Feldhandler smiled and leaned back comfortably in his chair. This was too much for Mofaz who lept on Feldhandler like a leopard, and put Feldhandler’s neck in a hammerlock. Feldhandler involuntarily spit out a piece of half—chewed rye.

Mofaz growled in his ear. “I’ve a wife and children back home, and I mean to see them again.”

Feldhandler looked toward Yatom who stared back coldly. Mofaz thrust a thick forearm harder against Feldhander’s neck, and putting him on the verge of a swoon. Yatom motioned with his hand and Mofaz released the pressure. Yatom motioned again, and the major let go, but gave Feldhandler a hard slap to the top of the head before retaking his seat, and shoveling in another mouthful of potatoes.

“Answer the question,” said Yatom.

Feldhandler moved his neck cautiously and winced. He squinted at Mofaz through glassy eyes. Feldhandler had felt a sense of elation just a moment before Mofaz’s attack, now he couldn’t hardly bear to look at the man. They were sitting in a liberated Sobibor, eating captured German food on captured china, having done the impossible, saved thousands of Jews from death and captured a critical mechanism of the Holocaust. Then to find himself on the verge of death at the hand of a fellow Jew…!

“Feldhandler!” hissed Yatom, breaking the scientist’s fugue.

“I’ve explained it to you,” croaked Feldhandler, “that I do not have control of the device. What more do you want me to say?”

“Answer my question,” insisted Perchensky.

“Your question?” said Feldhandler, recovering some equilibrium and managing to turn slightly in her direction. “Oh yes. Well, as to whether we can go home, the answer is very probably no—as I’ve explained. The rest of Dr. Perchensky’s question” he continued, now looking away from her “is theoretical. If we are in the same timeline that we departed this morning, then we have created a terrible temporal paradox, the results of which are unknowable. I, personally, should not like to return to such a place, even if I could.”

Feldhandler paused. His own voice calmed him, and the rest of the table now sat silently absorbing his comments.

“The probability exists,” he continued “that we have created a new timeline, in which case the actions we have taken today, have in no way influenced the timeline we departed. But we can’t know what is the case.”

“Why not?” asked Shapira, too tired and strangely exhilarated to much care. He was simply curious.

“Because,” said Perchensky, tired of listening to Feldhandler lame answers, “we never experimented with temporal displacements of more than a few seconds when operating the device—because we feared the situation we are in now.”

“But we did displace time on the other mission,” continued Shapira, “with no apparent effect on our own timeline.“

“Right,” interjected Feldhandler, retaking the floor.

“Displacements of a few seconds apparently have no effect one way or the other. If a new timeline was created out of a few seconds, it essentially dissolved itself into the main timeline…”

“Like a rivulet that gets sucked back into a larger flow, or a sapling absorbed into the trunk of a bigger tree,” said Perchensky, finishing Feldhandler’s sentence, which she had heard in theoretical discussions with him before.

“Correct Andrea,” said Feldhandler with a small smile, a bit flattered that she remembered his metaphors so precisely. “Why exactly this is so, we are not certain—a matter of quantum probabilities. Like everything we do. But nature abhors a paradox, and so probably forbids it. The fact that we are here likely means that we are in a new quantum timeline.”

“So there is a quantum probability that we can return to our own timeline,” said Perchansky, looking at Yatom. “It is possible. We should not give up.”

“But if you are wrong,” Mofaz broke in, “then we would likely return to a world in which Israel did not even exist. Even if this is a new timeline, it will be a world without Israel. What will we have accomplished?”

“How do you figure that, Major?” asked Feldhandler condescendingly, still furious at the commando’s attack.

Mofaz shook his head, and looked as if he wanted to leap across the table again, but instead shook his fork at the scientist. “Israel was created in part out of Christian guilt over the Holocaust. If we stop it, we likely will stop Zionism from succeeding after the war.”

“No Major Mofaz,” said Feldhandler. “Learn your history better. It is May 1942. A million Jews or more have already been killed—mostly in Russia, but in Poland and Germany too. The Holocaust has happened. Do we need to allow five million more to be slaughtered to win our state? In either case, a new timeline or the one we left, the Zionist enterprise will be fully justified.”

Mofaz pursed his lips but kept quiet.

“I’m still not satisfied that we have not created a critical paradox which will change the future of our own loved ones—even to the point of forfeiting their lives” said Yatom. “How can you be so confident that this is a knew timeline? If this a completely new world, Where did it come from?”

“Think of it this way,” said Feldhandler. “Did you ever see the Hubble deep field photograph?”

Shapira nodded immediately. “Yes,” said the lieutenant, “a long time exposure of a small portion of the sky which showed thousands of galaxies stretching back into time and space.”

“Correct,” said Feldhandler, again in his professorial tone. “The universe is rapidly and continually expanding. The Hubble deep field shows galaxies as they appeared hundreds of millions, even billions of years ago. It is a time machine in a picture, because it shows these worlds as they existed when their light left them and caught up to our man-made telescope. Now suppose within that soup of galaxies in the photo, one of them is our own Milky Way, and that we are looking back at light from when our own galaxy exisited in another time and place.”

“Is that possible?” asked Yatom.

“Theoretically,” said Perchensky.

“Now suppose,” continued Feldhandler, “a device was invented that allowed someone to instantly shoot back to the time and place you are looking at? Do you suppose having reached there, everything in the world of the observer would instantly change based on changes in causality created by sending something to that remote and distant galaxy—even if it is our own?”

“No,” said Yatom cautiously, “I guess not. So you are saying, essentially, that this is what has happened to us?”

“Yes,” said the scientist.

“So we can get back home without creating a causal paradox!” said Mofaz, his voice now dripping with hope.

Feldhandler rocked his head atop his sore neck back and forth non-committally.

“Yes or no!” barked Yatom.

“Yes. But returning presumes we had control over the device, which we do not.”

“But communication could possibly be reestablished,” insisted Yatom. “One galaxy—or timeline—to another so to speak.”

“Theoretically. But you would need me to do it, and I won’t.”

Feldhandler quickly raised his hands toward Mofaz, as if to ward of a bad spirit. “Wait. Mofaz!” he stammered as the commando lurched toward him again. Yatom again stopped the Major with a wave of his hand.

“Wait for what,” grunted Mofaz, his face contorted in rage.

“I will work on the problem,” promised Feldhandler, “in return for your continued commitment to your duty in this timeline.”

“Meaning?” said Yatom.

“Sobibor was only one of three major death camps in eastern Poland in 1942—not counting Auswitz and Chelmo, which were somewhat different in their own ways.”

“The others?” asked Yatom, realizing now that he was negotiating a bizarre contract with a madman, for their very lives.

“Treblinka and Belzac. Take them and I’ll do what I can to reestablish communication and get you back. No guarantees.”

“Get us back. What about you?”

“What do you care, Yatom? I have no desire to return—one way or the other.”

Yatom looked at Shapira and Mofaz in turn, and then Perchensky.

He said, “Do we all agree in principle to this?”

Shapira shrugged—he didn’t seem disturbed by the situation. Perchansky shook her head, and Mofaz said no.

“Looks like we do not have a deal, Dr. Feldhandler,” said Yatom.

“Beseder. Let Dr. Perchensky take you home. In English they say this is biting off your nose to spite your face. But if that is what you want, so be it.”

“You know,” said Shapira, “if you all insist on demonstrating Israeli stubbornness, then nothing will be accomplished here. You” he pointed at Mofaz and Perchansky “won’t ever return home, and you Dr. Feldhander, will have destroyed one death camp—which won’t much slow the Holocaust, much less stop it.”

“So lieutenant,” said Mofaz in a tone equally smooth and hard, “what do you propose?“

“Major, what was it like today when those men from Camp 3 welcomed you when you emerged from the Himmelgang?” asked Shapira.

“Smelly,” said Mofaz coldly.

“Do you not see them as real people, as human beings?” pressed Shapira. “Fellow Jews?”

“Don’t try to equate me with the Nazis lieutenant,” said Mofaz slowly. “I have a hard time accepting all of this.”

“This world is as real as our own,” said Shapira. “It is our world, even if it is a different timeline now. You’re a Jewish soldier put down in the middle of the Holocaust—by a trick, or chance—whatever. But it doesn’t change our present reality.”

“What do you want Lieutenant Shapira?” asked Perchensky.

“What I propose is this—the sayeret takes Treblinka. I’ll take Belzac myself if I have to. Once Treblinka falls, Dr. Feldhandler does what he can to get everybody home that wants to go. Fair enough Doctor?”

“I agree,” said Feldhandler.

“Is everyone agreed to this?” said Yatom.

Mofaz nodded his head. Perchansky said nothing.

“Mofaz, get the men together. Ron, root through the German headquarters for maps and anything else that might be useful.” Yatom paused and played with a potato on his plate with his combat knife.

“We also have to divide up the weapons, evaluate the motor pool, develop a plan for ourselves and the refugees from this camp, deal with the prisoners, and get out of here before dawn tomorrow. If possible we should sleep too. Let’s get going.”

Mofaz was happy to leave the orders group, and set out to gather up the commandos. He found most of them singing Israeli folk songs around a makeshift fire with De Jong’s men a few dozen of Sobibor’s former prisoners. Once the sayeret assembled, Yatom briefed them, not offering the commandos an option out, but presenting their next mission—the storming of Treblinka—as if it were an ordinary assignment. The men accepted this, with little grumbling and few questions. They were trained to focus on their missions, not to philosophize—it made life simpler.

Of Treblinka and Belzec the Yatom knew little, other than a vague recognition of names. Treblinka and Belzec, Feldhandler explained, lay inconveniently both to the north and south of their current position. Treblinka lay about 70–80 kilometers northeast of Warsaw and twice as far from Sobibor. Feldhandler’s books showed the general locations of the camps, but nothing else. Shapira found several detailed maps in Stangl’s headquarters which were hard to read but useful. The sayeret would have to do without GPS and use the maps and compasses to reach their targets. Sobibor had a small motor pool which the Yatom ordered commandeered, along with all the gasoline that they could carry.

Shapira proposed to take half of De Jong’s men with the sayeret as well as the Sonderkommando Sandler and a dozen of the prisoners from Camp 3—Shapira figured that these men would be the toughest and most committed of the lot. The former prisoners would all need arms, and the sayeret itself could use a fine German MG-34 or two as well as mines and grenades. Otherwise the remaining weapons would go with the former prisoners of Sobibor.

Yatom decided that De Jong should lead the Sobibor prisoners and half his own men back to Jezek, and the refugees from the train, with most of camp’s weapons as well as all the food they could carry. With such a force, De Jong and Jezek could protect the refugees in the woods, or as Feldhandler proposed, move into a nearby Polish village. The sayeret and the rest of the Jewish commandos would move on to Treblinka.

As to how the sayeret would actually take the second German death camp was a tactical problem Yatom decided to leave for later. He was intent on getting the sayeret some sleep. One way or another, they would have to be out of Sobibor by dawn.

Chapter 16

By the late evening May 25 1942, the freed Sobibor Jews had largely collapsed into an uneasy and exhausted sleep around the open areas of Camp 2, either unwilling or unable to return to their fetid bunks in the former prisoner’s barracks. The Jews allowed the chilly Polish night air to envelope them like a fresh blanket. A few determined young men kept a steady watch on the German and Ukrainian prisoners in the Forward Camp, Mueller and the Stangl among them. Many of the Germans and Ukranians slept soundly as well, unconsciousness offering an easy release from the anxiety of guessing at their fate in the morning. Stangl didn’t join them in oblivion, but lay awake through the night moaning and clutching at his shattered shoulder.

Yatom ordered the sayeret to sleep in shifts, team by team. The commandos quickly and lightly dropped off where they sat in the dirt, their weapons easily to hand. Wearily Yatom returned to the camp table where Feldhandler and Perchansky sat together uneasily. Yatom assumed that they had been talking, but when he arrived they both bent silently over the remains of the evening meal. Feldhandler was jittery.

“We should leave now,” he complained anxiously to Yatom.

“We can leave just before dawn,” said Yatom. “You said we’d have time before the Germans could react.”

“I agree,” Shapira chimed in walking up to the group. “It’s unlikely that the Germans would send a force all the way out here in the middle of the night—it’s 1942.”

“Yes, but that means that we’ll have to move in broad daylight” Feldlrandler whined “with Germans about.”

“We will go just after dawn and find a hiding place in the woods for the remainder of the day,” said an irritated Yatom. “We can’t very well move these people out in the middle of the night” he continued, gesturing at the sleeping hundreds in the yard. “They will have to go by daylight anyway.”

For the next hour, under the stars of a clear European sky, their heads aching and their eyes heavy, Yatom and Shapira hashed out a provisional plan of action to be implemented at dawn. They also decided on a final explanation for the Jews as to their identity—Jewish soldiers from Palestine, under British command. It was what the Israelis had been saying to a few inquiring Jews over the last day, and was the only thing that would explain their common use and knowledge of Hebrew. Because it was untrue, did not reveal any useful intelligence.

With only an hour or two before the short northern night gave way to the day, Shapira dozed with his team. Yatom denied this to himself, pouring over the captured German maps to discover a workable route to Treblinka. Mofaz kept watch nearby, but the two Israeli officers spoke little, waiting unhappily for the sky to lighten.

At 3 am Yatom roused Shapira and the rest of the sayeret. Through years of conditioning and training the soldiers were ready to move almost immediately. In turn roughly awakened the sleeping Jews spread helter-skelter around the camp, liberally throwing in Hebrew, English and German curses and kicks to get the message across. De Jong and his lieutenants assisted the Israelis, as did the Sandler and a few of Sondercommandos. Sandler and his men were especially were anxious to leave Sobibor and its horrors behind. The former Jewish prisoners, accustomed to arbitrary orders and roll calls anyway—if not hangovers—were organized in a few minutes. By 3:15 over three hundred freed prisoners presented themselves in decent order within the Camp 2 yard, with De Jong and his armed men at the front. Yatom called over the Dutchman and quickly briefed on the plan of action decided a few hours before.

De Jong nodded, and then paused. “You still haven’t explained who you are, or why you are here—if you don’t mind my asking. How is it that you speak Hebrew? You promised us an answer.”

Yatom told the Dutchman that they were members of the British Palestinian Jewish Brigade, detached for special duty. De Jong accepted the explanation—it was the only thing that made sense. With De Jong’s curiosity satisfied, the Israeli commander told De Jong to have his men assist the Israelis in arming and supplying the mass of freed prisoners.

The Israelis also organized the former prisoners into rough companies of men, with Sobibor’s few women prisoners also included. They distributed most of the arms from the Sobibor armory—over a hundred rifles, dozens of pistols and grenades, a few machine pistols, and even several MG-34 machine guns. Extra clothing tools, gold, silver, jewelry and other items of value were taken from the storage sheds, and placed back into Jewish hands. From the German mess and stores Yatom’s men also distributed as much food, medical supplies, construction tools, shoes, boots and winter clothing as could be carried.

Ninety minutes later, as the morning was lighting the eastern horizon, De Jong, his original troop of men, and the freed prisoners all reassembled in the Camp 2 yard. About a third of the prisoners were now armed, and all were laden with ammunition or supplies.

Yatom and Feldhandler called De Jong aside. To his surprise they told him that they had selected twenty-four of the fittest men, who they intended to arm with two of the captured MG-34s, and a strong mix of MP-40s, rifles and hand grenades. These men would accompany the Israelis, as they handled other missions, while De Jong led the rest of the camp survivors into the forests and hopeful safety.

The Israelis planned to take all the vehicles from Sobibor’s small motor pool—two staff cars and three trucks. De Jong’s group, explained Yatom, would have to stay off the roads in any case and could not make use of the vehicles. De Jong was to lead the mass of freed prisoners and rejoin Jezek and the refugees from the train.

Overall, De Jong and Jezek’s Jews would instantly constitute one of the largest and best armed partisan groups in eastern Poland. When they found a suitable refuge, they should hide out, and hope for the best. When hope ran out they would have to fight. Yatom handed De Jong a half-dozen compasses taken from the German stores, and described as best he oould the proper heading. When De Jong met up with Jezek he was to take command of the entire group if necessary, or work out an arrangement with the Czech as he saw fit.

De Jong had been through a great deal in the last twenty-four hours and it showed on his haggard face. But De Jong knew that despite his exhaustion, and the almost impossible nature of his assignment, there was nothing else for it. Were he and the rest of the Jews to remain in Sobibor they would certainly die when the Germans eventually retook the place. Tagging along with the Israelis was a schoolboy’s solution. He had ended up the leader of over three hundred nearly dead and desperate men and women, and his task was to unite them with yet another even more vulnerable group of unfortunates, still hiding in the woods many kilometers away.

“Do you understand what you are to do?” Yatom repeated, uncertain that in the mix of German and English he’d made himself entirely clear.

The Dutchman nodded, tiredly but confidently. “I understand,” he said in English.

“Good,” said Yatom, without much sympathy. He was reinvigorated by the morning chill, and the prospect of hitting the road. De Jong’s prospects were grim, but no longer his concern.

“There is one more thing,” added Yatom coldly. “You and the rest of your people must deal with the captured Germans and Ukranians. It is up to you, and them, to deal with the prisoners.”

The exhausted Dutchman had not considered the issue, the Germans and Ukranians having been isolated for the past few hours. Besides, he figured the commandos would somehow take care of it.

“Colonel,” said De Jong haltingly, his English suddenly fractured. “We cannot… we cannot… very well take them… with us.”

“I agree,” said Yatom. “I doubt the victims of Sobibor would agree to let them go.”

“So,” said De Jong slowly, making certain he understood Yatom’s English, “you suggest that we kill them all?”

“That’s up to you,” answered Yatom, matter-of-factly. “Eliminating them would be smart. It would also give you an opportunity to blood some of your new soldiers.”

“By killing in cold blood?”

“Why don’t you put it to a vote? Or ask that fellow Sandler and his Sonderkommandos what they want to do?”

De Jong already knew the answer to the last question, and also knew that Yatom was right. Had it not been for Yatom and his men, he along with everybody on the train would have been killed mercilessly by the gray-clad men now in his power.

“Okay,” said De Jong wearily, passing sentence on the captured Germans and Ukrainians in those two unfamiliar English syllables.

“Who are you taking with you, if I may ask?” he added diffidently, changing the subject.

“Over there,” Yatom said with a nod of his head. De Jong turned to see about half of his original men helping the Israelis load the trucks and staff cars with ammunition, water, and food. Among the group were Sandler and about a dozen former Sonderkommandos.

“You’re taking Sandler and those men too?” De Jong asked. Not much would ever surprise him again after this day.

“Yes. Sandler’s a natural leader. His men are hardened and angry. I think that they will fight like demons if we give them the chance.”

“No doubt,” agreed De Jong.

“We are also distributing about 200 mines to your people that we found in a storage building,” Feldhandler added out of the blue—a detail Yatom had left out.

“Mines?”

“The Germans intended to mine the perimeter of this place but didn’t quite have a chance to do it,” continued Feldhandler. “You can lay those mines around whatever refuge you find. It’s more to carry, but if each man takes one, you should be able to take them all. I think they will be very useful. We’re taking a few for ourselves.”

“Can I ask where you are going?” said De Jong.

“No,” said Yatom. “Deal with those Germans and leave here.” Yatom paused. “We will take the German police sergeant, Mueller too—so you won’t have to deal with him.”

“Yes,” said De Jong quietly. “And thank you.” Yatom grasped De Jong’s right arm tightly, slapped him on the shoulder, and then turned away.

Yatom walked through the Himmelgang and passed into Camp 3. There Roskovskyhad taken a dozen of Sobibor’s landmines and rigged them to the tank engines and the gas chambers. They were primed to explode with simple detonation cord. The engineer met Yatom near the exit of the passageway.

“Commander,” said Roskovsky, “let’s move down a few meters.”

The two commandos slunk back down the Himmelgang until Roskovsky was satisfied. Then he pressed the detonator.

Near the entrance to the camp Mofaz had smartly organized the convoy of captured staff cars and trucks. Standing next to the vehicles the sayeret watched amusedly as the gas complex disappeared in the blasts.

One of the camp’s staff cars led the convoy and the other picked up the rear. Each of the cars carried one team of Israelis—Yatorn’s men in the first car (along with Feldhandler) with Mofaz and his team in the rear vehicle. Shapira’s team rode in the first truck, with Perchansky, Mueller, and most of the extra food, fuel, mines and ammunition. The other two trucks carried the armed Jews. One group of twelve men rode under the direct command of Natan Fliegel; the other consisting of former Sonderkommandos and a few large tough-looking men from the main camp were under Sandler. Along with plenty of hand grenades, Fliegel’s men carried all the Uzis, one MG-34 and rifles for the rest of the men. Sandler’s were also well equipped with five captured MP-40s, another MG-34 and several rifles. The fact that, for the most part, the men had no idea how to use the weapons didn’t matter. Sandler and his men caressed the guns with sense of wonder, pride and newfound hope.

Yatom reached the convoy and met Feldhandler, Mofaz and Shapira by the lead staff car. “We’re ready Mofaz? Then yalla!”

“Shouldn’t we see them off first,” said Feldhandler, motioning to the hundreds of Jews still milling around about the center of Camp 2 while De Jong and his lieutenants and a few other men who had assumed leadership positions shouted at thern.

“They are going to have to sort things out for themselves one way or the other” replied Yatom. “They might as well start now.” Yatom hopped into the front seat of the first car, where Mofaz had conveniently placed another of the captured MG-34s, for use on the way if necessary. Another equipped Mofaz’s car. Feldhandler climbed into the rear seat, sandwiched uncomfortably between Rafi and Ido. Rafi laid his B-300 rocket launcher and his spare rounds across hoth their laps. Nir drove.

Mofaz jogged directly back to his car. Before mounting his truck, Shapira stopped by Fliegel’s and Sandler’s vehicles and speaking quickly in German reminded both men to have their trucks follow but keep a safe distance in case of an ambush or air attack, and to obey orders without hesitation or question. They agreed enthusiastically, clearly anxious to be away from Sobibor. Shapira finally mounted his truck and called to Yatom. The sayeret leader waived his hand and the little convoy lurched out of the gate on the road to Treblinka.

De Jong wistfully watched the trucks depart. Given his druthers he would have preferred to stick with Yatom and his men, but he knew that his present task was more difficult and so more important. After painstakingly reorganizing the newly freed Jews of Sobibor into a rough open three sided square around the Camp 2 assembly area, he ordered the remaining members of his original platoon to bring out the German and Ukranian prisoners.

After speaking with Yatom De Jong had sought out a man named Sobel, a former factory owner from Lodz, who was used to managing people and appeared to be the unofficial leader of the Jews from Sobibor’s main camp. Sobel advised against putting the fate of the prisoners to a vote. He argued that they should be executed at once and assured De Jong that few if any of the Sobibor’s victims would object. Sobel explained to De Jong the torments and horrors that he would have found in Sobibor, had his train arrived on time, until the Dutchman cut him off, satisfied that Sobel had the moral right to make the decision. Besides, as a practical matter, De Jong had decided that killing the Germans was necessary to their own survival.

There were twenty-one prisoners—four Germans and the rest Ukranans—about a third of whom were wounded in one way or another. For Jewish prisoners marched the condemned from the forward camp to the assembly square. It was from this square that tens of thousands of Jewish men, women and children had shed their clothes just before being sent into the Himmelgang. During those horrible days, female victims had been forced into a shed, halfway down the passageway, where their hair was quickly and roughly cut away. At the exit to the Himmelgung the Jews had been forced by the hundreds into the chambers, pressed tightly against each other, children and babies crying, along with many adults, people involuntarily pissing and defecating, and then finally, subjected to a slow painful gassing by the exhaust fumes of the tank engines. De Jong intended that the Germans and Ukranians die faster and more humanely than their victims, not that he believed they deserved it.

The Nazi prisoners were paraded into the open portion of the square, and made to face the assembled crowd. The prisoners quickly figured out the purpose of the assembly when some of the Jews began hurling curses and epithets, while others, waiving their newly issued Mausers, urged an immediate and bloody end to the Germans and their helpers.

One man, a former Sonderkommando suddenly yelled, “Strip them naked! Strip them naked like they did to us!”

This turned out to be a popular suggestion and others took up the call. De Jong, who had never witnessed the mass killings in Sobibor hesitated.

Sobel turned to him and said emphatically, “Do it! You would understand if you had been here!”

De Jong tumed to his men. “Make them strip!”

De Jong’s men did as they were told, ordering the Germans and Ukranians to strip their clothes, prodding those who refused with their rifles. Most stripped only to their undergarments. The crowd objected, and the prisoners dropped their last bits of clothes. Even Stangl, who

De Jong feared would refuse, complied, painfully tearing his uniform blouse off his bloody wounds. The twenty-one Germans and Ukranians stood naked in front of their former prisoners, people that, the day before, they would have killed for the merest slight, or even on a whim.

De Jong stepped forward. “Let me have fourty four volunteers among the men of Sobibor to come forth and deliver justice to these criminals!” De Jong hoped to keep the executions organized, by allocating two shooters to each man, which he hoped would deliver death quickly, without the shooting degenerating into a riot.

As De Jong had feared, a hundred men immediately surged forward to participate, and De Jong had to yell at the top of his lungs to stop them. He turned to Sobel in desperation. “Sobel, select forty four men. Quickly!” yelled the Dutchman.

Sobel moved among the crowd pulling a man here and there, making sure he got representatives from the main camp and the Sonderkommandos, until there were two score and two men standing awkwardly before De Jong. De Jong, told himself to pretend he was back on the parade ground of the Dutch naval training school. He arranged the men in a firing line, facing the prisoners only ten meters away. As he worked, several of the Ukrainians and one German, fell to their knees, while another retched. None ran or protested. They were going to death with no more resistance than their Jewish victims, who they had reviled for passivity.

De Jong and several of his men walked along the line, checking the mens’ rifles, half afraid they’d be shot themselves by the inexperienced executioners, most of whom had never held a firearm until a few minutes before.

“Every two of you aim at the man—I mean prisoner—in front of you. You understand?” The line of shooters haphazardly nodded their heads, or said yes in a variety of languages. De Jong heard German, Polish, Yiddish and Dutch among them. De Jong examined the two groups now, one of shooters and the other of the condemned. Half of the Nazi prisoners had now dropped to their knees or were full on the ground.

“Stand them up!” De Jong cried, and his men moved to get the fallen prisoners back on their feet. Looking at the line of shooters, De Jong decided that for such a group, even at ten meters they were too far away from their targets.

“Shooters! Step forward two steps.” Haltingly, the line moved forward. De Jong moved along the line, reforming it, but worked from behind the shooters for his own protection. He dressed the ragged line, pulling or pushing a men by the shoulder, checking that the bolts on their Mausers were closed. De Jong noticed that the crowd had grown silent, fascinated by what they were witnessing and nervously anticipating the crack of rifle fire, which they, from their own bitter experiences instinctively feared.

De Jong stepped away from the rank of executioners. “Raise your rifles!” The shooters raised their Mausers, now only five meters from the prisoners who stood naked and trembling before them.

De Jong paused, ready to give the order to shoot, when suddenly, one of the men fired accidently. He missed, but now half of the Jewish shooters unevenly followed the first shooter, blasting their Mausers at the prisoners while the rest held off. Here and there a German or Ukrainian was hit and dropped, many hit in the arms or legs or groin.

Those not hit raised their arms to their heads or dropped to the ground. Two tried to run.

De Jong, carrying an MP-40, watched in disgust as the execution fell apart, but with little other choice he yelled “Losl” bidding all the shooters to open fire. His men quickly shot down the two fleeing prisoners, while the executioners either fired their first shots, or if they had already fired, worked the bolts on their Mausers to load another round.

More prisoners fell, but Stangl and about five others remained standing. De Jong wanting to put an end to the mess pointed his MP-40 at the German Commandant, who stood naked and dumb, seemingly in shock. The Dutchman fired a long burst, knocking Stangl off his feet in a shower of blood. De Jong turned the weapon the remaining prisoners, but as he aimed, the last of them fell to his amateur firing squad, which had kept up a ragged fire.

“Halt!” he yelled, as several of the shooters, now more accustomed to their task, continued to pump rounds into already dead and the wreathing wounded on the ground. “Put your rifles down!”

Some of the shooters, uncertain of De Jong’s meaning, gingerly lay their rifles on the ground, while others, more familiar with parade ground practice, if only from watching films, grasped their rifles by the barrels and put the butts of the rifles in the dirt. De Jong, psychologically battered and completely exhausted, but knowing that he had to finish the job, walked over the pile of dead and wounded and finished off those still alive with short bursts from his submachinegun. Brains, guts and blood splattered his shoes and pants.

Finished at last, sickened and thoroughly drained physically and emotionally, De Jong walked over to the sorting shed, wanting very much to collapse against it. Sobel came over to him, and put an arm around De Jong’s shoulder.

“You did well,” said the former prisoner. “What are your orders now?”

De Jong let out a long sigh and took a sip from his canteen bottle. He turned around and took in the scene behind him. Dead Germans and Ukrainians lay at his feet. The makeshift firing squad had already broken up, solemnly reintegrating itself within the greater mass of Jews. The crowd, its bloodlust spent, was quiet.

“Line them up in a column, as best you can, by the front gate. Have my men help you. Make sure we take everything we can. I will join you in a minute.”

Sobel ran off on his organizing task, leaving De Jong, for the moment, alone. The Dutchman allowed himself to lean for a few moments against the rough wooden wall of the shorting shed, still mostly full of the the last possessions of thousands of dead Jews.

Chapter 17

The sayeret was already several kilometers away from Sobibor, driving fast, as Israelis are wont to do, when they heard uneven volleys from the executions echo across the countryside. Yatom hoped to find a good road to the north. The morning sun was already up over the horizon. According to their watches, it was a little after six. Yatom would have to get off the road soon, but he wanted to put as much distance as possible between the death camp and the convoy before calling a halt.

The last hours before the sayeret’s departure had been frantic with preparation. Loading the trucks, organizing the camp Jews, and securing supplies and transport had been only part of the problem.

Yatom knew that he needed a better plan. He had only the vaguest notions of what to do next. Feldhandler demanded the fall of Treblinka and Belzac both on moral grounds, and as a condition for getting them home. Yatorn had his doubts that taking the two remaining death camps would really ensure their return, even assuming he and his men even survived the ordeal. But they were not exactly driving into the unknown either. Between their collected knowledge of the Holocaust, Polish geography, Feldhandler’s books, and the maps they’d taken from Stangl’s office, Yatom had a rough idea of what the sayeret faced in the coming days.

It had been Feldhandler’s idea to go after Treblinka first. Belzec lay to the south which would have forced them to backtrack. Attacking Treblinka would draw the Germans away from the capsule and the Jewish escapees. More was known about Treblinka as well. According to the histories, only two Jews survived Belzac, leaving little testimony about that camp—the deadliest death camp of the trio.

Stangl had trained at Belzac but Shapira’s attempt to interrogate the SS commandant had failed. It wasn’t that the German bravely resisted—he seemed willing to cooperate, but he was in shock. His testimony was mostly nonsensical. The only thing that came through was that Stangl thought little of his counterpart at Treblinka, a man called Erbel.

The policeman Mueller remained eager to cooperate and seemed to know a thing or two more than he let on. Mueller claimed to know nothing of Belzac, but seemed to have heard much about Treblinka, second hand, from other policemen who had made death-train runs there. According to Mueller, Sobibor was a model of efficiency and mercy compared to Treblinka. Stangl had been a competent, cold-blooded murderer. Erbel was a monster, reveling in an orgy of blood and death. Bodies lay strewn about Treblinka. Trainloads of victims were murdered haphazardly and brutally, even by the macabre standards of the Holocaust. Mueller’s account jibed with Feldhandler’s meager histories, Shapira’s own knowledge, and Stangl’s mutterings.

So it was better to go first to Treblinka. Not only would it throw the Germans off the trail, but the disorganized camp would be an easier target than well-run Belzac.

Satisfied that he had made the correct choice in heading north, Yatom glanced down again at his Polish map and consulted his compass. Despite the convenience of their GPS devices, Yatom had always insisted that his men maintain basic land navigation skills—now those skills were vital. The hardest task was keeping the map and compass steady as Nir sped the convoy down narrow and rutted backroads, bouncing Yatom violently. He reckoned they were about six kilometers northeast of Sobibor driving for a series of high roads that would ultimately lead them northwest to Treblinka.

So far they’d been lucky and seen no sign of German patrols or security posts. Sobibor had indeed been put in the middle of nowhere. Yatom wanted move on a few more kilometers and then find a patch of woodland in which to hunker down for the rest of the day. The sayeret commander lightly elbowed Nir and had him turn onto another dirt road that led generally eastward into broken farmland and thick copses of trees. Yatom glanced behind him to make sure the convoy was in order and saw Feldhandler dozing between Ido and Rafi. The two commandos were clearly tired but alert, their weapons pointed out of the car, covering the right and left. Yatom activated his radio.

“Bet leader, Gimmel leader—this is sayeret leader—over.” Mofaz and Shapira acknowledged him. “Do you see those woods about a kilometer to the northeast?”

“Yes,” they confirmed.

“We’ll pull over and reconnoiter the area. If suitable we will stop there.”

The convoy reached the area of the woods, which appeared to extend several kilometers further to the east. Yatom had Nir slow the convoy to better search for a farm path or a forester’s track into the trees. After driving another kilometer they found a small battered road off to the left that went deep into the woods. South of the woodline, they saw several dilapidated looking farm houses, but no signs of life.

The convoy gingerly turned onto the track and bumped their way several hundred meters northward before Yatom ordered a halt. He dismounted, knelt and carefully scanned the surrounding woodland. Ido and Rafi climbed out of the car and fanned out on either side into the high grass along the path. Shapira jumped from his truck with Chaim at his heels.

“Ron, take Chaim, Ido and Rafi and reconnoiter these woods. If clear, see if there is room to hide the vehicles.” Shapira nodded and set out.

Yatom walked back toward Mofaz’s vehicle but the Major had already dismounted.

“Let’s get everyone out of the vehicles for now and establish a perimeter” he told Mofaz. “It will be good practice for the new guys.”

Mofaz ran down the line and emptied the trucks of the tired and disoriented Jewish soldiers. By yelling, cajoling and demonstrating, he put Sandler’s and Fliegel’s men into a rough perimeter around the vehicles, supported by team Bet.

In the meantime, Shapira affixed his “clown hat” and with the other commandos moved into the woods. It resembled an organized European wood only superficially. This Polish forest was much less structured than typical German woodland. Beyond the trail, bitches, oaks, elms and ashes grew randomly, surrounded by a tangle of second growth underbrush. Eastern Poland held some of the last old growth woodland in Europe. The Israelis were unused to such a jungle-like setting, but moved through it professionally, anxious to clear the area and finally take a rest. Shapira found two or three small clearings that could accommodate the vehicles and reported this to Yatom.

Yatom took another look around the area before ordering the convoy off the road. The Polish houses to the south disturbed him, as did the fact that his lager would be just a few meters off a visible track.

On the other hand, the area seemed remote, the woods were both dense and accommodating, and rested on a slight ridge. Yatom walked to the front of the convoy and waived his arm like the leader of a wagon train in an old Hollywood western. The drivers lurched their vehicles into the woods into the small clearings Shapira had found.

Mofaz pushed the Jewish fighters into the woods in all directions to surround and guard the lager. Yatom followed, walking along the perimeter until he was satisfied that the new position was reasonably secure and defendable. Yatom stopped at the southernmost point of the perimeter and looked down uneasily into the tiny village and unprosperous fields that lay in the shallow valley below.

The little hamlet was uncomfortably close. Yatom organized sentries and watches. Mofaz’s team took the first watch along with Sandler and his men. The rest of the contingent broke out an assortment of snacks and rations and enjoyed a second breakfast before succumbing to a richly deserved sleep. Mueller was carefully tied to a tree, but leit ungagged. Yatom lay down nearby for his own belated nap, and to discourage the German from making any noise. Mofaz, tired but not in desperate need of sleep, moved around the perimeter nervously for the next two hours, making sure his own men were alert, and regularly kicking Sandler’s undisciplined men awake.

The woods grew warm as the day wore on, but stayed quiet except for the buzz of insects and warble of birds. About ninety minutes into his watch Mofaz saw a German prop plane fly by to the south, as if heading for Sobibor. He was unfamiliar with 1940s aerial reconnaissance techniques, but the plane seemed too high and far off to be a danger and Mofaz did not bother Yatom about it. Ninety minutes before noon he kicked Shapira awake, led his men to a comfortable burrow in the forest nearby Mueller and Yatom, and slept.

So it went through Shapira’s watch until sometime after noon Yatom and his Alef team took the watch. Fliegel’s well rested group relieved Sandler’s men who had spent most of the morning dozing anyway. Yatom awoke refreshed from his nap. He stretched pleasantly in the warm and humid spring air. Israel was hot but rarely humid, and Yatom enjoyed the difference, even if many found soggy air uncomfortable. After satisfying himself that the perimeter was still secure and their position well camoflagued, he moved off to a makeshift latrine that Mofaz’s men had thoughfully dug, and took a satisfying shit. Then he went to the edge of the wood, pulled out his binoculars, and examined the Polish village. It was still quiet, with not even a farmer in the field. Maybe it was Sunday, he thought, and realized he didn’t know the day of the week. With little else to do for the moment, he pulled out one of Feldhandler’s history books, laid back against a smooth birch tree, and read in the dappled afternoon sunlight.

The histories appeared to back up the claims of the German policeman Mueller. Treblinka indeed seemed to be a particularly horrific place. The commandant was an incompetent, but a ravenously bloody-minded one. Had Stangl lived, according to the books, he would have taken over Treblinka in order to turn the place into a cleaner more efficient death factory.

In a strange way, this boded well for the Israelis. Treblinka was poorly administered, and more vulnerable to attack. It lacked a minefield, and if anything, its defenses less capably manned than Sobibor’s. Against this, Yatom had to assume that his small force would be unable to achieve the same level of surprise as at Sobibor. He had no idea whether word of Sobibor’s destruction had reached the German command, but it was unlikely that Sobibor’s fate would be unknown to the Germans in Treblinka by the time the sayeret arrived.

Even without navigation errors, breakdowns or delays—unlikely traveling back roads in a strange country at night—they would not reach Treblinka until the next day at the earliest, and then he would need time to prepare and reconnoiter the ground. That left aside the fact that his auxiliary force of freed prisoners remained untrained and unready for combat.

Yatom realized that the sayeret’s greatest advantage would be their ability to fight at night. The Israelis preferred to operate at night, and possessed the latest night-vision technology—technology that was unimaginable in 1942. The attack on Sobibor had been in broad daylight because the immediate situation required it, and the element of surprise was overwhelming. At Treblinka Yatom planned to go in during the dead of night, which meant at this northern latitude, sometime in the first hours of morning. At best, Yatom figured, they might manage a night assault early on the morning of May 28, a day-and-a-half away.

Satisfied for the time being that he was on the right track, Yatom stood to stretch. It was nearly 1400. Around the encampment men continued to doze, but enoouragingly, Yatom watched as some of Sandler’s and Fliegel’s men quietly played with their new weapons, a dangerous but necessary proposition if they were to familiarize themselves with the tools of a new trade. Inevitably there was a mistake. The lager was shaken awake when a young man named Popovitch accidently shot off a burst from one of the MG-34’s. Luckily, the bullets only hit tree bark and leaves, but the noise seemed to echo across the countryside for many minutes afterward. Yatom had his men, now all well awake and alert, secured the perimeter themselves, and ordered the new Jewish fighters to pull back and clear their weapons. This they did somewhat awkwardly and with embarrassment, the army veterans among them taking the lead.

In the wake of the machinegun’s discharge, Mofaz and Shapira joined Yatom near the edge of the wood, looking south into the small Polish village. Through pairs of raised binoculars they saw what they wanted least—activity, and not of an innocent sort. Several men emerged from decrepit houses, joined finally by two men in uniform. The uniforms didn’t look German, but it was highly unlikely that any man in uniform at this time and place would be friendly.

“Get the German policeman” Yatom said sharply to Shapira.

Shapira returned a moment later with Mueller. “Cut his flexcuffs” said Yatom. Shapira sliced through the plastic cuffs with his commando knife, but let the blade rest near the German’s side. Yatom handed his binoculars to Mueller and pointed toward the village. In his rough German he said “What kind of soldiers are those?”

Mueller, happy to be free of the cuffs, and anxious to please his captors took the glasses eagerly. After a few seconds he handed them back and said confidently “They are Polish policemen. They work for German authorities now.”

“Well” said Yatom, taking back the glasses and scanning the village “they are heading this way.”

“The fools are coming to investigate the shooting in the woods” said Mofaz in Hebrew.

“The question is do we attempt to deceive them or shoot them?” said Yatom. “They will be here in a few minutes and will certainly discover our carnp if they go into the woods.”

“We did take some German uniforms with us” offered Shapira.

“Feldhandler speaks German like a native, and I’m pretty fluent. These Poles probably wouldn’t he sensitive to accent anyway.”

“Beseder. Go play dress-up, hut hurry. We’ll use him too” said Yatom pointing at Mueller. “And if he fucks up, we’ll just kill them all. Make sure he understands that.”

Shapira nodded and ran off after Feldhander, and the truck with the German uniforms and equipment. Yatom made his way along the line, told his men about the ruse.

They spread out further in the tree line. With their woodland pattern clown hats, and secreted within the tall grass and underbrush, they were nearly invisible. Yatom hurried back into the woods, and found Shapira and Feldhandler, clumsily attempting to dress themselves in uncomfortable gray woolen uniforms. Mueller stepped towards Shapira. Three Tavors were quickly pointed at the German who swiftly raised his hands.

“I only want to help” said Mueller emphatically. Shapira allowed him to step forward, and Mueller began adjusting the Lieutenant’s suspenders, belts, buttons and buckles until Shapira looked half-way presentable. Then he did the same for Feldhandler. By the time Mueller finished Polish policeman were only fifty meters away, advancing cautiously with their pistols drawn.

“We need German weapons” Shapira said excitedly. Feldhandler crashed through some brush and secured a Mauser and MP-40 from a couple of Fliegel’s men huddling nearby. The scientist handed the rifle to Shapira and kept the sub-machinegun for himself. Unfortunately, per Yatom’s orders, neither weapon was loaded, the MP-40 obviously so, but it was already too late.

“No time” said Shapira, “let’s go.”

“What are we going to say?” whispered Feldhandler.

“Think of something” whispered Shapira, ushering Mueller forward as well. “Tell them we are a German SS unit and to stay clear.” He paused. “Maybe we can get some infonnation from them first.”

Shapira, Feldhandler and Mueller stepped from the woods. The startled Poles raised their pistols. In the underbrush Yatom and Mofaz put the sights of their Tavors on the Poles, laser dots dancing on the policemens’ chests.

“Halt!” cried Feldhandler in German, stepping from the underbrush. “Waflen ab!”

The Poles holstered their weapons, upon recognizing German troops.

“This is an SS unit hunting partisans” Feldhander continued in German. “Stay away.”

“We heard gunfire in the woods. It was our duty to investigate” the older of the two Poles said defensively, in good but heavily accented German.

Feldhandler nodded, but said nothing.

“Are you hunting the partisans who attacked the German camp near Sobibor station?” said the younger policeman, earning a sharp glance from the other man.

“Yes” said Shapira nervously. “What do you know about that?” he demanded with a little more authority, hoping attitude in his voice trumped accent.

“Nothing at all” said the older man.

“He asked about the camp” Shapira pressed. “How do you know?”

“We were informed by telephone just an hour ago and told to be on the lookout for partisans. Only doing our duty…” said the older Pole.

“What else?”

“That’s all, I assure you, Mein Herr” said the Pole obsequiously.

“What German unit informed you of this?” broke in Mueller, sounding very much the SS man, so much so that the Poles quickly assumed that Mueller was in command—his uniform was filthy but of high quality, and his German precise. Feldhandler and Shapira exchanged glances, but went along. It was a good question.

“The Reich railroad command” said the Pole. “They discovered the attack this morning after a train was stopped on a damaged track a few kilometers away.”

Mueller looked at Shapira, like a dog that had just done a trick and expected a treat.

“Return to you post, and say nothing more of this” said Shapira, trying to mimic Mueller’s ease and confidence. “Do not report this meeting. Our movement is…” Shapira stopped searching for the right German words “…especially secret—you understand?” The Poles nodded.

“Warte mal” said Feldhandler suddenly. The two Poles looked at him nervously, out of fear and confusion. Who the hell was in charge here, they seemed to be thinking. It was most un-German. “You may inform your superiors that you encountered our unit if asked. We are heading north after the partisans.”

The Poles exchanged a nervous glance at the change in orders.

“Jawohl, Mein Herr!” said the older man, understanding that strange or not, it was best to just agree with the Nazis. He snapped to attention, and executed smart about face, followed by his companion, happy to have an excuse to be done with it and be on his way. The two Poles walked off quickly without looking back, hoping that they would not be shot in the back by the odd Germans.

As soon as the Poles were out of earshot Shapira turned to Feldhandler and growled in Hebrew “Why did you tell them to report us? Are you insane?”

“I’ll explain later” said Feldhandler.

Hidden in the brush, Yatom and Mofaz watched the Poles turn and go. “Shall I?” whispered Mofaz, a laser dot playing on the back of the younger Polish policeman as they hustled off in the dust.

“Let them go” said Yatom.

Furious that Feldhandler had revealed the sayerets movement to the Poles, Shapira shoved Mueller back towards the woods. He was anxious to talk with Yatom. Shapira noted that the German appeared disappointed that his assistance didn’t even merit a pat on the back. Shapira didn’t care. Feldhandler followed a bit diffidently, but clearly pleased with himself.

“Did you hear what this idiot said!” barked Shapira, as he reached the wood near Yatom, shoving Mueller again, just because he could, and snarling at Feldhandler. “We need to shoot those Poles now!” said Shapira emphatically, turning and raising his Tavor. The Poles were a little over 100 meters away, an easy shot.

“Hold!” said Yatom stepping from the woods. Shapira glared at his commander. Mueller looked on interestedly, not understanding a word, but pleased that Shapira was getting some kind of comeuppance from his boss. Probably for treating me so shabbily the German thought.

“I heard him” said Yatom softly. “Feldhandler wants the Germans to follow us up north—and that’s good. It will keep them away from the escapees—and the capsule.” Yatom clapped Shapira on the shoulder in a friendly way, while Feldhandler looked on contentedly.

Mueller, seeing that the enemy soldiers had reached some kind of accord, and that Shapira was not in trouble after all, kicked the dirt and brooded. Whatever the hell was going on with this strange group of soldiers, he aimed to throw a wrench in it.

The midday sun was high, and the Polish wood was now uncomfortably warm. Yatom called over his team leaders. Shapira put Mueller under the guard of Sandler’s men, each of whom looked as if he wanted to skin the unhappy German alive.

Yatom and Mofaz removed their helmets revealing sweat sodden scalps. Mofaz straightened his kippa while Shapira and Feldhandler gratefully stripped off the heavy German uniforms, and put on their stained but comfortable fatigues.

Under a gnarled oak, Yatom told Mofaz and Perchansky about Feldhandler’s hint to the Poles. Both blanched, and Mofaz shot Feldhandler threatening look. “You agree with this commander?” asked Mofaz.

“It will make our mission a more difficult, but it is important to draw the Germans away both from the refugees and the capsule.”

“Then we need to be going—now” said Mofaz.

“Agreed” said Yatom. “Mount everybody up. We’ll take our chances driving in daylight. Navigation will be easier anyway.”

“The lead vehicles ought to wear German jackets and headgear” said Shapira, a bit chagrined but ready to move on. “It might give us a few extra seconds if we run into any roadblocks.”

“Beseder” moaned Yatom realizing that as the column leader he’d have to roast in a heavy woolen blouse for the rest of the ride to Treblinka. But Shapira’s logic was sound. Ten minutes later the sayeret was underway on the dusty roads of eastern Poland wending its way towards Treblinka.

Chapter 18

On the evening of May 25, not long after Sobibor fell to the sayeret, a German ammunition train on its way to the Russian front almost derailed on the track damaged by Feldhandler’s bombs, At the scene the train crew discovered the remains of the Polizei train guards, along with the bodies of several dozen mostly elderly Jews and much mixed baggage. The crew had no ability to immediately report the incident. As there were no sidings or switches in the immediate area, the train was forced to laboriously back up to the previous station.

The ammunition transport was an army train, and so afier reaching the station the crew reported the incident through the army chain of command, not the SS. It was well into the morning of May 26 before SS Special Trains Unit learned of the blocked track. It didn’t take long for the Unit to deduce that this incident was connected to a missing Sobibor transport. The SS transport office promptly reported the probable disaster to the headquarters of Projekt Reinhard, the ad hoc SS organization responsible for running new death camps at Treblinka, Sobibor and Belzac.

Projekt Reinhardt was named for Reinhard Heydrich, a handsome and dashing young SS officer who, as head of the Reichsicherheitamt (Reich Main Security Office) or RSHA as it was more commonly known, was second only to Heinrich Himmler in the SS hierarchy. Many believed, that the “Aryan” and aggressive Heydrich must inevitably eclipse the wan bookish-looking Himmler the eyes of the Fuehrer. Heydrich had established the eastern Polish death camps under his personal moniker in the wake of the Wahnsee conference earlier that year, wherein the “Endloesung” or final solution to the Jewish problem had been formally detailed.

Heydrich had too many tasks and titles to attend to the day-to-day operations of the death camps, though they were dear to his heart. Even before the construction and initial operations in the newly constructed camps, Heydrich had seen to the murder by shooting or starvation of well over” a million Polish and Russian Jews via SS Einheitsgruppen, police execution details, and disease—ridden and overcrowded Polish ghettos. In recognition of this accomplishment, the Fuehrer had awarded Heydrich the title of Deputy Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moravia (both formerly parts of Czechoslovakia). Heydrich attended to his numerous responsibilities frorn a luxurious Prague office or his fine country house just outside that baroque city, both of which were far from the wastes of eastern Poland.

With so much to do, Heydrich entrusted the vast murder operation bearing his name to an Austrian policeman named Otto Globocnik, nicknamed “Globo” by his pal Himmler. Globocnik held the rank of Lieutenant General in the SS and the Police, and controlled SS operations in the Lubin district of occupied Poland, which encompassed the death camps. Projekt Reinhard was officially run out of Globocnik’s headquarters in Lubin. It was Globo’s office that got the report about the missing Sobibor transport on the morning of May 26, not too long after Yatom and his men departed Sobibor.

Initially, Globo had a hard time crediting the the report. Who would attack a death transport? Most Poles, including partisans, were anti-Semites. They were more likely to cheer a death train than to attack it. The possibility that Jewish partisans had struck the train was laughable. There were a few groups of Jews hiding in the woods here and there, but they had problems enough just surviving, and had few arms or explosives. Nonetheless, the report demanded an immediate and energetic response. Heydrich would demand no less.

An equal mystery was why Commandant Stangl hadn’t reported the missing transport? Stangl was a competent officer, unlike that clown Dr. Irmfried Eberl at Treblinka, and not one to hold his tongue. Communication problems with the isolated death camps were not uncommon, but the situation was certainly worrisome. Globo directed his aide, Untersturmfizehrer Christian Wirth, to contact Commandant Stangl at Sobibor.

Wirth returned moments later. He had been unable to raise Sobibor by telephone or radio. Not only that, he’d checked the communication logs, and there had been no report from Sobibor in over twelve hours.

“That’s not terribly unusual though” said the SS Lieutenant.

“Communications with the eastern camps is often spotty.”

“Yes. But missing transports are not” shot back Globo nervously.

“Take a detail out to Sobibor immediately. Bring a radio and a spare.”

Wirth saluted and departed. Globo looked at the clock. It was seven in the morning. Too early to awake Heydrich he rationalized, In reality, he hoped Wirth would reach Sobibor and report that all was well without involving Heydrich. No need to worry the Reich Protector unnecessarily. Globo called in his secretary and ordered breakfast.

Four hours later, as Globocnik was finishing his third cup of coffee and sixth cigarette an SS communications sergeant deferentially entered his office. Wirth was reporting in on the radio. Globo strode purposefully into the radio room down the hallway, choking back his unease. He put on a pair of headphones.

The radio reception was scratchy and full of static but Globocnik could hear Wirth clearly enough to feel sick. “….Sobibor Camp…annihilated…Stangl dead.” Globocnik spoke as best he could with Wirth for another few minutes, and finally ordered the communications sergeant to have Wirth dictate a full report, transcribe and deliver it immediately.

Back in his office Globocnik pondered his predicament. Wir-th’s report, even broken by static, was far worse than the SS Obergruppenfuchrer could ever have imagined. The entire camp annihilated—Stangl and all his officers dead? Inconceivable, and yet evidently truer Wirth was a serious and reliable officer.

Globo’s duty was to contact Heydrich immediately, but Globocnik had not risen in the SS without a fine sense of bureaucratic, and even physical, survival. To call Heydrich now, with nothing but bad, even disasterous news, would be like digging his own grave, professionally if not literally. To delay reporting the disaster would infuriate Heydrich as well, but Globo could not imagine anything upsetting the man more than the sudden destruction of his best run, and most secret, death camp. Better to report the catastrophe with at least a dose of good news, of which none was available at that moment.

Globocnik left his desk returned to the communications room just as Wirth was finishing his report.

“Wirth!” Globocnik shouted into to radio. “You must locate the partisans who did this! Find them and exterminate them!”

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer… not partisans… Ukranian survivors commandos… Russians… uncertain.”

“Wirth! There is a Polish police station in a village just north of Sobibor. Send a patrol there. Maybe they know something. Break them if you have to!”

“Jawohl… ”

Globo grabbed the communication sergeant’s notes and quickly scanned them. A few Ukranians had survived the attack. They reported a mixed group of attackers, partisans, with a small number of enemy soldiers—unusual looking but clearly uniformed troops. Wirth guessed that they were Russian, although one of the Ukranians insisted that the strange soldiers did not speak Russian, but some other language he could not place.

Globocnik wasn’t sure what to make of the report. He was a policeman by training, and not a bad one. He needed more evidence and a lead or two. At least then he could report to Heydrich that he was on the trail. Ultimately he realized that the only way out of his predicament would be to hunt down and kill the men who destroyed Sobibor.

Globo spent the day making certain that news of the attack did not escape Lubin. He knew that word of the disaster might have reached Heydrich through either the railroad command or the Wehrmacht, but considered that unlikely. Sobibor was a secret SS installation and Globocnik should be able, at least for a day, to keep a lid on the news. It was not until late in the afternoon that Globocnik got the information he craved. It came from Wirth, calling on a decent telephone line from the Polish village of Przyroda, near to Sobibor.

There Wirth had interrogated a pair of very frightened Polish policemen.

Nervously, the two Polish officers described an encounter with a German military unit early that afternoon, much like Wirth’s, looking for the partisans that had attacked Sobibor. The Poles insisted that they had not reported the incident because the men they encountered were Germans. The Poles stuck to their story even under torture, and even after Wirth executed an older officer in order to panic a younger policeman into changing his story. But even then the second policeman insisted that the men he encountered were German. One of the Germans said that the unit was heading north after a partisan band.

Wirth asked Globocnik whether he had any further questions for the surviving Pole, who though injured and suffering was still able to talk.

“Ask him if the ‘Germans’ spoke with an accent.” Globocnik heard Wirth put the question to the Pole, and the Pole eagerly agreed that yes indeed, the Germans spoke strangely—at least one of them.

“Anything else Herr Obergruppenfuehrer?”

“No. You know what to do with him,” mumbled Globocnik.

“Yes sir.”

Globocnik heard the sound of a single pistol shot. “Put some fear into the rest of the village as well—choose ten males over the age of thirteen, put them against a wall, and remind these Poles the cost of attacking their overlords.” Globocnik hung up the telephone. Glonocnik’s instincts told him that the Poles had been telling the truth. That was no reason to exercise mercy, but it was a sufficient basis on which to make plans. If the “Germans” were heading north; Treblinka might be their next target. Why on earth a partisan or commando band would want to liberate Jewish death camps was beyond him, but as a policeman, he would go where the evidence pointed. And with a chase afoot, Heydrich could hardly sack him. He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to place a call to Prague.

Chapter 19

The Israelis ran a circuitous route from Sobibor. Using maps taken from the death camp, Yatom took the column east then north. Although it was broad daylight the roads were almost entirely deserted. They passed just two peasant farmers driving horse-drawn wagons before reaching the town of Wlodawa. Wlodawa was a larger settlement at the eastern margin of historic Poland, along a high road that ran north and south. Yatom stopped the column. The Israelis scanned the town through binoculars looking for any tell-tale sign of Germans, but saw nothing.

Although Wlodawa lay at the eastern extent of Poland, in 1942 there was no border and no distinction between Polish and Belorussian territory. The Germans controlled everything. Endless plains that stretched beyond the Polish town. For the Israelis, such expanses of ground were both mysterious and inviting, but there was no time to contemplate such thing. The north/ south high road could be reached by going through Wlodawa, or by navigating a maze of rough farm paths around the town. The route through Wlodawa was likely more dangerous, but Yatom was unwilling to risk his rickety vehicles on agricultural byways even worse than the roads they had just come through. Nor was he willing to waste the time.

“We will go through the town” he said into his radio. He adjusted his German uniform blouse and cap, gripped the MG-34, and waived the column forward.

Nir gunned the engine on the car, intent on moving the column through the town a fast as possible. “Good Nir” said Yatom “but don’t lose the trucks.”

They bounced along the last few hundred meters of the farm road in bone rattling fashion until Nir reached a paved roadway and swung the column left. The road surface was rough and pitted, but better than the farm paths. In a few minutes, Wlodawa opened up on either side of them, not much more than a collection of buildings along the high road surrounded by two—bit farms and the occasional grain silo.

There were few people on the streets, and no sign of the German military. Nir pressed the accelerator and sped through the dusty border town, nearly hitting a dog at one point and splashing a peasant woman when he hit a muddy puddle. Yatom looked back. The rest of the column was still in good order behind him but very stretched out. Just as it appeared they were reaching the edge of Wlodawa, near a small intersection, Yatom saw German signals party stringing wire off to the right side of the road. There were not more than a dozen men in the unit, along with a single truck.A couple Germans looked up as the column roared past. Yatom waved, and one of the Germans gave a half-hearted wave back, before a sergeant yelled at him to get hack to work. The column drove through Wlodawa without further incident.

Once they reached open country beyond the town Yatom had Nir slow down. According to the map, the high road ran north along the old border for about thirty additional kilometers, before turning northwest, about a third of the way to the target. Yatom decided to drive the road north as far as they could until nightfall, at which point they would pull off for a rest and to map the final approach to Treblinka.

Perchensky sat in the passenger seat of the truck directly behind Yatom’s command car. Mike Bolander was at the wheel while Shapira sprawled in the back with the Negev gunner Roi, the trussed and sullen Mueller, and most of the unit’s supplies. She had said little since arriving at Sobibor, shunted to the side while the men fought argued and fought again. She’d been overcome with shock and disgust with what they discovered in the camp, and what they had left behind. Perchensky was a smart and methodical woman unused to uncertainty. To her own surprise the entire episode had thrust her into an unaccustomed bout of disorientation and confusion. Afraid to show weakness, she shut herself up and off. With more than enough to do, and their macho dismissiveness, the other Israelis had not even noticed. Despite her better judgment, she felt a bit of sympathy for the German Mueller, who seemed to be as confused and ignored as she was.

The ride through the springtime Polish countryside had refreshed her a little. Although she recognized their extreme danger intellectually, she had enjoyed the trip through the strange country, and especially sitting next to the tough American—born Bolander. He was so much not Feldhandler. Like all the commandos Bolander was fit and physically confident. But he, like Shapira, lacked much of the macho bravado of the native Israelis, and was only too happy to chat with her about matters that she guessed were not designed to lead to fucking.

She grew more comfortable as the Polish towns and villages sped past, with little or no sign of Germans. When they came upon the German signals unit, she had the good sense to duck down—not that a pretty dark haired Polish girl in a German supply truck would have raised too much suspicion. The Germans were conquerors after all, and the Poles were at their disposal. The names of the villages were outlandish, and yet she knew that this was the land of her recent ancestors. Szostaki? Kodern? Were these places that Perchenskys had lived—or lived now, in this new timeline—ifindeed that is what Feldhandler had created? Like the other Israelis—excepting Bolander and Shapira—she was surprised how empty such fine land could be. Valuable land that would support endless farms and greenhouses was mostly empty steppe or forest.

Finally they came upon another substantial town called Terepol. Shapira’s radio squawked and he pushed his way into the cabin between Perchensky and Bolander. Shapira looked tired—he’d dozed off and was orienting himself. She could hear Yatom over the radio, sounding displeased that the lieutenant was groggy. Shapira had slept little over the past two days, but neither had any of the commandos. They were expected to operate like that.

Shapira pulled out his compass and turned to Bolander. “We are going through this big town just like the last one. Stay on the gas.”

Bolander nodded. There were no Germans visible in the town, but the streets were a busier than in Wlodawa. Perchansky ducked into her seat. The column sped through, Bolander struggling to keep up with Nir in the lead car. Near the end of Terepol the road turned sharply to the left and continued on in a westerly direction, away from the border. Shapira didn’t have a map and looked concerned.

“Commander, is this where you want to go!” he radioed to Yatom.

“Affirmative” came the reply. “The road will go west for a few clicks then veer to the northwest. Just keep up.”

“Everything okay” Perchansky asked as they roared out of the town.

“Just peachy” said Shapira in English, with a smile. He was about to translate but she brushed back her hair and said in English “I understand.” Bolander turned to her with a boyish smile as the three of them shared a rare relaxed moment.

“Feeling better?” It was Shapira, back in Hebrew. “What?” she said, surprised by the question, and unwilling to admit she had been out of sorts.

“Never mind” said the lieutenant, afraid he’d somehow insulted her. “You just seemed very tired.”

“So did you” she said with an air of finality. Bolander kept his eyes on the road.

The column sped on through a few small villages until at a flea-bit place called Konstanynow the road turned sharply to the northwest. They pushed on as the sun set and by 2100 they approached the largest town yet, a place with the tongue-twisting name of Siemiatycze. Rather than chance another run through a built up area, Yatom led the column off on a country road due west. After two kilometers he pulled his vehicle off the path into a copse of trees.

Gratefully, Bolander followed and tucked the truck neatly under a large elm. Night was falling and Perchensky guessed that Treblinka would have to wait another for another day. As she watched the weary Israelis alight from their vehicles, followed by the scarecrow Jewish soldiers from Sobibor and the death train, she wondered how many people would die at that place before they got there.

The commandos didn’t have time to ruminate. They hurried to set up a safe bivouac in the trees, cutting branches with which they festooned the exposed parts of the vehicles to hide them from air observation. Perchensky noticed that Feldhandler did not join in. He had tucked himself under a linden tree and was attemting to read a thick paperback book under a red-tinted flashlight beam. She’d spent a fair bit of time with him since their arrival, but they had spoken little, saying only what needed to be said. Her anger and disgust had grown over the past day as she considered her situation and stewed over Feldhandler’s duplicity and selfishness. She realized as well, that her former attraction to him, and what she had assumed to be his to her, only made things worse. But she owed it to herself and to the rest of the Israelis to confront him and at least probe his intentions. And she sensed that she was the only person among them that could do it.

Perchensky stepped out of the shadows, took a deep breath and walked to the linden tree. Feldhandler closed his book giving her a glimpse of its title” The Holocaust” by Leni Yahil. A famous book, though she had never read it. Feldhandler looked up at her as he used to, an odd mixture of expectancy with a trace of boredom.

“Trying to figure out what to do next?” she said mockingly, nodding toward the frayed paperback. He ignored her.

“According to German folklore” said Feldhandler patting the trunk of tree “the linden is the tree of lovers.”

Perchansky felt herself flush. Then her fury rose, like the bile burning her throat. “You wait until now to make sweet talk with me?”

She was losing it. Tears washed her eyes. “Sorry. It was a stupid attempt at humor.”

“You don’t do anything stupidly” she croaked. “If you did, you might be halfway human.”

“That’s harsh.”

“You force good decent people…” she wanted to say friends, but in truth, none of them were his friends “…into this hell?”

“Is trying to save our people wrong? Is it not worth a sacrifice?”

“’Our people’ are already dead. They died seventy years ago. You are saving ghosts.”

“This world is real Andrea. It’s not full of ghosts—it’s full of living, breathing men, women and children who are going to die—die horribly—unless we can help them.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You know that I’m right. This is a real world, as real as our time, as real as the world described in this book” he said, tossing the paperback on the ground. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done. What matters is that we are here now.”

“I want to go home. So do the soldiers. They won’t put up with you forever.”

“The soldiers will come along. They know their duty when they can see it with their own eyes. It’s you who are blind.”

She ignored his sophistry. “Tell me how I can bring them home. I’ll talk with Yatom. Perhaps he’ll let me return to the capsule. If you help me maybe I can establish a link through the tachyon transmitter.”

“I already have an agreement with Yatom. After the sayeret takes Treblinka and Belzac I’ll assist you personally.”

“Why not let me start now?” Perchensky persisted. “What harm could it do—or do you think I’ll figure things out for myself?”

“No you won’t” he said. “Not because you are not brilliant, but I’m not lying when I say that I don’t know whether we can reestablish communication with Dimona. Frankly, like I told Yatom, I doubt it.”

“Tell me where to start” she begged.

“Yatom won’t allow you to return alone to the capsule anyway. And he can’t spare that big American you’re enamored with as an escort.”

“Bastard!” she screamed while she kicked dirt at him with her foot.

As she stalked away, Yatom called an orders group, not only for the officers, and Perchensky and Feldhandler, but the three assistant team leaders, Nir, Itzach and Chaim. Yatom knew that they had been lucky so far, but that luck wouldn’t hold forever. In the event that officers were killed or injured he wanted the assistant team leaders to be ready to carry on.

They met at Yatom’s car, parked amid oak branches and brambles. Yatom took out his map and traced the route to Treblinka.

The sayeret was only about sixty kilometers away if they stayed on the high roads. Barring serious difficulties Yatom guessed that they would reach the target within twenty four hours. Yatom doubted that all the vehicles could finish the journey if they strayed off the good roads and he wanted to take the most direct route. The high roads offered a relatively straight shot to the death camp, unless the maps were wrong. “Anybody disagree?” asked Yatom. “No” said Mofaz, answering for the group. “Let’s get this over with.” Neither Shapira nor the sayeret sergeants were inclined to question Yatom and Mofaz.

Feldhandler didn’t object. Perchansky, noted Shapira, appeared distant again, and seemed not to care.

“Good” said Yatom. We leave before dawn tomorrow. The route is fairly straightforward. We might arrive before midday. With luck, we’ll be able to hide out nearby and strike tomorrow night.”

“I doubt we’ll have a free ride all the way tomorrow during the day” said Feldhandler, adding quickly “but I agree we should attempt it. I’m only saying we should expect trouble.”

“That’s why the sergeants are here. In case we all don’t make it to the target. Any other questions or suggestions” Yatom asked in a voice that didn’t really invite further comment.

“I don’t see the point of my tagging along firrther on this little adventure” said Perchensky suddenly and venomously. “You won’t let me fight, and frankly I’m not good at it anyway. I can’t hit a thing with this” she continued, patting the Uzi slung from her shoulder. “Let me make my way back to the capsule. At least there I can work on getting us home—or see if it’s possible.” Then staring directly at Feldhandler she added “I don’t trust him. I want to work on the problem myself.”

“That’s a good idea” said Mofaz quickly, throwing a vicious look in the direction of Feldhandler.

Yatom, stonefaced, turned to Shapira. “Ron, what do you think?”

The lieutenant looked at Perchensky with some surprise, laced with a hint of either desire or admiration, Yatom could not be sure.

“You can’t go alone” Shapira told Perchensky. “And we can’t afford to detach somebody to escort you. Not yet anyway.”

“I agree” said Yatom. “Once Treblinka is reduced we will head back south anyway. That will be tomorrow God willing” he said with an ironic smile. Everybody knew Yatom was an ardent atheist. Mofaz shrugged exhaustedly and fiddled with his kippa. Perchensky crossed her arms.

“Anything else?”

“Yes” persisted Perchensky, eliciting a groan from Feldhandler and disconcerted looks from the sergeants who were anxious to finish their tasks in the bivouac and get to sleep. Yatom gestured for her to continue.

“I still do not understand the point of all this. We are playing a game for his benefit” she said pointing at Feldhandler, who leaned nonchalantly against the car. “We haven’t explored whether this makes any sense at all—whether we are doing any good, or effectively destroying the world we left behind!”

“I think we’ve been through this Andrea” said Feldhandler.

“No, we have not. You put us in an impossible situation and dictated a deal for which, as best I can see, there is no reward.”

“We are fighting the Nazis!” said Feldhandler excitedly. “What on earth are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we have no business here—righting wrongs that have already happened nearly a hundred years in the past. We should return to the capsule and do what we can to get home. If you won’t help I’ll do it myself.”

“Can you?” said Mofaz with an uncharacteristic hint of weakness.

“No, she can’t” said Feldhandler. “She’s wasting your time—and mine.” Without waiting for a reply the scientist walked off.

“Well” said Yatom. “Can you?”

“I don’t know” said Perchensky, with a sob. “I want to go home.”

“We all do” said Yatom, looking especially hard at Mofaz and his sergeants. “But you are not telling me anything new.”

Perchensky didn’t answer. Yatom turned from her, and addressed his men. “Okay, we are soldiers. Anybody have a problem with taking this place tomorrow?” he asked, jabbing at the map with a thick, dirty finger that landed on Treblinka. Nobody protested. “Then let’s get some rest.”

Chapter 20

Reinhardt Heydrich had planned, as usual, to drive himself home in his personal green Mercedes It was a point pride that he drove at his pleasure and alone within his little Bohemian empire, pretending no concern for his personal safety. Though he routinely traveled about without guards, Heydrich was cautious, and always went about armed. He was an inviting target, and he knew that a least a few partisans were about the cities and countryside of the conquered Czech nation.

But this very boldness added to his reputation as a man of action. His fearless reputation encompassed his own headquarters, and within the wider Reich bureaucracy itself. How different than Himmler he was! Himmler—who Heydrich had it on good authority—had become sickened when a bit of Jewish brain splashed upon him during a mass execution in the east, and would never take such risks—or demonstrate such sangfroid.

Heydrich was about to leave his office in Prague in the early evening of May 26, for dinner at his country estate, when Globocnik called. Like Globo, at first he had a hard time accepting that Sobibor had been attacked and overrun. He instinctively whipped his anger at the Austrian General, upon whose watch the disaster had occurred.

Globo temporized like a good bureaucrat, blunting the attack, pointing out, however subtly, that the loss of Sobibor was Heydrich’s burden too. Heydrich paused to consider how he would handle the situation with his own superiors, Himmler and ultimately the Fuehrer. That would take some time, he reflected. It would mean missing dinner again and a night at the office. He had to be careful, for Globlochnik was Himmler’s ally.

On the other end, Globocnik allowed the yomer man to assail his competence and manhood, biting back on his own anger. Then in the dead air of Heydrich’s exhaustion, Globo offered his good news—that his men were on the trail of the partisans and a capture was imminent.

“How imminent, Globocnik?” asked Heydrich.

“We are on their tail. I believe they are heading to Treblinka.”

“Have you warned Dr. Eberl?”

“Yes. But… General Heydrich, as you know… Eberl is a fool.”

Heydrich ignored the insult to Eberl, who was his man. But Globocnik was right—Erbel had proved to be an incompetent.

Heydrich had planned to replace him with Stangl and maybe move Wirth to Sobibor but now. Heydrich controlled himself and spoke now with the preternatural calm that frightened friends and enemies alike.

“Alert Erbel and reinforce him” said Heydrich, as if speaking to an irresponsible child.

“Jawohl, Mein Herr” said the policeman deferentially. “Yet”

Globocnik continued carefully “I lack the forces to fufill my usual responsibilities, hunt down these partisans, and to reinforce Eberl. I’ve only some platoons of Order Police and Ukranians to spare.”

Heydrich knew that Globo was not lying. They all worked with very limited resources. The Fuehrer wanted the Jews exterminated but on a shoestring budget. The massive war against the Soviet Union ate up Germany’s best manpower with remarkable hunger, including ever increasing numbers of the SS. And Heydrich could not send regular Wehrmacht troops to Treblinka or Belzac, even assuming he could pry some away from the Army High Command known by its acronym OKH (Oberkommando der Heer.) That could require the approval of Hitler himself, and even Heydrich was loath to make such a request.

“You will have to do what you can with what’s available” said Heydrich without a trace of sympathy. “Take some police out of the ghettos. Mobilize the German training detachment and the Ukranian recruits at Trawiki for service in the field. I will remain here for the rest of the evening. Keep me apprised of your progress.”

Heydrich hung up the phone before Globocnik could come up with additional excuses. Somehow Heydrich would have to scare up some battalions of SS troops, and that meant dealing with Himmler.

Well, it was inevitable. The Reichsminister would learn of the disaster soon enough if Heydrich didn’t tell him. Better to take the bit now. Heydrich put the call through to Berlin. At least, he thought, I can ruin Himmler’s dinner too.

By the wee hours of the next morning, May 27, Heydrich had weathered his confrontation with Himmler and secured at least a vague commitment for of a regiment of crack Waffen SS troops for anti-partisan duty in Poland if that proved necessary. The troops were training in Germany for the coming summer offensive in Russia, but could be diverted if absolutely necessary. Himmler made it sound as if such a necessity would be Heydrich’s fault, and the commitment of so a large number of elite SS combat troops would require Hitler’s personal approval. But Himmler assured Heydrich, in a tone the dripped with reproach, the Fuehrer would agree. The unspoken predicate was that it would be preferable that such a request never be made.

To better protect himself, and also burnish his reputation as a man of action, Heydrich decided to be on the scene himself. Globocnik was an effective commander, but not Heydrich’s man. Not only that, Heydrich wanted personal credit for annihilating the threat to the camps. He saw in the current crisis both great risk and opportunity. Killing Jews was fine and credible work, but being in the vicinity of a bit of actual combat, was even better.

Despite the fact that he’d spent the night in Prague, Heydrich decided to remain at his headquarters until he could depart for Poland. He directed his orderly, Unterscharfuhrer Klein, to take his car, and pick up a number of personal items and extra uniforms for the coming days. Heydrich then ordered that his airplane, a Fiesler Storch that he piloted himself, to be made ready for takeoff. Finally, Heydrich phoned Globo and authorized him to begin moving troops about immediately, without informing his subordinate that he planned to personally oversee the operation. Satisfied that he had done all he could for the moment, Heydrich lay down on his office couch to sleep off the remaining of the early morning hours. He would need to keep up his energy in the days ahead.

A few hours later, at 0600, while Heydrich still slept, SS Sergeant Iflein climbed into the green Mercedes for the trip out to his commander’s county estate. The young man looked forward to driving the fine automobile on what promised to be a perfect spring morning.

There was virtually no traffic in the city at this early hour, and anyway there were rarely private Czech automobiles about, gas, spare parts and the necessary permits being in short supply. Leaving the city, Iflein turned onto the high road and gunned the engine, exhilarated by the power of the car, appreciating his luck that in this time of war, with—some were saying—a million casualties in Russia already, he had pulled such important, but pleasant and safe duty. Klein slowed as he entered the sleeping town of Kobylisy, in the hills several kilometers outside the city. The town’s streets zigged and zagged in the charming way of many Czech villages and he contentedly steered the car round the many bends.

In the brush near the apex of one of the hairpin turns, Jan Kubis and Josef Gabcik lay in wait, armed with British Sten submachineguns and grenades. They were former Czech soldiers who had escaped to Britain after the Nazi occupation. There they joined the British special services and received training in demolitions and guerilla tactics. The pair had secretly parachuted back into Czechoslovakia several days before with the mission of assassinating Reinhard Heydrich. They knew Heydrich’s general routine, and planned to kill him when he was most vulnerable during his early morning drive to work. Now they saw a green Mercedes come into sight, but traveling in the wrong direction. Instead of heading into Prague as they expected, it appeared to be heading out into the country! No matter, the Czech commandos decided. Even through the early morning mist it was clear that the car was Heydrich’s. The Mercedes was unmistakable, and the driver clearly a tall SS officer. As the Mercedes slowed to negotiate another sharp turn, Gabcik emerged from the bushes, took aim, and pulled the trigger of his Sten.

Klein saw a man step into the roadway and point a machinegun at him. Stunned, he froze for a second. His heart pounding he steered the car away from the man who now struggled with the weapon’s action.

The gun had jammed! Pressing hard on the accelerator Klein felt the thrill of escape until an explosion suddenly rocked the car. Klein felt the sting of glass and shrapnel as the Mercedes careened into a ditch, throwing him against the windshield.

Kubis, having tossed his grenade in the nick of time, rushed past Gabcik, who threw down his jammed Sten in disgust and pulled out his own grenade. The Mercedes was off the road in a ditch about twenty yards away. Kubis, holding a pistol, knelt in the roadway.

“Throw it!” he yelled at Gabcik.

Gabcik tossed his grenade, which fell a few meters short and then rolled near the car’s rear wheel, where it exploded. The second explosion roused Klein, who had been knocked unconscious and fallen to the floor of the Mercedes. The big car absorbed the second blast, rocking violently, but shielding Klein from the grenades shrapnel.

Surprised and happy that he was still alive, the Unterscharfuhrer rolled to his right to escape the car, forcing open the passenger side door and tumbling to the ground, keeping the big Mercedes between him and his attackers.

Kubis and Gabcik remained crouched in the roadway nervous and hesitant. Gabcik’s Sten was useless. Kubis was afraid to rush the vehicle with only a pistol. The Czech’s had one other weapon left, a makeshift bomb, made from an old antitank mine. It was heavy and could not be thrown far, but was more powerful than a grenade. Kubis pulled the bomb from a sachet on his back, and handed his pistol to Gabcik.

“Cover me” said Kubis, as he armed the bomb, then ran forward several paces at a crouch. Ten meters from the car he stood and tossed the bomb, and fell to the ground.

The bomb bounced off the hood of the Mercedes and came to rest a meter from Klein. The SS Sergeant had just enough time to see the device and feel a jolt of fear to arc through his body before he was blown to bits. Kubis was also wounded by the bomb’s concussion and shrapnel as he lay in the roadway, hands over his head. Gabcik rushed to Kubis and determined he was alive. Screwing up his courage, Gabcik ran over to the burning Mercedes. On the far side of the car lay a burned and partially dismembered man in SS uniform. Gabcik turned the smoking corpse over to look at its face. There was nothing there but a reddish-brown mass of pulp.

Gabcik ran back to Kubis, who had staggered to his feet, his clothes torn and his face bleeding, but able to move.

“We did it my friend!” cried Gabcik “we did it! Heydrich is dead!”

Kubis smiled through his damaged face. The Czech commandos stumbled off into the brush at the side of the road leaving the blasted and burned body of Klein behind, lying next to Heydrich’s Mercedes.

Several hours later, in Lubin, Globocnik reacted to an initial and mistaken report of Heydrich’s death by exclaiming to Untersturmfuhrer Wirth “Thank God that sow’s gone to the butcher.” But word soon reached I.ubin that the account was mistaken, and luckily for the Reich, Heydrich was safe and sound, although his orderly was not. Nobody heard Globocnik’s comment but Wirth. Still, the ambitious SS lieutenant might cause Globo trouble yet should he flap his tongue about. Wirth had just returned from his mission to Sobibor when the mistaken call from Prague came through.

After satisfying himself that Heydrich was indeed alive, Globo took his aide aside.

“You did good work at Sobibor Wirth!” said Globo heartily, offering the young man a schnapps despite the early hour.

“Thank you, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer”

“Wirth” continued Globocnik “you are aware that the leadership at Treblinka has been lacking of late?”

“Ja, Mein Herr.”

“I had hoped to reassign Captain Stangl to the job, but a competent SS Untersturmfuhrer such as you would do as well. Of course, an appropriate promotion to would come with the new position, though that might take a month or two.”

“I would be honored” said Wirth, recognizing that he was being purchased, but happy to conclude the sale.

“Good. It’s imperative that you proceed to Treblinka a once. Relieve Dr. Eberl and organize the camp’s defenses. I will send you as many men as I can, as quickly as possible. You should reach Treblinka by this afternoon, and the first reinforcements should join you then.”

Wirth nodded, and clicked his heels. He was about to deliver a salute and execute an about-face, but paused and said “It’s very fortunate that General Heydrich survived that assassination attempt, is it not, Herr Obergruppenfiiehrer? He is a true hero of the fatherland.”

Globocnik smiled weakly. “He is one hero among many, Wirth. Perhaps you will be too. Dismissed.”

Wirth gave Globo a Nazi salute, executed a perfect turn and left the office. Globocnik mulled his situation. If things went well, Wirth would destroy the enemy partisans at Treblinka, and much the better if he died a hero in the process. Heydrich was another matter. Globo disliked the young SS General, but out of jealously not philosophy. A dead Heydrich might have made his life easier—what a boon that would have been! But with Heydrich alive there would be no rest until these enemies of the Reich were dead and buried—or he was.

Chapter 21

Mofaz awoke two hours after midnight on May 27 in an unusually good mood. Much as he disliked Feldhandler and his present situation, the soldier in him was grimly satisfied. Like many IDF officers, Mofaz chafed at the army’s growing moral weakness and hesitancy. In recent years it seemed not only that the IDF wanted to save all its soldiers from death or injury, but the enemy’s too. So many operations cancelled. So many attacks carried out halfheartedly for fear of losing Israeli boys, or killing too many Arab boys. Successful wars were not waged that way.

But under the present circumstances he and Yatom could do as they pleased. Mofaz, who had grown up in a religious West Bank settlement, didn’t much like Yatom, a card carrying secular Jew, and a self-declared atheist. But the Colonel was a tough, aggressive and competent commander, and Mofaz could not fault Yatom’s decisions thus far. Indeed, he looked forward to the flying attack on Treblinka—his blood was up.

As Mofaz walked among the men in the dark and cool Polish morning he boosted their spirits as well, with a combination of aggressive talk and deliberate fear mongering. Nothing made a soldier more alert and serious than a good dose of apprehension. Things had gone to easy so far, but there was no place for complacency, he urged.

Even the Jews from Sandler’s and Fliegel’s groups got the message though Mofaz spoke little German and no Polish—enough of them knew Hebrew, or a few words at least, to get the gist of the combative Major’s words.

An an hour later, much to Yatom’s satisfaction, Mofaz had the unit mounted and ready to move out, without the sayeret leader having lifted a finger. Mofaz could be a pain-in-the-ass, but he was a smart and forceful officer—it was hard to ask for more. Yatom walked along the vehicles, garbed again, somewhat outlandishly, in a German field jacket over his Israeli kit. He reminded drivers and commanders of the day’s orders—drive fast, keep in column and shoot if you have to. Satisfied, Yatom climbed into the leading staff car as Nir once again gunned the engine.

A few minutes later the sayeret was back onto the high road.

According to the map they were motoring on a relatively good highway, Route 690, north to a town called Ciechanowiec. If the sayeret was lucky, they would reach the town in the sleepy morning hours when transiting the built up area inconspicuously would be easier. From Ciechanowiec, the column would turn west on a relatively straight drive to Treblinka.

The sayeret hit Ciechanowiec a little after dawn. The Israeli drivers switched off their night vision goggles and maneuvered the vehicles through the narrow Polish streets. Ciechanowiec was a big town, and it was hard to keep to the high road through an intricate series of forks and intersections. At one point the column took a wrong turn and drove around in circles, until finding themselves heading west on Route 694, the road they needed in any case. They had not been on the new highway for long before Nir pointed excitedly down the road toward a rise, about half a kilometer distant, where there appeared to be a roadblock. Yatom told Nir to slow but not stop. He scanned the distant ridge with his binoculars. Behind him, Shapira in the first truck did the same. Yatom grabbed the radio handset from Nir’s pack.

“Sayeret leader here. Roadblock ahead. All vehicles keep moving. Fire on my orders.”

“Go ahead Nir—faster now” Yatom said excitedly. Nir increased his speed while in the back seat Ido and Rafi readied their weapons.

Yatom considered using the MG-34 by his side, but chose the Tavor. At a hundred meters the roadblock came into clear view—four unfortunate German soldiers who had arrived by bicycle. The Israelis sped on. At fifty meters one of the Germans stepped out into the road and held up his hand, while behind him the other three held their weapons loosely. Their orders had been vague, and none really expected action.

Nir aimed the staff car directly at the German in the highway, while Yatom fired a long burst at two Germans on the right side of the road. The stunned Germans tumbled over. The German in the road dove out of the way, only to be riddled by fire from Ido’s Tavor as the staff car sped by. The fourth German turned and ran, but was gunned down by Rafi, who stood in the bouncing car, and despite the movement and his awkward position, managed to hit the fleeing man.

Yatom raised his hand and the convoy came to a halt. Mofaz and Shapira ran to the front. Mofaz looked disappointed that he’d missed the action. Yatom walked over to the pair Germans he had shot. Both were badly wounded. He considered delivering a coup de grace but thought better of it and instead called out to Sandler. The former Sonderkommando hopped out of his truck followed by several of his men. They found the Israeli officers standing over the wounded Germans, who writhed in pain, their eyes wide with fear.

“We can’t leave these men behind” Yatom told Sandler in his ever improving German. “Do something.”

Sandler carried a captured MP-40. He’d shot a few practice rounds from it in Sobibor—yesterday had been the first time he’d ever used a firearm of any kind. Sandler hated the Germans passionately, a feeling that had hardly been assuaged by the death of the guards at the gassing complex, where Sandler’s entire family had died. He didn’t hesitate.

“I will do it” he announced turning to his men. Yatom and the Israeli officers hurriedly ducked behind Sandler, moving his men back a few meters too, just in case. But Sandler was fast—before Yatom had turned back the young Jew had put a short ragged burst into one German and took aim at the second, who was a bit further away. That man died seconds later.

Feldhandler walked up smiling. “Might as well have your men put a few rounds in the corpses—for practice” he said in fluent German.

Sandler nodded and six of his men stepped forward with their Mausers and fired a couple dozen rounds into the dead Germans, while the rest of the Jews from the trucks watched. Then Shapira and a couple of his men collected the German’s rifles and grenades and tossed them into Shapira’s truck. It was ugly and messy, but it had to be done. Yatom and Feldhandler squeezed back into the first staff car and the convoy sped off, leaving behind a roadblock of smashed corpses and bicycles. Perchensky, in the cab of Shapira’s truck, shuddered as the column drove past the scene of the firefight. She had endured the battles at the train and in Sobibor because she had still felt herself in a kind of daze, the experiences essentially unreal.

Driving through the vast empty fields of eastern Poland had cleared her head, and gave her time to think, and to reflect on the disastrous turn her life had taken. The more she thought, the more she disliked everything that was happening. As she watched Sandler finish off the Germans, and his men blast away at the corpses, she wept. The Germans were really just boys, like Israeli soldiers, like Sandler and his own men. Did they deserve that? At that point she resolved not to involve herself further in the adventure. Yatom and Feldhandler could prevent her from leaving the sayeret but they could not force her to help. She mulled over her decision as the convoy rolled on, past fields reeking with manure and the occasional flea bit village.

The roads improved slightly as the convoy headed west and Perchensky assumed they would soon be nearing Treblinka. Since running into the roadblock they had not seen any more Germans and she allowed herself to relax, exhausted by her own sobbing. By mid-morning, the temperature had risen to pleasant warmth and Perchansky dozed. She was awakened by Yatom’s rough growl outside her window. Shapira leaned awkwardly from the back over her sweaty torso to listen to his commander, as Yatom was joined by Mofaz.

Holding a German map, Yatom pointed to a farm track off to the left of the road. With a stubby finger he pointed to an intersection a few kilometers down the road, and then ran his finger down the paper to a point marked with a red grease pencil—Treblinka.

“We can take this road until this intersection here” Yatom was saying, pointing at the map again “but l can’t believe they wouldn’t have another roadblock there.” Shapira and Mofaz nodded as Yatom circled the intersection with the pencil. It looked very close to Treblinka.

“Why don’t we take this farm path” said Shapira, twisting over Perchensky’s body and nearly putting an elbow into her face. “We only have seven or eight kilometers to go—we could cover that cross country by afternoon.”

“What about the river?” said Mofaz. They had been riding north of the river for most of the journey since Ciechanowiec. As best they could tell from the map and road signs, it was the river Bug.

“It’s shallow” said Feldhandler, who pushed his way into the conference. “If there is not some old bridge along the way, we can afford it.”

“How do you know?” asked Mofaz.

“Because I know history. Refugees fled the German occupation zone to reach the then Soviet zone by fording the river in 1939. It’s nearly summer and the river is almost certainly starting to run low.”

Yatom studied the map for a bridge or ford. “It’s difficult to tell on this map. You look.” He passed the worn map to Feldhandler.

“Here, at this bend about two kilometers on, these markings seem to indicate a ford. And at the bend the river would run low and sluggish.”

“Beseder” said Yatom. “We’ll cross at the ford if possible, and if not find an alternative. We’ll push on to here” Yatom made another mark on the map. “We’ll leave the vehicles and go the rest of the way on foot, after dusk” Mofaz stretched his neck but said nothing. “Okay with you Major?” said Yatom.

“Let’s have everybody get up that tree and have a look at the place” he said. “Then we will meet and come up with a plan. We attack tonight.”

Mofaz climbed the tree next while Yatom and the rest of the sayeret lounged underneath, breaking open a few rations. The Major, as agile as a cat, climbed beyond llan to a higher limb before taking a look at the death camp.

“Ilan, do you see that?” asked Mofaz, pointing to a cloud of dust off to the southeast of the camp.

“Yes. Looks like trucks arriving.” The two commandos strained through their glasses to get a better look. Yatom, listening to the exchange called up to the pair.

“What are the trucks carrying—Jews or Germans?” There was no answer for a moment, and then Ilan said, “Germans.”

Wirth arrived at Treblinka just in time to be observed by the Israelis. He led an advanced party of SS reinforcements—a garrison platoon of thirty men from headquarters who were either waiting assignment, reassignment or on furlough. They were all regular SS camp guards, mostly sergeants and corporals. They were disciplined, loyal, and some were sadistic, but none were real combat soldiers. In sum, they were men of the same type and quality as were already at Treblinka—and who had died quickly at Sobibor. They were armed with an indifferent mixture of MP-40s, older Bergman submachine guns, and pistols. A few of the lower rankers carried Mausers. Each man also carried a grenade stuck in his belt, a clear signal to the group that a fight was likely, and that their duty at Treblinka would not simply consist of shoving naked civilians into gas chambers. This did little to raise their morale.

On the way was a full company of Ukranian recruits from the Trawiki training camp. Their worth was also highly suspect. The reinforcements would double Treblinka’s garrison, but not improve its quality. Wirth would have preferred a company of Wafen SS or even Wehrmacht infantry. But there were no SS combat units available, and Treblinka, like all the death camps, was off-limits to regular Wehrmacht troops. Hopefully, thought Wirth, numbers would make up for quality. Between the existing garrison and Wirth’s reinforcements, the small death camp would be protected by nearly three hundred men.

Wirth’s mood wasn’t bettered by his first good look at Treblinka.

If Sobibor had represented a industrial death factory disguised as a summer camp, Treblinka appeared to be exactly what it was—a human slaughterhouse. While Stangl had run Sobibor with cold efficiency, Dr. Erbel could not keep up with the workload. From the main gate Wirth could see corpses strewn about the wire—would-be escapees shot down and left to rot where they died. Deeper inside the camp the situation was much worse. Corpses lay in piles near the railroad siding and near the so-called deportation square. The stench was overpowering.

Within the deportation square, the last remnant of a transport—all women and children—had been stripped and were now being herded toward the gas. There was no doubt as to their fate, the pile of bodies surrounding them told the story. The women wailed or sobbed, terrified children clung at their breasts or feet, while the guards used whips and dogs to move them along. There was little order or organization, and no attempt to minimize the horror. The SS and Ukranian guards shot or brutally beat the shocked or recalcitrant on the spot—regardless of sex or age.

After watching the last of the doomed Jews enter the Himmelgang Wirth walked over to Treblinka’s Forward Camp. There he found Erbel in his office with an aide, poring over sheets of statistics listing the number of Jews murdered over the past week. The commandant seemed surprised but not displeased to see Wirth, who was considered an expert on gassing.

“Wirth! Good to see you! What brings all the way out to the front?” said Erbel, not getting up from his desk.

“I’d hardly call this the front Dr. Erbel” said Wirth. “Although there certainly enough bodies laying around that someone might make that mistake.”

“Yes, yes, the bodies. You know Wirth, they send us a transport a day, sometimes two.” Erbel rose from his seat and gestured to the window. “It’s impossible to keep up, and the more we fall behind the more difficult it becomes. We have to shoot them at the platform in the assembly area, or at the burial sites. The gas chambers are insufficient, and the engines break down too often. But you know this Wirth!” exclaimed Erbel ruefully. “You and General Globocnik send the transports!”

“Sobibor and Belzac seem to manage the load alright” said Wirth frostily.

“Well” said Erbel with a smirk, “not Sobibor anymore.”

“What do you know about Sobibor?”

“Only what Globocnik has told me” said Erbel defensively. “What happened at Sobibor could never happen here!”

“Why not?”

“We don’t get loads of Dutch and Austrian Jews here Wirth—nice orderly kikes who go to the chambers with hardly a peep! We get Poles from the Warsaw Ghetto! They come off the transports ready to fight and we give them one. I’d have shot those partisans down the minute the stepped off the train!”

“I doubt they’ll try that tactic again” said Wirth.

“Why? Is another attack expected?”

“That’s why I am here. To assist with the defense of this place” said Wirth carefully, deciding then and there he would not relieve Erbel. Why should he be saddled with trying to pick up the pieces of what seemed to be a looming disaster. Globocnik would understand, assuming Wirth got out alive.

“Assist me?” asked Erbel. How?”

“I’ve come with an additional SS platoon—good men all” he lied.

“And a company of Ukranians will arrive within the next few hours.”

“A whole company? There is no place to put them.”

“The Ukranians can make camp outside the wire and patrol from there.”

“Wirth—is this really necessary? Who would attack this place? It’s only Jews dying here” said Erbel, pursing his lips in a scholarly way. “I think Sobibor must have been a mistake. The partisans must have thought it was a Russian or Polish prison camp… it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“You may be right Dr. Erbel” said Wirth, conceding that the man had a point—he had been a respected lawyer before the war after all. “It is puzzling—but just in case Treblinka must be prepared.”

Chapter 22

Late in the afternoon Yatom sent Ilan and Bolander ahead to reconnoiter an approach route to the death camp and to photograph it. They were joined by Fiegel and Sandler too, much to the displeasure of the Israeli marksmen. It was a risk to send the inexperience Jews on such a mission. But they and their men would be attacking the Treblinka too, and it would help to actually see the ground. The four men took a pair of digital cameras that the sayeret brought for their original mission—to be used to photo-identify their elusive original target after he’d been killed. But now they would serve another purpose. The Israelis would have to do without the usual satellite and air recon imagery, and instead relay on photos analyzed from the view screens of the cameras—not up to the usual standards, but much better than nothing.

The scouting party returned in the early evening, having closed to within 500 meters of the camp. Judging by their description and the photos, Treblinka resembled Sobibor in hasic layout. A Forward Camp covered half the southern extremity of the installation near the railroad line and the unloading platform. Next to that was an assembly and sorting area, much like at Sobibor. To the northwest lay the extermination area, accessed as at Sobibor by a kind of covered passage. Overall, Treblinka appeared to be a less well designed than Sobibor, with the watchtowers concentrated around the extermination area, and the main camp merely fenced in and patrolled.

At least that is how it had been until late that afternoon. The photos also revealed a significant reinforcement of the camp. At least a company of Ukranians had set up a crude bivouac a few dozen meters to the east of the perimeter fence. Taking into account the earlier reinforcement Yatom had witnessed, it was clear that the Germans were expecting an attack. In the main this was good, thought Yatom. It meant that the Germans had devoted their efforts to defending Treblinka, rather than hunting down the survivors of Sobibor.

Yatom sat down with Mofaz, Shapira and the two Israeli snipers to plan the assault. Feldhandler was excluded—this was to be a professional commando operation. It went without saying that the Israelis would wait until the darkest part ofthe night, which in these northern latitudes meant after midnight. That way, they would gain full advantage from their night vision equipment. Unlike the Sobibor assault, that relied on surprise and a rapid daylight attack, Yatom intended to take Treblinka by confusing and whittling down the German defenders until they broke. The Israelis would penetrate the camp, seize positions inside, and invite the inevitable German counter-attacks. These would be shredded by the Israelis superior weapons and night vision.

At sunset Yatom gathered the other members of the sayeret, along with Feldhandler, Perchansky, Sandler and Fliegel. Sitting in a grove of pines, munching on German sausages and cheese from Sobibor, Yatom gave the needle covered floor over to Mofaz to explain the mission. Mofaz spoke in Hebrew. Sandler and Fliegel followed along as best they could.

Mofaz produced a crude drawing of his own design, based on the photos. “Unfortunately” began the Major “Professor Feldhandler neglected to bring a site plan of Treblinka, so I made this myself, based on the recon team’s description, and photographs.” He lay the drawing in the middle of the group and, in the gathering darkness, using a green glow stick to illuminate it.

“Teams Alef and Bet will infiltrate the camp from the north, knocking out the towers guarding the extermination sub-camp, occupying them, and then bringing tire on the rest of the camp. There are four towers in this section of the camp. Bet will take this one here” he said pointing to the westernmost tower. “Alef this central tower. Ilan and Bolander will occupy the tower in the northeast of the camp. Colonel Yatom’s will establish his command post in this central tower along the north fence. The plan is to draw the enemy to our positions in the sub-camp and use our personal weapons and night vision equipment to decimate them.”

“The camp is illuminated” said Feldhandler. “That will render your night vision useless.”

“There is a generator shack here” said Mofaz and holding up one of the digital cameras with a photo displayed. “This building with a radio antenna atop it, see?” Feldhandler nodded. “Rafi will take it out with a round from the B-300. That should take care of the spotlights and their radio” continued Mofaz calmly. “There are two more towers here at the southern corners of the camp” he continued. “We engage those at a distance and eliminate them.”

“What about telephone communication” persisted Feldhandler “and Shapira’s team…”

“I haven’t finished” said Mofaz getting irritated. “Two of Fliegel’s men—Tovi and another boy whose name escapes me—have already set off to cut the wires on the rail line a few kilometers west of the camp…”

“You sent a couple of Jewish boys to do that?”

“Yes. We can’t spare out ovm men—unless you want the mission? Maybe you can chase after them?” said Mofaz.

“We sent them out early to allow them plenty of time to return” said Yatom soothingly. Yatom motioned for Mofaz to continue.

“Now as for team Gimmel—Sergeant Bolander will be detached to work with Ilan. Lieutenant Shapira, Chaim and Ro’i will lead in Sandler and Fliegel’s men.” Mofaz, pointed to the two Jews. “Verstehen?” They nodded slowly.

Shapira took over, speaking in German to the pair. He told them to leave two men behind to guard Mueller, but otherwise to accompany team Gimme! in an assault on the Ukranian camp.

“Lieutenant Shapira and your men will begin the attack on the Ukranians once we have infiltrated the camp” said Yatom in German and directing his comments mostly at Sandler and Fliegel. “It will add to the Germans’ confusion. After the Ukranians are routed, you will launch a general assault on the camp, supported by the sayeret’s fire. Understood?” Fliegel and Sandler looked tired and dubious but could do nothing but agree. “Lieutenant Shapira will work with you. Don’t worry” said Yatom unconvincingly.

“You know what?” said Bolander suddenly, having understood the better part of Yatom’s little speech, “we need a name for these guys, the rescued Jews, instead of just calling them, well, them.”

“What then genius?” said Ilan.

“How about the Bears and the Dolphins” Bolander said in English. “Like the American football teams?” Bolander had lived near Chicago as a child, and liked the Dolphins since a trip to Disney World.

“No” said Roskovsky, known to be a big sports fan generally, especially baskethall. “Beers are okay, I guess” said the engineer, mangling the team’s name. “But the other group should be the Bulls—Michael Jordan’s team!”

“And it has a nice ring to it—in English anyway” said Shapira.

“For other reasons, but so what? Okay with you guys?” he asked Sandler and Fliegel, who stared at him blankly until he translated into German. They looked no happier after the translation, but agreed to the monikers. “So” continued Shapira happily “Sanrller’s men are the Bulls, and Fiegel’s the Bears.” The Israelis laughed good-naturedly while Sandler and Fliegel stared nervously at the strange men surrounding them.

“And what about me?” asked Perchensky. “What I am supposed to do during this glorious mission?”

“You’ll accompany me” said Yatom.

“Him too?” she said, pointing at Feldhandler. “How are we all going to fit in a tower? That’s your plan isn’t it?”

“We’ll manage” said Yatom, although he hadn’t considered that problem. He reminded himself that Perchensky had a first class mind, and such tactical issues were mere child’s play for her. “It will be safe enough” he said without conviction. “Believe me, we’re not going to leave any bad guys in the extermination lager alive.”

“All the same” said Perchansky “I think I’ll pass and remain here.”

“Suit yourself” said Yatom, quietly pleased that he would not have to worry about her now. “It might work out best that way after all. Can you keep guard on the German? That would free a couple of men?”

Perchensky paused to consider this. By guarding Mueller she be assisting the sayeret, something she vowed not to do. But she decided not to be an ass about it and said yes, then walked away. “Good riddance” said Feldhandler.

“Shut up!” said Bolander angrily. Ilan caught his friend’s eye and smirked. Yatom looked at Bolander reprovingly, but said nothing. Feldhandler had no authority over the young sergeant, and Bolander owed the scientist no military courtesies.

Yatom went back to business. “Any more questions? No? Good. Work out details with your team leaders. Ron you begin drilling our friends, the Bulls and Bears. We’ll wear full kit tonight. We go in three hours.”

Shapira walked over to Sandler and Fliegel. He told them to assemble their newly named teams for a series of drills. As they began to walk off, Shapira pulled Sandler’s sleeve and took him aside.

“I want to ask you something—before we go on this mission, something I’m curious about.”

“What is it?” said Sandler defensively, as if knowing what the commando was going to say.

“How did you do it?” said Shapira, more as a demand than a question.

“You mean work for the Germans at the gas chambers?”

“Yes.”

Sandler shook his head and looked at his feet. “I don’t know” he said in a whisper. “You’d have to be there yourself.”

Shapira stared at Sandler, a scarecrow a few years his junior, who already looked a decade older. He was sorry he asked—a waste of time and a distraction for Sandler. Shapira clapped Sandler on the shoulder. “You’ll have your revenge tonight.”

Sandler said nothing and stalked off to his men.

Shapira then scuttled over to Perchensky. She stood near the truck where Mueller remained trussed.

“Your are going to remain here with him?” asked Shapira, catching Mueller’s eye through the gloom. Mueller stared back at him hatefully.

Perchansky gave Shapira a quizzical look. “It’s not like I’m hooking up with him. Somebody needs to guard him.”

Shapira grimaced and scratched at his beard.

“What’s the matter—they don’t let women guard men in America?”

“No” he said lamely, trying to deflect her sarcasm. “Just make sure you keep him tied up.”

“Don’t worry,” she said with typical Israel brio, “I was in the army too.”

Shapira turned away and joined Chaim who walked toward the small clearing where the Bulls and the Bears awaited training for their role in the attack. “What was that all about?” asked Chaim.

“Nothing.”

“You know Bolander’s got the hots for her.”

“Are you trying to warn me off, Sergeant?”

“l just think we all have enough to worry about right now” said Chaim evenly.

Shapira ignored the comment. “Let’s try to be very clear and very basic with these new guys” said Shapira, changing the subject to the task at hand. “I’d hate to be shot by my own men.”

“That’s what I’m talking about Lieutenant.”

“Beseder. Go get Roi and get started. We only have a couple of hours.”

Two hours later the Bull and the Bears were ready, or at least as prepared as confused and terrified amateurs could be under the circumstances. Shapira marched Sandler’s and Fliegel’s men over to Yatom, where the rest of the sayeret was already in full kit, their faces smeared with camouflage paint. All the men of the sayeret pulled on their Madonna radio headsets, followed by their helmets with clown covers, and finally their NVGS. For the first time most of the Israelis attached suppressors to their Tavors.

Yatom’s plan called for teams Alef and Bet to make the initial penetration of the extermination subcamp entirely with suppressed weapons to confuse the Germans and maintain the element of surprise as long as possible. Once the lights were out, the camp infiltrated, and the watchtower positions taken over, the suppressors could come off.

The Bulls and Bears each carried one MG-34 and a mix of Mausers, Uzis and MP-40s along with plenty of grenades. Chaim and Roi would accompany Fliegel’s Bears. Shapira would go with the Bulls.

Both teams would sneak up on the Ukranian encampment, and open fire once the suyeret harl successfully taken the extermination sub-camp. After the Ukranians had been beaten down by fn’e, the Bulls and Bears would charge them, and hopefully rout the poorly organized and motivated reinforcements. At least, that was the drill they had practiced.

Yatom and Mofaz moved through the sayeret checking off the men and their equipment. Feldhandler stood to the side, a bit awkwardly, also fully kitted out holding his Galil. Perchensky stood to the other side of the group, her Uzi slung over her shoulder. She’d taken Mueller from the truck, and tied him to a small tree in easy range.

“Everybody ready?” asked Yatom. There were murmurs of agreement all around, but no smiles. It wasn’t like the start of a game. Mofaz, itching to get started grunted “Julia!” and as one, the sayeret moved off on the hike to the camp.

Shapira kept the Bulls and Bears behind for a few minutes. They had less distance to travel, and needed to make a more deliberate approach. He used the time to encourage the Jewish men, as best he could, shaking each man’s hand, and importuning them to be brave, control their fears, and steel themselves for a lot of noise and confusion. He hoped his German was up to the task. Shapira ended with a little speech. It was not quite Henry V but he was soldier, not a poet, and at the limits of his German language ability. “This is your chance to pay the Germans back for what they did to you, to your families, to our people” he intoned. “Your life is a gifi. Spend it wisely, but spend it if you have to. The mission is the most important thing. Always remember that. And the mission is to kill the enemy, to take that death camp, so nobody else will have to endure what you have endured.” It seemed to work. The men looked at him closely, some with fear, most with gritted teeth and a few with, maybe, with tearful eyes.

Shapira then left the men to their own leaders, Fliegel and Sander, and sought out Perchensky near the vehicle park. He didn’t care whether Bolander had a thing for her or not, or whether the feelings were returned. He felt afraid for her.

Shapira greeted Perchensky as she stood over Mueller. The German lay against a large tree trunk, his hands bound with flexcuffs to his front and his feet bound with rope. Without explanation, Shapira forced the German to his feet and pushed him awkwardly toward a smaller tree. Perchensky started to say something, but Shapira waved her off. He undid Mueller’s flexcuffs, but before the German could stretch his arms out he pressed Mueller’s back against the tree. Shapira told the German to extend his arms backward, which Mueller’ did reluctantly, forcing Shapira to poke him with his rifle.

Shapira reapplied the cuffs so that Mueller’s hands were bound behind his back and around the trunk of the tree. The German shifted his body uncomfortably and looked over to Perchansky like he was a caged puppy. Shapira looked over to her too.

“Well, be careful” said Shapira.

“You too lieutenant” said Perchansky, avoiding Shapira’s gaze and looking instead toward the tree where Mueller stood, tightly bound. Shapira left her there. The Bulls and Bears moved out.

Chapter 23

Wirth spent most of the evening with Erbel, trying to convince the commandant to use the new reinforcements in a sensible manner. But Erbel would have none of it. He ordered the Ukranian company to set up camp in the western field without tents or barbed wire. He sent the new SS platoon into the Jewish barracks, thus displacing several hundred Jews for the convenience of less than thirty men. The Jews were forced out onto the deportation square where victims were assembled before their last journey to the gas chambers. There the Jewish workers were made to stand at attention, believing that their own passage to the extermination camp was imminent. But they were not ordered to proceed down the Himmelgang, but rather to just stand, until after many hours, they were finally allowed to collapse in place. Wirth cared nothing for the Jews’ suffering, but worried that they would unnecessarily spread fear and dissention.

Wirth noted that almost everything Erbel did was haphazard and thoughtless. The Ukranians in the western field were practically defenseless and added little to Treblinka’s protection. Forcing the Jews into the deportation square put extra pressure on the garrison.

Wirth realized that this was simply the way Treblinka was run on a daily basis, and the reason for its inefficiency. Erbel told Wirth that it was too late to mount patrols, and that integrating the new troops into his own garrison could be done in the morning. Evidently, the Commandant didn’t like to work in the evening hours.

The only activity in the death camp that evening was in the extermination lager. There the Sonderkommondo was still at work burying the dead from the last transport. A full platoon of Ukranians guarded the Jewish workers, supervised by several SS men. Otherwise, despite Wirth’s warnings, the Germans and Ukranians in the camp kept to their barracks, with the exception of the regular posted guard.

Shortly before 23:00 Erbel announced that he had had enough and was retiring to bed. He offered Wirth a place in the officer’s barrack, but Wirth decided to go check up on the SS platoon he’d brought with him. Not particularly cared about them, but because he wanted to separate himself from the Commandant. Wirth had a feeling that getting away from Erbel would be safer in the long run.

The Jewish prisoners’ barrack was sufficient to house several hundred people, and Wirth was distressed to see that the SS platoon had spread itself throughout the compound, looting and stealing from the Jews the little they had managed to save or hide away. The SS platoon acted quite as if they were at a summer camp. Several had brought along bottles of Schnapps and others had uncovered bottles secreted away by the Jewish Kapos, who were given a small liquor ration. All the men, it appeared, were drinking. Wirth seethed. Again, not out of sympathy for the Jews, but out of fear for his own career and personal safety.

But Wirth was too smart to confront a group of heavily armed drunks, who he hardly knew, in the middle of the night. Technically, the men SS sergeants and corporals, but in reality, Wirth recognized that they were largely thugs and sadists—fine for murdering Jews, but potentially dangerous if provoked by a strange and stuffy officer.

Wirth found himself a bunk in one of the barracks and lay down.

Finally, about an hour after midnight the revelers grew tired and the sub-camp quieted. Wirth was able to drop off to sleep for the first time in two days. Despite the bunk’s discomfort Wirth slept deeply. Too soon he was roused by a commotion in the room.

“Was ist Ios” he asked an SS sergeant, as he tried to orient himself. Slowly he remembered that instead of lying in his comfortable bed in Lubin he was in a filthy death camp barrack.

“There is shooting Herr Obersfurmfirehrer. It sounds like it is coming from the Lager IV—the extermination camp.”

“That’s not so unusual” said Wirth, rising on an elbow, but not leaving the bunk. He listened to the shooting, and though he was not an expert, it sounded like German Mausers and MG-34s. That would be normal coming from the extermination lager, in the event a gas engine gave out. Not an uncommon occurrence Wirth reassured himself and the SS man.

“As you say Herr Obersturmfuhrer” said the sergeant, grateful to return to his bunk.

“Nichts!” said Wirth suddenly, realizing why he was at Treblinka in the first place. “Get all the men up and have them assemble immediately. I’m going to see the Commandant.” The disappointed sergeant, still tipsy, saluted and stumbled out the door.

Wirth pulled on his boots, and strapped on his pistol belt. By the time he got outside the shooting had almost stopped. Within the camp there seemed to be some stirring but no general alarm. He walked quickly toward Erbel’s quarters, increasingly hopeful. Perhaps, it was just the guards eliminating some leftover transport Jews, or recalcitrant Sondercommandos. He stepped through the gate leading to the Forward Camp when Treblinka was rocked by a huge explosion, and just as suddenly, the lights went out.

Rafi had put the rocket from the B-300 precisely on target. The projectile itself contained a tandem thermobaric warhead designed to penetrate several inches of reinforced concrete or armor. It went through the wooden generator shack as if it was paper, and the secondary charge turned the entire building to matchsticks. The radio antenna atop the shack was destroyed in the blast as well. He’d fired from one of the towers overlooking the extermination sub-camp, with Yatom acting as his spotter. Yatom waived to Nir and Feldhandler, who remained at the foot of the tower to avoid the launcher’s backblast. The two men now joined Yatom, while Yatom sent Rafi to the northwest tower to join Roskovsky and Ido. Using his thermal binoculars Yatom scanned the death camp now shrouded in complete darkness.

They had broken into the extermination sub-camp just moments before. That proved to be more difficult than expected. The outside perimeter was not mined nor patrolled, but the camp’s fences, though neither electrified nor wired to emit a warning signal, still turned out to be a significant obstacle. The Germans built some first-rate fences, difficult and time consuming to cut through, and in doing that the Israeli assault had almost faltered As Roskovsky and Itzak crept forward to cut the wire, the commandos, with suppressed weapons, engaged the platoon of Ukranians and Germans guarding the sub-camp.

The Israelis fired from cover in the brush, but they were unable to take advantage of their night-optics in the heavily illuminated camp. Ilan and Bolander took on the guards in the towers while Mofaz, Yatom and Itzak poured suppressed fire at the exposed perimeter guards. They killed several, but soon enough the surviving guards and immediate reinforcements started to shoot back. One Ukranian team got a burst off from their MG-34 before Bolander put them down, and other Ukranians got off several volleys toward the commandos. This was the shooting that Wirth had heard.

As Itzak and Roskovsky reached the wire the German fire increased, and the sayeret was lucky to have come out of the fight unscathed. Itzak took a round in the chest from an MP-40. A ceramic plate stopped the bullet, but he was down a few seconds. Yatom himself had a round go through his clown hat, while another round had grazed Roskovsky’s helmet. With all the German fire, and two of his men already exposed, Yatom had all of the commandos, plus Feldhander with his unsuppressed Galil, pouring fire into the extermination Lager. Afier several minutes of careful shooting most of the German guards had either fallen, gone to ground or fled. Itzak and Roskovsky finally penetrated the wire Led by Yatom, teams Alef and Bet stornred into the camp.

Once within the sub-camp the sayeret broke up according to plan.

Ilan and Bolander, who had shot the Ukranians out of the four guard towers covering the sub-camp, occupied the northeast tower, giving them a clear view of the rest of Treblinka, including clear shots at the guard towers on the southeast and southwest corners of the main camp. Yatom, Nir and Feldhandler took the central tower along the fence, while Mofaz seized the forward-most tower in the center of the sub-camp with Itzak. Roskovsky and Ido (joined by Rafi after he destroyed the generator shack,) took the northwest tower. From this last tower the commandos covered the vast burial area and the Himmelgang. These were the most likely areas for a German counter-attack.

Secure in the captured guard towers, and with the camp plunged into darkness, the Israelis were finally able to take advantage of their superior op night optics and infrared laser designators. It was time to Whittle away at Treblinka’s garrison.

Yatom pulled spoke into his Madonna mouthpiece: “Take your suppressors off. Fire at will!” Without the suppressors the rifles were more accurate and powerful. Yatom wagered that it was worth revealing flashes in the towers in return for the benefits. As far as the noise, it didn’t much matter anymore.

From the towers most of the commandos used their MARS/D reflex sights and UNS (universal night sights) in combination with the IR laser designators to pick off the enemy. The MARS/D system allowed for both visible laser and IR laser imaging. The IR lasers were invisible to the Germans but showed up as bright laser lines through the UNS and allowed the Israelis to easily illuminate and engage targets. Ilan and Bolander used these in addition to clip-on thermal optical sights to engage targets under cover.

Yatom quickly identified the mass of Jewish prisoners in the deportation yard, and put the area off limits—but everywhere else in the camp was open season.

The Ukranians in the southwest and southeast towers were first to feel the sting. The Ukranian gunners were easy marks for Ilan and Bolander. Despite Yatom’s order, the two snipers kept their suppressors on, creating a nearly silent and invisible shooting nest. The mass of Germans and Ukranians in the main camp soon enough began falling. The night was no longer a shroud. Moving off into the pitch black shadows unaware of the danger, Nazi squad leaders would suddenly collapse with a bullet in the head or chest.

Their men, unable to accept that they were as exposed as if on a parade ground in daylight, would quickly meet a similar fate, until someone had the presence of mind to run away.

After suffering scores of casualties, the camp garrison simply stopped moving, hiding themselves away in Treblinka’s rickety buildings, or in the alleyways between them. Expecting this, Yatom called on Nir to root them out with 40mm grenades. Nir put these through windows and doors, or lobbed them into the alleys. When the blasted men tried to flee, the commandos cut them down with rifles. It was only a matter of time, hoped Yatom, before the garrison would begin to seek refuge in the forests outside the camp, like their victims.

Outside the camp, Chaim and Roi led the Bears to the edge of a woodline not more than 150 meters from the Ukranian bivouac outside Treblinka’s wire. They crawled forward a few more meters and set up an MG-34 with a two man crew. Roi set up his Negev nearby for support. Chaim deployed Fliegel’s remaining men in line to the left and right of the machineguns. Finally, Chaim lay down next to Fliegel and gave his shoulder a reassuring fatherly squeeze, though Chaim was much the younger of the two.

Shapira led the Bulls out of the woods on their bellies a few dozen meters to the north of Chaim. They crawled, following the Israeli lieutenant, to the north of the Ukranian encampment. The idea was to place the Ukranians in crossfire between the two groups, and especially, the deadly machine-guns. Shapira was reluctant to move the inexperienced Jews too near the Ukranian camp or the Treblinka wire, so he stopped his men when they had moved about 70 meters from the Bears. That put them at an oblique angle to the Bears, and perhaps 120 meters from the Ukranians. It would not be a textbook crossfire, but it was sufficient for the pinch they were in. Shapira arranged his men much like Chaim had done.

Sandler’s men were tired and scared, but proximity to the enemy did wonders for alertness. As Shapira looked down the line he saw a dozen wide eyes, staring from faces smeared with dirt and mud for camouflage. They looked so bright under the crescent moon that Shapira feared for an instant that they must be visible to the Ukranians barely a football field away. But when he looked toward the motley encampment he saw only a few slouching sentries and heard little but snores. There was nothing to do but wait for Rafi to put his rocket into Treblinka’s generator. That was the agreed signal to launch the attack on the Ukranians.

For fifteen agonizing minutes the two attack groups waited in the field outside the death camp, praying that they would not be seen or heard. Shapira listened nervously as the muffled reports of Yatom’s suppressed weapons were drowned out by the sound of enemy fire, and then the sound of unsurpressed Israeli rifles. It was clear that Yatom was having some difficulty but Shapira resisted the urge to get on the radio. The sayeret leader would call him if necessary. In the meantime the shooting aroused the sleepy Ukranians who began to organize themselves and break camp, threatening to undo Shapira’s plan of attack The generator shack finally blew when Shapira’s watch said 01:40, about ten minutes later than planned. That’s when all hell broke loose on the Ukranians.

Shapira hissed “Lost!” to the machinegunner, and he let off a long burst of fire toward the Ukranian bivouac, the bullets coming in low, striking standing men in the legs and those slow to get off of their sleeping blankets everywhere. Simultaneously Roi opened up followed by the Bears’ machineguner. Then all of the Jews in the two positions let loose with fire from their rifles and submachineguns. They didn’t bother to aim. Instead they fired after the green machinegun tracers slicing into the Ukranian camp. Roi, his Negev equipped with its own night-sight and laser illuminator, dealt death, killing or injuring more than a dozen men in the first few seconds of action. Now Shapira got on his radio to Chaim. “Let’s give them some grenades!”

The two Israelis each put a 40mm grenade into the launchers slung under their Tavors and with a plunk barely audible through the hammering guns around them, arched high explosives and anti-personnel grenades into the camp. The grenades exploded with flashes that revealed confused soldiers running and crawling through the fire.

They each launched two more of the 40mm killers, spraying the closely packed victims with shrapnel and vicious 1.77mm flechettes.

Shapira flipped on his nightscope and looked through the viewfinder. The Ukranians were rattled. Many were already dead or wounded—others afraid to get off the ground. But here and there a sergeant or corporal appeared to be rallying the men, or trying to organize some fire towards their tormentors. Shapira put a laser dot on one of these men and fired. He fell. The Israeli leutnenant repeated the process on any man he saw standing or acting like a leader. Across the field, following the same doctrine, Chaim did the same, while Roi, grazing his fire a few inches off the ground, cut out the leaders’ feet from under them.

The effect was stunning—within two minutes not a single Ukranian was standing or even on his knees. The survivors were crawling away from the galling fire to the south, attempting to leave the kill trap. Shapira continued to fire for a couple of more minutes, picking out an unfortunate Ukranian here or there, while his men mostly fired blindly over the heads of the fleeing soldiers.

Finally, Shapira ordered a oease fire, crawling down the line to make sure the men understood. He raised his thermal binoculars. In the distance Chaim’s men still shot aimlessly into the camp, while Roi fired an occasional well aimed burst. Shapira raised Chaim on the radio and had him cease fire too. In seconds quiet descended over the fighting ground. From inside Treblinka they could still hear shooting and the occasional explosion as Yatom and the sayeret wore down the garrison, but in the immediate vicinity their ears simply rang. From the Ukranian position one or two men continued to blindly fire, but through his binoculars Shapira saw that most of the enemy soldiers assumed that this was a good opportunity to run. They started out in ones and two, and continued fleeing for the next five minutes. Shapira let them go.

What remained looked like a field of corpses, but Shapira couldn’t be sure. They had rehearsed the next part. Shapira crawled down the line of men reminding the men of the next part of the mission. He raised Chaim on the radio again.

“We’re coming on now—hit them!” Suddenly the Bears opened up again on the prostrate Ukranians. Shapira yelled to his men in German “Aufmarsch! ” Shapira lunged forward, his Tavor at the ready.

The Bulls rose unsteadily around Shapira, but followed him, walking slowly and hunched over. “AufMarchen!” he tried again, hoping to get the men to move with greater alacrity. They had practiced charging and yelling in this final attack to scare off the last defenders and put them to flight, the Jewish fighters men were shell-shocked by their own fire and death that they’d sown, Sandler among them.

Still they stumbled on, and drawing no significant fire frorn the Ukranians, within a minute were only a few dozen meters from the edge of the enemy camp. Shapira ordered them to lie down and take out their grenades. He radioed Chaim to cease fire and the battlefield once more fell into relative silence. Shapira looked down the line. As they’d practiced every other man had a grenade in hand while his mate had a weapon raised to provide cover. Shapira yelled “Los” and a half-dozen Jews willed themselves up, jogged forward a few meters and loosed their grenades into the Ukranian camp. Everybody ducked as the weapons exploded among the dead, wounded and fleeing Ukranians.

Shapira made sure every man reloaded his weapon. That accomplished he led them into the devastated camp with orders to shoot anything that moved. They advanced into a mess of dead and dying men, upturned food pots and ammo crates. The Ukranian camp had indeed been a death trap. The soldiers, complacent and confused by Erbel’s instructions, had neglected to dig entrenchments or string wire, leaving themselves open to slaughter. Here and there one of the Bulls fired nervously at a wounded or crawling man, while Shapira scanned the scene through his scope. Shapira signaled the Bears and Chaim led his men forward until the two groups reunited. Together they combed through the rest of the shattered bivouac, leaving no Ukranian alive. Sandler’s Sonderkommandos shot down two Ukranians who tried to surrender. Shapira didn’t care. In fact, he was glad that the men were turning into killers.

Perchensky, a few kilometers away, listened to the battle raging in and around Treblinka with increasing trepidation. At that distance the firefight sounded like a series of scattered pops and muffled bangs, that reminded her of the popcorn she would make in the little microwave she and Feldhandler shared in the Dimona lab.

Occasionally the rattle of an automatic weapon echoed over the fields. That reminded her of a woodpecker. A few times she made out a distant explosion, presumably from a sayeret grenade or rocket. At least she hoped so. She wasn’t interested assisting the sayeret but was not so jaded that she hoped for a German victory. She shifted her seat in the truck and passed the time working on a complicated tensor equation by the dim glow of a chemlite.

Mueller watched her, his back and hands aching against the small tree. Like Perchensky he could hear the battle in the distance, and had little doubt that his captors were winning again. He twisted his hands against the flex cuffs and rubbed them on the rough bark, but whatever they were made out of seemed far to strong to saw through.

The plastic of the cuffs was alien to Mueller—light but maddeningly strong. He gave up trying to work his way free. Instead, he called out to Perchensky, who he knew spoke excellent German.

“Frauline” he said respectfully “please allow me relieve myself. ”

Perchensky ignored him. Mueller repeated the request, louder this time, but with a touch of desperation, ending his plea with a couple of anxious ”bittes”

Perchansky climbed out of the cab. She felt sorry for the German sergeant, even if he had heen a death train guard. She hadn’t bothered to speak with him, but had the feeling that he was friendly and cooperative. She was smart enough to know that plenty of decent Germans had killed and tortured Jews, but after traveling with Mueller for two days she had ceased to see him as a danger, and rather more like a pathetic dog. Dogs had to shit and piss.

Perchansky left her Uzi in the cab and walked over to him. “The fellows will be back before too long” she said in proper high German.

“You can wait.”

“l can’t, Frauline. My bowels—I think I have dysentery.”

“Then you will be going all night” she said oddly.

“Please, don’t treat me like an animal” he croaked. Perchensky thought it over. Mueller looked drawn and pathetic.

She was also still angry annoyed by the whole situation. Even if Mueller took a shit and ran off she didn’t reckon it would matter much. She went back to the cab, grabbed her Uzi and rummaged around for another pair of flex cuffs. From watching the soldiers deal with Mueller over the days, she knew that the cuffs were disposable.

They had to be cut off and replaced. Not finding any spare cuffs, she located instead a useable length of cord amidst the piles of junk in the rear of the truck. She weighed whether to take the risk of releasing him as opposed to letting him shit himself, and then felt foolish for worrying. Am I nervous just because I’m a woman? I’m armed and can use the weapon she reassured herself. Besides, she concluded, he just needs to take a shit. Perchensky considered issuing a stern warning before cutting Mueller loose, but guessed that it would only show weakness. She had the gun. Mueller would respect it or he wouldn’t.

Without saying anything, she walked behind the tree and using a German bayonet cut the plastic cuffs.

Mueller immediately shook his hands out, grateful to feel blood return to his veins.

“Danke.” Mueller started to undo the rope at his feet, but stopped part way through and looked at Perchensky to get her approval. She nodded. Mueller finished and stood up. He felt surprisingly well now that he was physically free, even if the woman had a machine pistol trained on him.

“Enschuldigurig” he said, carefully, trying to gain a hit of privacy.

“Tut mir Ieid” said Perchansky. “You’ll have to do your business here.“

Mueller took a step forward. It was very dark, with only a crescent moon and the strange glowing stick providing light. He weighed his options. Flee and take the chance that she would not shoot him or miss? Or attempt to overpower her?

He was much bigger and reckoned that he would easily win the struggle.

Mueller lunged at her without further thought. Perchansky raised the Uzi but Mueller managed to throw out a thick arm and knock the weapon to the side. Perchensky squeezed off a burst that shattered the quiet and a tree branch but nothing else. Mueller grabbed at the machine-pistol and used his hulk to knock Perchansky off balance. He grasped the sling and ripped it off her head, tearing her hair and burning her neck with the friction. Perchansky screamed and stumbled away from him.

Mueller stood looking at her for a second, feeling elated. Perchensky stared back, anger mixed with growing terror. She hated herself for her own stupidity. She felt the long seconds pass as one does in the midst of a fall. She’d freed him, she thought. He owed her. She no longer posed a threat. He would turn and go.

The German smirked, raised the Uzi, pointed it at Perchensky, and pulled the trigger. She closed her eyes, raising her arm helplessly, realizing that thanks to a few seconds of bad judgment her life was forfeit.

Nothing happened. Mueller pulled at the trigger a second time, taking his eye off Perchensky as he fumbled with the troublesome weapon. She gathered her wits, recognized that she was still alive, and ran.

Mueller raised the weapon again, and still the gun wouldn’t fire.

He cocked it as he’d seen it done and squeezed the trigger at third time—pointlessly. Perchensky had alreadyfled behind the trucks and into the dark woods on the other side of the clearing. There was no point in chasing her, Mueller figured. She was no longer a threat in any case.

He considered tossing the worthless gun aside, but thought better of it, slung it over his shoulder, and crashed into the woods heading north, back toward the Bug and the nearest German post or patrol.

Perchansky heard Mueller bound away, his big body smashing through the underbush like a tank. She collapsed against a tree and tried to catch her breath. An intense feeling of exhaustion enveloped her, and she began to sob. She put her head between her legs, fearing she might pass out. Finally, she gathered herself and stood up. In the distance she could still hear shooting from Treblinka, but there was no sign or sound of Mueller. The forest smelled clean and invigorating.

She breathed in deeply and cautiously walked back toward the trucks, hoping to find an extra pistol or rifle among the piles of equipment.

Had she been religious she might have thanked God for her salvation, but as her head cleared she guessed why the Uzi hadn’t fired, and it had nothing to do with the Almighty. There is a second safety behind the grip of an Uzi that has to be depressed to fire the weapon. Mueller clearly hadn’t known that, and in fact, the idea would have been alien to him. Eventually, he would figure it out, but by then she hoped to be back in the protection of the sayeret and long gone.

In the back of one of the trucks she found a single old Mauser carbine. It was a strange to her as the Uzi had been to Mueller, but with time on her hands, she pulled out a box of bullets and began working with the weapon—just in case.

Chapter 24

After the generator shack exploded, Wirth returned to the prisoners’ barracks and assembled a small squad of men to escort him to Erbel’s office. He ordered the rest of the SS platoon fan out into the camp and engage the enemy—which he guessed they were unlikely to actually do. No matter, thought Wirth as he made his way to Erbel’s head-quarters through the gloomy camp. He already sensed that Treblinka was lost.

Wirth tried to affect calm as he stepped out of the prisoner enclosure into the blacked out alley that ran to the Front Camp. The dark appeared to offer enough safety and anonymity to make a safe passage. But as Wirth walked toward Erbel’s compound with his escort, one after another of his men was struck down by bullets that seemed to come out of nowhere and hit with the accuracy of a firing squad. In a minute four of his SS escorts were down, leaving Wirth and one other man still standing—a young corporal. They looked at each other, then took off at a dead run for the Forward Camp. Wirth alone made it to safety. He burst into Erbel’s office, panicked and drenched in sweat. Incredibly, Erbel was in worse shape, kneeling on the floor and fiddling pointlessly with a dead telephone. Treblinka’s sergeant major stood nearby, shamefaced. Wirth ignored Der Spiess and joined Erbel on the floor of the office. The two officers exchanged ashen glances.

“What is going on?” Wirth demanded. Erbel just shook his head.

“The camp is being overrun” said Sergeant Major Hahn. “Anybody who steps outside is killed.”

“I just came from outside” said Wirth with false bravado, knowing full well that the Sergeant Major was right.

“You’re lucky” said Der Spiess.

“We are organizing an attack on Camp 4” croaked Erbel lamely.

“Most of the firing seems to be coming from there” said Hahn. “We could use some of your men.”

“What about the new Ukranian company?” asked Wirth. “Nobody can contact them. They have probably fled” said Hahn.

“Who is to lead this attack?”

Erbel turned and looked directly at Wirth. “I expect you to lead it” said the Commandant. “That’s why you were sent here. You said so.”

“I was sent here to muck out the mess you’ve made of this place.”

Erbel suddenly became energized. “Mess?” he asked. “You call Treblinka a mess? It is an extermination camp. We slaughter people. What did you expect?”

Wirth admired Erbel’s sudden rationality, but had no intention of countenancing it. “Your job is to exterminate Jews” said Wirth calmly. “Like cattle at a slaughterhouse. Any common tradesman could run this place better than you. I have no intention of pulling your coals out of this fire. Attack Camp 4 yourself.”

Wirth turned and walked to the door with the firm intention of getting out Treblinka in one piece. Whatever force had struck this miserable place, it was clearly beyond the SS guard and the Ukranians to handle. Some elite paratroop force had evidently infiltrated the Lubin District and was hitting its installations. It would take a comparable force of crack German troops to bring them to heal, and those troops were not available at Treblinka. Wirth was intent on running away as quickly as possible Better to live and make his excuses to Globocnik than die in this charnelhouse.

Erbel up incredulously as Wirth opened the door on his way out.

“Where are you going?” the Commandant demanded.

“Treblinka is yours to command not mine” said Wirth. “I’ll tell Globocnik that you died well.” Wirth shut the door and trotted toward the front entrance, careful to keep buildings between him and the deadly fire that still came from the towers in Camp 4.

Faint and near to collapse, Erbel gripped the edge of his desk and glared at Der Spiess. “Well Hauptsturmfuhrer” said Erbel, his voice a trembling in fear and anger “it is up to us to sort this situation out. Prepare an assault on Camp 4. Gather all available men. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Hahn considered ignoring the order, but saw little practical alternative. He couldn’t just flee like Wirth, who would certainly turn him in for cowardice if they both survived. If he did nothing, he would die anyway. Hahn presented a wan SS salute and reluctantly went to the door. Erbel remained at his desk, frozen in place.

Hahn stepped outside the building, hugging the wall and cast about for surviving soldiers. He carefully threaded his way to the prisoners’ compound picking rrp five terrified men in the process. They were happy to follow anybody with a plan. At the prisoner’s compound Hahn found fourteen more cowering men, who had declined Wirth’s order to engage the enemy. The rest of the platoon from Lubin were dead or, like Wirth, already fled.

Sergeant Major Hahn gathered the men by a barrack and described the assault that they were duty bound to make on Camp 4. Every few moments during his speech an enemy grenade exploded or rifle popped. The shaken SS men winced with each blast. Just looking at these men told Hahn that the assault would be little but a forlorn hope.

The ranking sergeant in Wirth’s platoon asked about his lieutenant. “Why isn’t Untersturmfuhrer Wirth leading us? Is he dead?”

“He ran away” said Der Spiess honestly. “Just like an officer.” He looked at the nervous men before him. “Look now” said Hahn, who had spent two years in the trenches during the last war “you are coming with me, or I’ll shoot you down right now.”

Hahn assembled his reluctant troop near the Himmelgang. There were sixteen men total. The only practical way to assault the sub-camp was down the HimmeIgang—the same passageway Hahn and his men had used to drive thousands of Jews to their deaths. Hahn now had little doubt of what awaited him on the other side of the passageway, but duty and a lack of imagination gave left him with no alternative. He sighed and wished he was drunk.

In the towers within Camp 4 Yatom had remained content snipe at the Germans and Ukranians scurrying about in the main camp. After the difficult initial attack, things had gone much better for the Israelis. It had taken the Germans a long time to figure out that the night offered them no protection.

By the time they began to seek cover, hide or run away the sayeret had killed or wounded scores. Even after the Germans realized they had to seek refuge, Nir’s grenades slew them in their hideouts or drove them into the killing ground.

Yatom had reckoned that the Germans nrust eventually counter-attack the Israelis in extermination lager by coming through the Himmelgang, but as the fight wore on, he wondered whether he was wrong. Yatom wanted the Germans to attack. His men were ready for it. It was doomed to fail, and once the Israelis broke it, whatever resistance remained in Treblinka would surely collapse. Using the thermal scope, Yatom scanned the Treblinka again. It appeared deserted—whatever Germans remained had hidden well.

Shapira reported in that he had run off the Ukranians and was ready to move into Treblinka as soon as Yatom gave the order. Yatom was about to do just that when Roskovsky excitedly radioed that he’d seen movement near the exit of the Himmelgang. Calmly, Yatom radioed the teams to hold fire and allow the Germans to move through the tunnel into the encampment.

Within the passageway Sergeant Major Hahn sweated nervously in the middle of the assault column. Ahead of him was a section of Wirth’s men. They had pushed slowly and reluctantly up the Himmelgang, fearing Hahn’s MP-40 as much as what lurked at the other end. Behind him the rest of Wirth’s men and a few Ukranians grimaced in the gloom. Hahn didn’t like his chances anymore than the men in the passageway with him, but he was an old fashioned sort, who accepted the obligations of rank and aimed to see things through. He’d survived two years in the trenches—and he told himself that this was no more risky than going over the top. Finally the corporal in front of Hahn turned and whispered that the column had reached the entrance to Camp 4.

“Then Rottenfuhrer” said Hahn with a dramatic pause “instruct the column vanguard to begin the assault.”

Hahn’s order slowly worked its way up the line and the column began another hesitant move forward. The vanguard wasn’t so much assaulting the target as crawling into it meter by meter. Hahn followed, crawling now on his belly, mouth dry, his stomach cramping in fear. Up ahead he saw the first of Wirth’s men in the extermination camp, either lying prone or crouched in the dust. They should have been shooting at the towers but the barrels of their rifles and machine-pistols remained silent. Finally Hahn reached the end of the passageway and looked around. The towers loomed above him dark and silent. He now allowed himself the same hopeful thought that had induced his men to lie about and hold their fire—maybe the raiders had fled. He crawled out a couple of meters and waved on the men behind him. Surrounded now by nearly twenty well armed SS men, Hahn shook off his fear. Of course, the raiders had fled. They stayed only while safe in their positions, but with the arrival of a genuine SS attack they had turned and run, like any partisans. Hahn stood up to his full height and said firmly ”Aufmarsch!”

In his tower Yatom saw a large German stand and wave his men forward like they were crossing the Polish frontier in 1939. The German leader was surrounded by nearly twenty soldiers who huddled around him near exit from the passage. Yatom could feel the tension of Nir and Feldhandler in the tower with him. Finally, like a jockey loosing his mount he let them go. Yatom spoke calmly into the Madonna at normal volume. “Yatom here. All teams fire at will.”

In the quiet that had settled over Treblinka Hahn heard the strange voice from the tower. The language sounded vaguely familiar, like the shouting of dying Jews. A second later three different Israelis peppered Der Speiss with more a half-dozen rounds that sliced through his body from head to knee. An SS sergeant who had crouched next to him was ripped apart by a burst from Feldhandler’s Galil. Some of the panicked SS men about the passageway threw up their arms in a vain attempt to stop the Israeli rounds while others attempted to crawl back into the main camp. But the sayeret’s fire enveloped them like a deluge from which it was impossible to emerge dry. Within a minute every German who had emerged from the Himmelgang was off to heaven, or hell, or nowhere.

Next to Yatom Feldhandler shoveled magazines in and out of his Galil, firing with a demented abandon at the Germans below him, apparently indifferent that he was running through irreplaceable ammunition. Yatom called a ceasefire into the radio and placed a hand on the receiver of Feldhandler’s smoking Galil shaking the scientist out of his mania. “It’s done Feldhandler!” he shouted. “They are all dead. The Germans here are dead or fled.” Feldhandler stared at Yatom a moment and then smiled. The same strange quiet had returned to the camp.

“Well,” said the scientist, “let’s get out of this tower.”

“Wait” ordered Yatom. He looked down at the mass of dead Germans below the tower, and scanned the camp once more with the thermal binoculars. Satisfied that the German resistance was broken, or nearly so, he raised Shapira on the radio. “Ron—Yatom here. What’s your position.”

“We are near wire on the east side of the camp ready to cut in.”

“Send Sandler’s or Fliegel’s men in first. Let them take the risk in case there is a trap.”

Shapira looked over at the Jewish fighters spread out around him. In the thirty minutes since the rout of the Ukranians he had reorganized the men, and given them a little rest. Now prone in a small depression outside the Treblinka fence they seemed recovered and capable of further action. He called over Sandler and Fliegel and issued them orders in a matter of fact way.

The Bears moved first. Mimicking the strange commandos, Fliegel stepped out in front of his men and simply said in Yiddish “after me.” The Bears set off at a trot for the wire, while the Sandler’s team remained prone, their weapons pointing toward the camp. Shapira watched the advance nervously through his thermal binoculars, searching for potential dangers—he found none.

A minute later the Bears reached the wire, where two men began cutting the dense fencing. Fliegel’s men had an easier time of it then had Itzak and Roskovsky, since nobody was shooting at them. Indeed, Treblinka remained eerily quiet.

As he squatted in the dark, waiting for Fliegel’s men to open a breach in the barbed-wire fencing, Sandller couldn’t help but marvel at the irony. For the last few months of his life he had thought of little else than finding a way to cut himself out of Sobibor. Now having found deliverance, he was cutting his way back into a death camp. The thought suddenly scared him, and he wondered if he had gone mad. He quickly gave up his macabre musings when one of the Bears signaled that he was through the wire, and Fliegel, standing now like traffic cop, waived him on.

Sandler led his men forward. He ducked through the opening first, heading back into a death camp despite his reservations. He crossed the patrol area between the twin wire fences, MP-40 at the ready and stepped into Treblinka proper. The former Sonderkommando didn’t know whether his men recognized the irony of their act, or shared his trepidations. It was enough, thought Sandler that they continued to follow him. Seconds later Sandler and the Bulls were in Treblinka.

Sandler led his men into an uneasy hush. Other than an occasional shot from the snipers in the towers and the sound of several burning buildings, Treblinka was as quiet as a sleepy Polish hamlet. It reminded him of his grandparents’ village—before it was liquidated.

Chapter 25

Erbel stayed in his office, bereft of Sergeant Major Hahn, and the rest of his officers, who as best he could tell, had either died, run away or gone into hiding. Wirth had run. Erbel would have run too, but feared facing General Globocnik as much as staying put. Wirth would be able to make his excuses, he would not. Like the thousands of victims murdered in his camp, Erbel found himself strangely resigned to his fate. He was terrified, but unable to act. His only companions were Klum and Engel, a pair of SS headquarters clerks who now awaited his orders. He had none. Finally, one of the boys screwed up the courage to speak.

“Herr Kommandant, what are your orders?” asked Klum. “What is it like outside, Klum?” whispered Erbel, as if the deadly men in the towers could overhear him. “Are they still shooting?”

“Weiss nicht Herr Kommandant. The shooting has died down. Perhaps the attack is over. Maybe we won the battle” said Klum hopefully, but without much conviction. “Shall Private Engel and I go see?” Klum wanted to flee the Koinmandanfs quarters, which he was sure was a death trap.

“No” said Erbel morosely. “Are there any other German soldiers nearby?”

“There are a few right outside the door, Herr Kommandant” said Engel, a little less rattled then Klum. “There are others hiding behind other buildings, or in them, I’m sure.”

Erbel pulled a bottle of vodka from his desk, and took a long swallow. The two clerks looked on expectantly, but Erbel corked the bottle and put it down. The liquor burned his throat and numbed his teeth, but gave him a bit of courage, and an idea.

“Engel, do you think you could lead us out of here, under cover of the buildings, as far as the deportation square.”

“Yes, Mein Herr. I think so.”

“Good. Gather the men at the back of the building and have them come with us. You lead the way Engel. I’m counting on you.” Erbel took another swallow of the vodka, and tucked it into a small haversack, with a bit of food from a sideboard. He checked his pistol.

Engel stood at attention, proud that he would soon be leading an SS column, or something like it. Erbel motioned toward the door, and the two SS priv’ates grabbed their rifles and went out into the shadow of the headquarters building. There they found four Ukranians and an SS Corporal named Schweinsteiger. After briefly explaining the movement, the clerks set off for the deportation square with the other Germans, including Erbel, and the Ukranians in tow.

From their position in the tower at the northeast corner of the camp, llan and Bolander could see almost all the open areas of Treblinka, except those in defilade due to the camp’s buildings. The snipers suspected that Germans and Ukranians hid in the lee of the buildings. They waited patiently for the enemy troops to expose themselves. Both marksmen had chalked up impressive scores through the night, but business now lagged. Either most of the enemy was already dead or gone, or they were sensibly not moving.

Engel led the group advanced quickly and cautiously through this defilade, hiding in the shadows, avoiding open spaces. Ilan briefly caught sight of the group, and fired a single round at one of the moving targets.

Klum fell like a sack of sand, hit flush in the face by Ilan’s bullet. Engel shook off Klum’s sudden death and pressed the column onward. Erbel ran by the dead clerk without a second glance. A few meters from where Klum fell, Engel reached defilade again, in the lee of the food storage shed, opposite the roll call square. The deportation square, where the Jews were held and where Erbel demanded the go, was only a few dozen meters beyond that. To reach it they would have to cross another exposed area.

Engel looked back at Klum’s body, a rich pool ofblack blood seeping into the dust near his shattered head as they leaned against the storage shed. “Ignore that” said Erbel coldly. He turned to the Schweinsteiger, waving his pistol. “Go now for the deportation square! Run. I will follow.” Schweinsteiger looked at Erbel wide-eyed, while the four Ukranians huddled behind him.

“Los!” yelled Erbel again. The SS corporal lunged around the corner followed by the Ukranians. Bolander and Ilan caught the movement and prepared to fire. Suddenly, another group of figures appeared in their sights moving directly across the path of the sprinting enemy. From the direction of the movement it could only be Shapira’s group. The Israeli snipers held their fire.

Sandler saw the SS running toward the deportation square as he led the Bulls down the same street in the opposite direction. He cried out excitedly and fired off several rounds from his MP-40. Schweinsteiger fired back with his machine-pistol. Neither man hit anything.

Sandler paused and motioned for his men to go to ground, afraid that they faced an unexpected counterattack. Instead, Schweinsteiger and the Ukranians, followed by Engel and Erbel continued their run toward the deportation square, bursting through the unguarded gate. Erbel’s group found cover behind the undressing barrack, where Treblinka’s victims shed their clothes before being marched to the extermination camp.

Shapira, saw Sandler fire his weapon and halt the column. He ran up to the Sandler, now lying in the dirt. Shapira knelt on one knee and looked at the former Sonderkommando. “Why did you stop?” demanded the Israeli lieutenant.

“I thought we were under attack” Sandler stammered, disturbed at Shapira’s harsh tone.

“What attack?” asked the commando, looking across the darkened camp. There was not a German in sight, nor were Sandler and his men under fire.

“They ran in there” said Sandler, pointing to the deportation square.

Shapira looked back toward the tower where he knew Ilan and Bolander were still ensconced. He raised Bolander on the radio.

Bolander told him what he’d seen from the tower—a group of Germans running toward cover. He hadn’t fired for fear of hitting Sandler’s men.

“What square is that?” Shapira asked, pointing dramatically in a way he knew that Bolander could see through his powerful optics.

Bolander took out his own rough sketch of the camp and studied it with the help of a small flashlight.

“That’s the square that attaches to the passageway that goes to the extermination camp.”

“That’s the route Yatom’s planning to take into the camp” said Shapira worriedly.

“I hear you” Yatom broke in, having monitored the discussion.

“Ron, take that square and drive out the Germans.”

“Acknowledged” said Shapira. He snapped down his NVG and looked again at the deportation square. To his surprise, it was crammed with people lying on the ground or huddled against the two main buildings. The people were obviously the camp’s Jewish prisoners, assembled there by the Germans for some reason. Shapira reported this to Yatom.

“I see that” said the Israeli commander. “You still need to move into the area. Try to identify the Germans, without injuring the prisoners—if possible. Don’t take any chances. Report as soon as the passageway is clear.”

Chaim and Roi having monitored the conversation with Yatorn nodded to Shapira. Shapira motioned to Sandler and Fliegel, to meet him by the side of the road. Shapira pointed to the deportation square and the two large buildings within.

Sandler immediately recognized that these were undressing barracks. “The far building is probably the women’s barrack—it looks like there is a haircutting room attached.”

“Take the men’s barrack first” said Shapira. “As you move in tell the people you are Jews here to rescue them. Ask for their help.”

Sandler smiled. He quickly explained the plan to his men, who appeared almost enthusiastic. This was what they really came to do.

Sandler led his men at a run across the camp road toward the deportation square. He broke into the compound and he let out a savage cry. Soon all the attacking Jews were yelling at the top of their lungs as they entered the square.

Erbel and his men had fled into the women’s undressing barrack. They shared the barrack with about fifty women and girls who had been sheltering there to avoid the battle. Erbel watched as Sandler and his men burst onto the dusty square. He pushed at Corporal Schweinsteiger, who stood by the doorway. then pointed at the onrushing Jews. “Shoot them you idiot!”

The SS man fired a burst from his MP-40. Several of the Ukranians fired their Mausers from the building’s two windows.

One of Sandler men fell. Sandler forced himself to ignore the casualty and press the attack All around him scores of Treblinka’s Jewish prisoners hid their heads in the dirt or crawling away toward cover.

“We are Jews! We are Jews!” cried Sandler as he crossed the open area. He paused to fire a burst at the women’s barrack, and then continued his run toward the men’s barrack on the opposite side of the square. Fliegel’s men followed, Chaim and Roi with them. The two Israelis stitched the women’s building with automatic fire, while Sandler and his men stormed into the men’s barrack. Sandler burst into the men’s building, a bundle of nerves and excitement, his finger on the trigger. But there were no Germans inside, just frightened men and boys.

In the women’s barrack two Ukranians fell back dead from their firing posts at the windows, while Schweinsteiger ducked back in the room, bleeding from bullet fragments and wood splinters in his face and hands.

“It’s no use” said the SS Corporal resignedly. Erbel looked around the room. He noticed that the women were remarkably calm. These were not recent deportees recently off the train, but prison laborers who had already seen as much horror and death. They seemed not so much afraid, as hopeful and curious. As bad as this was, to them it was better than a normal day at Treblinka, and it was pretty clear that this day the Germans were getting the worst of it. Erbel still had a plan. He may not have run Treblinka flawlessly, but he was not a fool. A trained lawyer, he was had a cold-blooded instinct for survival, if nothing else.

Erbel looked at Schweinsteiger, Engel and the Ukranians.

“Forget about outside” said Erbel, his voice jagged. “Turn your guns on these women. They are our hostages. If one moves, kill her.”

He looked around the darkened room, lit only by the reflection of random fires and the waning moon. “You understand me too, don’t you?” he asked, addressing his question to the prisoners. None replied.

Outside, all around the deportation square, Treblenka’s Jews pulled themselves up out of the dirt. Slowly, it dawned on them that they were rescued. Here and there loud rejoicing broke out and the Jewish soldiers joined in the celebrations, forgetting for the moment that there were still a band of Germans watching from the building across the square.

Shapira disregarded the celebrations, and kept the night-sight of his Tavor on the women’s barrack. There was no longer shooting from the building, but through the open doorway Shapira could see the huddled forms of women and girls inside. Suddenly the door closed.

He ordered Roi to cover the women’s barrack and moved with Chaim to the entrance to the Himmelgang. The passageway was clear. He radioed Yatom that the rest of the sayeret could move safely down the passage, but warned that there were still Germans in the square, holed up in a barrack building.

“Why don’t you take them out?” asked Yatom impatiently.

“Because” said Shapira “I think we have a hostage situation.”

Yatom decided to leave Camp 4 and move his men dovm the Himmelgang to the deportation square. By default, the extermination camp now fell into the hands of Treblinka’s Sonderkommando. These desperate scarecrows came out of their hiding places, mostly near the burial pits. The thin haunted men stared at the Israeli commandos but comprehended that the strange looking men were not hostile. The prisoners knew that things had changed, but were uncertain what to do next. Yatom simply said to them in Hebrew “you’re free.” This only surprised and confused them more. Yatom had neither the time nor patience to deal with these desperate men and their garbled questions. Instead Yatom assembled his men and walked to the Himmelgang entranceway.

“You explain the situation to them” he told Feldhandler. “This is your shining moment.”

Feldhandler nodded, and smiled, as if he’d forgotten why he was there. “Beseder. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“Take your time!” yelled Yatom as he hurried down the Himmelgang bringing up the rear of the sayeret.

Shapira was waiting for him with Mofaz. The square was crowded with Jewish prisoners milling around, mixed in with the Sandler’s and Fliegel’s armed men. A few of the newly freed Jews seemed to have picked up arms themselves, and were playing with them dangerously.

Many were leaving the area, armed or not, in search of food. It looked and sounded like a festival. For all intents and purposes, Treblinka had fallen.

Yatom scowled. “Is the rest of the camp secure?”

“Who knows” answered Shapira. “Fleigel’s men can scour the place. Between them and the released prisoners it should be pretty clear of Germans soon.”

Yatom turned to Mofaz. “Take your team and help Fliegel secure the camp. Let’s not have this place get totally out of control.” Mofaz nodded and set off.

“What’s going on there?” Yatom nodded toward the women’s barrack.

“A group of Germans is inside, as are women and girls.”

“Have the Germans done anything?”

“They fired at us, but stopped when we shot back. Since then nothing” said Shapira.

“You speak good German. Tell them to come out, and they won’t be harmed.”

“Alright, but we need to quiet this place down first.”

“I’ll take care of that” said Yatom. He raised his Tavor fired off half a magazine toward the waning stars. Many of the Jews dived for cover, and the rest of the sayeret dropped and aimed for enemies until they realized what had happened. The square fell silent. Shapira stepped forward into the hush and shouted loudly in German, directing his words to the Jews in the square. He told them that the camp had fallen, to leave the deportation area, find food, and organize near the front gate. Shapira looked over at Sandler. The young leader, abashed at the disorganized mess in the square, was shaken back to the reality of soldiering—ceaseless work. Sandler told his men to move the revelers out of the square and into the Forward Camp.

Shapira waited for the square to clear. Then he turned toward the woman’s barrack and addressed the Germans inside. He ordered them to surrender their weapons and come out. A moment later the door opened slightly and a teenage girl appeared followed closely by a German officer. The German held a pistol at the girl’s neck.

From the darkened barack Erbel looked out into the square, and noted for the first time the oddly attired soldiers standing in a rough semi-circle around the building. These must be the fearsome commandos Wirth had warned him about. Somehow they had commandeered his camp. But for all the damage they had caused, and the obviously desperate position they had put him in, actually seeing his enemy calmed Erbel. They had metamorphosed from phantoms into men, if strangely dressed and armed. Their leader, or at least the man who had called to him, was tall and thin, loaded with equipment and an odd floppy hat.

Erbel put his mouth to the girl’s ear. “Tell me your name” he hissed nervously.

“My name is Hannah. Hannah Zuckerman.”

Erbel directed his next words at the man in the floppy hat. Lawyer-like he intended to stake out the best negotiating position possible and work down from there.

“I am Obersturmfuhrer Erbel! I am the commander of this installation of the Greater German Reich. Abandon your weapons and surrender immediately! ”

Yatom moved over toward Ilan, who had taken position near the men’s barrack and now had his rifle trained on the doorway. Bolander nearby, also had his weapon on the door.

“Do either of you have a shot?”

“Negative, commander” they said almost in unison. “Not without risk to the girl” added Ilan. “If our rules of engagement here are different now, I can take him out.”

“Wait” said Yatom.

“Machts nicht!” yelled Shapira, contemptuously. “You have one minute to surrender, or we come and get you.”

Yatom touched Ilan on the sleeve. “Okay Ilan, give him a minute. Then take him, no matter what.”

“This girl is called Hannah Zuckerman” snarled Erbel. “I’ll kill her and every woman and child in here if you do not abandon this camp!”

Erbel had already lowered his demand, but was clever in using the girls’ name—it brought Shapira up short for a moment, personalizing the situation. Shapira steeled himself, prepared to sacrifice the girl if necessary.

“So” said Shapira ignoring the girl, but noting Erbel’s negotiating concession. “Now you only want us gone. What about our surrender?” Erbel pulled the girl back, his finger tightening around the trigger.

“I lost him” said llan to Yatom.

“Shit” said Yatom. He left Ilan and walked over to Shapira who stood fully exposed in the square.

“Let’s get under some cover and plan this out before he really starts shooting” said Yatom.

“I don’t think he will” said Shapira. “He’s a coward. He’s bluffing.”

Yatom turned back and called to Ilan and Bolander. “If either of you gets a shot at him again—take it!” Inside the barrack Erbel swung the door shut. Then he tossed the girl to one of the Ukranians. “Shoot her.”

The Ukranian guard pushed the girl against the wall and raised his rifle.

“Nein!” cried a dark haired and wiry woman all of five feet tall. She rushed the guard, grabbed at the the rifle, and pushed it away from her sister before the Ukranian could react. The guard pulled the trigger and discharged the rifle into the roof. The Ukranian wrenched the gun from her grasp. He raised the rifle and worked the bolt to reload a bullet when two more women threw themselves on him, clawing at his arms and face. The darked woman grabbed at the rifle again, biting the Ukranian’s wrist as he struggled against her. He howled in pain and rage, releasing the gun as he flailed against his attackers.

“Stop!” yelled Erbel pathetically. He raised his pistol and pointed it at the wriggling mass. A tall woman jumped on his back. She bit his ear, cutting straight through the cartilage and spraying the side of his face with blood. Erbel cried and swung her around, crashing into more women who now attacked and tore at him like they were cats and he an unfortunate mouse. Hannah Zuckerman pulled away from Erbel’s grasp and crawled toward her sister, the dark haired woman who had started the melee. “Norit!” she cried Schweinsteiger cocked and raised his machine pistol. A teenage girl grabbed at it another girl clawed at his mouth, while a third caught him from behind and dug her nails into an eye socket. Schweinsteiger screamed and fiailed at his tormentors, half-blind and mad with pain.

Private Engel and the the other Ukranian pushed their way the door, twisting and turning to get past the rioting women. The two men reached threshold and tumbled out, preferring their chances against the enemy commandos to being torn limb from limb by the raging mob inside the barrack. Outside, Engel and the Ukranian, suddenly free paused, unsure of whether to surrender or run. Their indecision lasted only a second before Ilan and Bolander cut them down with single shots to the head.

They fell at the feet of Shapira and Yatom who were already hurrying toward the barrack. The commandos pulled out their pistols, and joined by Chaim rushed the barrack door. But before the trio reached the entrance they were almost run over by a phalanx women and girls stampeding out of the building, trampling the corpses of Engel and the Ukranian on the way.

The commandos finally pushed their way through the mob to the barrack door. From inside the barrack the commandos heard a bizarre mix of shrieking and crying, both male and female. Shapira and Chaim went in first, pistols at the ready, leaving Yatom behind at the doorway. Beyond the entrance to the right Shapira saw four or five women atop an SS man, beating, biting and clawing at him while he struggled weakly beneath them. A girl pointed an MP-40 in the German’s direction, ready to shoot him dead if he survived the mauling. Further inside to the left Shapira identified the camp commandant. A tall middle-aged woman, her face covered in blood, was bashing his head repeatedly against the wooden floor. Erbel’s mouth was agape and blood poured from a fractured nose and from the base of his skull. It was hard to say if he was living or dead—but if the former, he wouldn’t last much longer. Against the far wall a dark haired younger woman, lithe and muscular, was using the butt of a Mauser to smash the head of an already unconscious Ukranian guard. Shapira shrugged and walked out of the abattoir. He holstered his pistol as he approached Yatom. “The hostage crisis is over” said Shapira.

A few minutes later, the bloody but victorious women left the barrack, astonished to be greeted by clapping, cheers and whoops from the otherworldly-appearing commandos. The women ignored the strange but affable men and searched for their own friends and relatives amidst the still chaotic square. It was onto this surreal scene that Feldhandler now marched, leading several dozen dazed and ragged Sonderkommandos out of the death passage. Behind them, the gas chambers roared, engulfed by huge fires lovingly set by Feldhandler and his companions.

“Did I miss anything?” asked the puzzled scientist.

Chapter 26

The Bulls and the Bears, assisted by random groups of Treblinka’s former prisoners, mopped up the camp, dispensing justice to any surviving German or Ukranian that they encountered on the spot. Mofaz brought eight forlorn Ukranians and a single German SS man back to the deportation square. Yatom almost wished that he hadn’t bothered, but respected the Major’s discipline and stubborn ethics. Yatom ordered the Germans and Ukranians trussed and deposited in the men’s barrack. What happened to them from there was not his concern.

Yatom wanted to get the sayeret out of Treblinka and back on the road. To this end Yatom and Nir hustled over to the motor pool while Shapira attempted to organize the prisoners in and around the deportation square. Happily, compared to Sobibor, Treblinka offered a veritable cornucopia of transport. The vehicles that brought Wirth and his men to Treblinka were mixed into the camp’s existing motor pool.

All together there were over a dozen cars and trucks and even a pair of Kubelwagons, Nazi Germany’s version of the jeep. Leaving Nir to inspect and organize the transport Yatom headed to Treblinka’s armory, which Fliegel had taken it upon himself to secure. The young Jew impressed Yatom with his seriousness and organization. Yatom told Fliegel to guard the weapons, which would eventually be divvied up between the sayeret and Treblinka’s freed prisoners. He also told Fliegel that his men, the Bears, would be accompanying the sayeret back south, while Sandler’s men would have to stay behind and assist Treblinka’s survivors.

By the time Yatom got back to the deportation square he found his exhausted men scattered here and there around the enclosure. Several were with Mofaz gulping down recently liberated German foodstuffs. Bolander and Ilan appeared to be asleep, or at least resting their tired eyes, while Shapira was engaged in an animated conversation with a petite dark haired young woman, who happened to be covered in blood. Feldhandler was nowhere to be seen. Yatom sent the indefatigable Nir, back from the motor pool, over to join Mofaz and eat, but also to remind the Major to that they needed to move within the next thirty minutes.

Yatom walked toward the woman’s barracks where Shapira and the blood spattered woman were still deeply engaged in conversation. To his surprise they were speaking in vernacular Hebrew. Shapira stood as his commander approached.

“Colonel Yatom” said Shapira with evident glee, “this is Norit Zuckerman. From Kibbutz Ginosar.”

“On the Kinneret?” Yatom asked her, his voice betraying a certain joy of his own. He’d been to Ginosar on several occasions, and associated the kibbutz with pleasant memories. It was a lovely modern place on the shores of the Sea of Galilee with a guest hotel and a fantastic breakfast.

“Yes” said Norit, patiently and with a smile, despite having answered the same question several times in the past hour. Yatom looked at Shapira inquiringly.

“I already asked her what it was like Colonel—in 1937 when the kibbutz was founded.”

“And did you ask her how a member of the yishuv—ends up in Treblinka?”

“You mean an Israeli, don’t you Colonel Yatom?” said Norit.

Yatom made a motion with his finger for Shapira to come with him.

“Entschuldigung, Frauline” Shapira told Norit in exaggerated German. They smiled at one another like school kids.

“Beseder” she replied in insouciant Hebrew. “I should get cleaned up anyway.” Norit stood and walked toward the women’s barack, Shapira’s eyes following her.

“What the fuck is going on lieutenant, and what does she know?”

“She knows we are Israeli, and not likely from the old yishuv” said Shapira, like Yatom, using the term for the Jewish community in the British Palestinian Mandate.

“And?”

“That’s all. She’s figured out that we cannot be Jews from the yishuv or anyplace else within her frame of reference, and yet obviously we are Israeli. She moved to Israel from Germany in 1935 when she was seventeen, and helped found Ginosar. Isn’t that fantastic?”

“Thrilling” said Yatom sarcastically, nervous that the woman already knew too much, though at the same time, like Shapira, a little enraptured by the story.

“She was part of an early Zionist youth movement, left Dresden and her family behind—guessing what was to come.”

“Then what’s she doing in Treblinka?”

“She returned at the last moment, in 1938 to try to get her sister out. But it was too late by then—for all of them. Kristalnacht came and they were caught in the progroms that followed. The whole family was sent to the Warsaw ghetto, then here. Her parents are dead. The girl the commandant threatened is her sister. She led the revolt in there” said Shapira, pointing to the woman’s barrack.

“That explains the blood. We need to talk to Feldhandler and Mofaz and decide what to do with her” said Yatom.

“Do with her…?” said Shapira worriedly.

“Relax Ron. I mean whether to take her with us or not. I wasn’t planning to take any of the Treblinka survivors, but…”

“I don’t think we have a choice Colonel.”

“You are probably right. Get Mofaz and find Feldhandler. Let’s talk to them and then get the hell out of here.”

“Does she know who we are?” asked Feldhandler anxiously a few minutes later, squatting in the dirt with Shapira and Yatom while Mofaz stood munching on a rind of stinky German cheese.

“Not quite” growled Yatom. “Where have you been anyway?”

“I was praying” replied Feldhandler in a serious tone. “Thanking God for the deliverance of this place.”

“You’ve got to be kidding?” guffawed Mofaz. “You praying—the mad scientist who bends light and time—give me a break.”

“And you” spat Feldhandler “a religious Zionist officer with a mouth full of pig fat?”

“It’s cheese, idiot.”

“Maybe you should give somebody else a chance to eat?” suggested Yatom. Mofaz gave Yatom the rest of his cheese rind.

Yatom took a bite. “Not the best cheese I’ve eaten, but it’s better than Ioof” He tore off a piece and gave it to Shapira.

“She doesn’t know we are not from this time—how could she?” said Shapira chewing the cheese as he spoke. “But she also knows we are somehow ‘Israeli’ and not likely from the yishuv of 1942.”

“What else?” asked Feldhandler.

“Nothing, so far as I can tell. She’s a bit confused—as anyone would be. It’s a mystery to her.”

“Not forever” said Mofaz bluntly. “But who cares. So she figures out we’re ‘from the future.’ What difference does it make? She can’t do anything about it, and neither can we.”

“You’re right really, Mofaz, much as it surprises me” said Feldhandler.

“Ron and I think that she and her sister should accompany us anyway” said Yatom. “Just in case—any objections?” The two other men shook their heads.

“Tov gadbr(?)” said Yatom. “Now we need to get organized and out of here. Mofaz, prepare enough vehicles for us and the Bears group at the motor pool, and take some food as well, but not too much.

Feldhandler, gather Sandler’s men and the Treblinka survivors here, so I can address them before we go. Then we’ll divide up the weapons from the camp armory. Ron, take your team, get Perchansky, and our old vehicles and meet us at the main gate.”

“I nearly forgot about her” said Shapira stupidly.

“Forgot about who” said Norit, appearing suddenly in a clean but baggy German uniform, speaking as if she were just one of the guys. The Israeli offioers eyed her closely but otherwise ignored the comment.

“Norit” said Yatom bluntly, as if he were addressing any other Israeli “help Dr. Feldhandler here gather everybody in the square. Keep them organized and calm. Beseder?” She nodded.

“We go in one hour.”

Despite their exhaustion, Shapira and team Gimmel hiked hard to the sayeret’s former lager in the woods, reaching the site in under fifteen minutes. Though they expected to find Perchensky and Mueller the site appeared to be abandoned. Shapira suppressed his alarm and squinted in the dim morning light. The Israelis spread out to conduct a proper search, when Perchensky emerged from the murk, prompting the edgy commandos swing their weapons in her direction.

“What’s going on?” demanded Shapira, his tone a mix of annoyance and concern. Perchensky looked fiaught and haggard but her voice betrayed no fear or remorse. “What does it look like to you Lieutenant?” she said acidly. She pretended to look around. “The German escaped and took my Uzi.”

“When?”

“Hours ago. I would have radioed, but I figured you were busy—and oh yes—you forgot to leave me a radio anyway.”

Shapira was about to ask which way Mueller fled, but realized it was pointless. “Are you injured?” he asked politely. Perchensky shook her head.

“Good. We’re moving everything we can to Treblinka—you can help if you like, or rest in one of the trucks.” Perchensky shrugged and shuffled a few meters until she stood near Bolander. The commando looked at her and then directed his eyes back to his commander. Shapira ignored them, and ordered the team to move all the useful equipment into their best truck. While they worked Shapira walked over to the remaining staff car, wondering if it was worth taking. Perchensky walked up as Shapira continued to ponder over the vehicle. “Don’t you have anything else to say?” she asked.

“What is there to say? So the German escaped. You’re alright, so it’s no big deal. We killed a lot of Germans today, and some got away. He’s just one more.”

“But he has the Uzi!”

Shapira considered this and then wondered if she were just try’ing to get his goat for some reason. “That weapon is no more advanced than these German guns. It was developed in the 1950s. It’s a souvenir for him and won’t be worth much of anything, even if he shows it to his superiors.”

She stepped close to him. “Fine. But don’t you wonder why he didn’t kill me?”

“I assumed you got away from him, somehow.”

“He tried to kill me” she said, her voice now cracking. “He pointed it at me but it didn’t fire.” She leaned into him and he hugged her awkwardly. Five hours ago he might have been happy about it. Now he was just a little annoyed. He pushed Perchensky back slightly but held on to her shoulders. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t sobbing. Bolander, several meters away, looked over at the two of them, and Shapira walked away. Perchensky turned in the opposite direction and walked off to gather her things. He couldn’t figure out women, and wasn’t in the mood to try.

It was nearly 7a.m. by the time Shapira’s team managed to navigate the staff car and truck over the broken ground between their bivouac and Treblinka. Mofaz had already assembled the rest of the convoy—the two Kubelwagons, two more staff cars and two relatively new Opel trucks. Fliegel’s men were hurriedly loading machine guns, crates of Mausers and ammunition boxes aboard one of the Opels. Mofaz waived him over.

“What took you so long?”

“Hard driving off road.”

The Major watched Perchensky and the rest of team Gimmel dismount. “Where is the German?”

“Got away” said Shapira simply.

“Beseder” said Mofaz. He didn’t give a crap about any of the Germans, dead or alive. “Yatom wants us ten minutes ago. Let’s get going.”

The two officers jogged over to the sayeret commander who was standing near the camp entrance. Feldhandler, Sandler and Fliegel were with him. Shapira saw that Norit was hovering in the distance, chatting with Chaim. Perchensky came up behind them.

“Who’s the woman speaking Hebrew with Chaim?” she asked Yatom, as if they were meeting for morning coffee instead of planning an escape. She’d managed to wash her face and comb out her hair, trying to put the ordeal with Mueller behind her.

“No time for that” said Yatom.

“You look like hell” Feldhandler told her, drawing sharp stares from the Israeli officers. Perchensky ignored him.

“We should have moved out an hour ago” said Yatom, trying to hold his aggravation in check. The danger from German aircraft was acute. His men were tired, and in danger of loosing their edge. Sandler, Fliegel and their men had done their best, but getting the freed prisoners in some order had proved more difficult than at Sobibor. Sandler assembled Treblinka’s former captives in rough order in the Forward Camp near the gate. They milled about nervously, well armed and carrying bags of food and other supplies.

“I’ve explained our plans to Sandler and Fliegel” Yatom told Shapira, who remained in the dark as to Yatom’s intentions beyond seizing Treblinka. “The Bears will come with us. The Bulls will stay behind and try to assist the Treblinka survivors in the countryside. In three weeks, Sandler will attempt to rendezvous with one of our forces outside Belzac.”

“One of our forces—what does that mean?” asked Shapira.

“We’ll talk about all that later” said Yatom. “We’ve split the weapons and food between us and the Treblinka survivors. We are heading back south, to the refugees from the train. That’s why Fliegel’s men are with us—those are his people. Sandler and his men are death camp survivors, so they should relate to these people better. Do you agree?” Shapira nodded—it made sense and Yatom had clearly made up his mind anyway. Yatom walked over to Sandler. “You know what to do?”

“Yes” said Sandler. Yatom offered his hand to the young partisan leader. “Gutte Gluck” said Yatom in rough German. Sandler shook his hand vigorously.

“Du auch Sayeret Fliegel” said Sandler. Shapira clapped Sandler on the back and Fliegel gave him a hug. The former Sonderkommando smiled at his friend before walking away to his excellently armed men—having helped themselves to additional MP-40s, machineguns, bandoliers of ammunition and grenades. They now stood at the head of head hundreds of Treblinka’s survivors, also armed with looted weapons, mostly rifles, but with some automatic weapons or grenades.

“Come” said Yatom to Fliegel. “Let’s get out of this horrible place.”

Behind them, Sandler’s men and Treblinka’s former prisoners set fire to the death camp, mingling ashes with ashes.

Chapter 27

Muefler ran north after his escape, toward the Bug, which he remembered crossing during the journey with his former captors. Before he reached the river he began angling to what he guessed was the northwest, using the sound of fighting in Treblinka as a guide. He stayed well away from the camp, but reckoned that a road must lead north from the camp and eventually bridge the river. Mueller found the river at dawn. He walked along the bank until he found the bridge.

Looking back toward the death camp he saw a filthy column of black smoke. That’s probably not so unusual, although its Germans burning today, he thought coldly.

Mueller’s chief concern was that he didn’t join the Treblinka SS in death. Having escaped his captors, the problem now was avoiding execution by his own side, should he be discovered wandering along the road and deemed a deserter. He knew he looked like a deserter—his uniform out of order and ragged, his equipment gone. The last thing Mueller wanted was to run into someone like himself—a hard-hearted sergeant who liked to throw his weight around. He considered ditching the seemingly useless enemy weapon, but ultimately calculated that it would be better tn keep the thing. It might be worth something more than a mere souvenier piece if he could find his way to a higher level of command. Certainly, there would be some interest in what he knew about the disaster befalling the Reich’s “resettlement camps.” The truth was that he was a hero, not a deserter. Mueller had to make sure that whoever found him understood that he deserved a medal rather than a firing squad.

Before he chanced crossing the river, Mueller decided to examine the submachinegun again. It would be useful to have an operational weapon, just in case. After inspecting the gun in the light of day for a few minutes, Mueller identified the safety device behind the pistol grip. He depressed it, and pulled lightly on the trigger. It gave! How clever. Now with a real weapon to hand he stepped out of the weeds and onto the bridge. Mueller crossed the river and walked into the tiny village of Przewoz. The place didn’t look like it had an outhouse much less a police station. He walked through the town undisturbed and unnoticed, sticking to the main road. Mueller followed the road out of the village and walked on a couple of kilometers until he reached the somewhat larger of Malkinia Gorna. He looked around—still a pretty shitty place. He dusted off his battered uniform, and especially his rank badges, hefted the small submachinegun, and marched smartly into the town. He hoped to find a Polish police station or at least a telephone. A single scraggly phone line ran down the potholed road.

He followed the phone line. In the town center, such as it was, Mueller noted that the phone line connected to a postal office, which to his dismay was closed and tightly locked up. God damned lazy Poles he thought. With no real choice, he sat on the steps of the post office and waited for the clerk to arrive.

Three kilometers to the south, Wirth had similar concerns. His uniform was still all of a piece, complete with his officer’s cap and death’s head badge, but it was slowly coming apart, thanks to the attention of seemingly endless patches of thorns. It was the price Wirth paid to stay off the roads through the night, terrified that either the enemy raiders or a jumpy SS patrol might gun him down.

These fears receded with the dawn, replaced by an alarm which mirrored Mueller’s—that taken for a deserter he would be summarily executed by his own people. And unlike Mueller, Wirth actually was a deserter. Still, as an SS officer, he was a little better off than the police sergeant. To mitigate the danger, Wirth decided to assemble a small ad hoc command of fellow fugitives. A group of orderly men under an officer would arouse much less suspicion then bedraggled individuals wandering the countryside. Casting about in the early morning light, Wirth managed to gather together four other stragglers from Treblinka—three Ukranians and a SS corporal from Erbel’s garrison.

They too saw the sense in falling in under Wirth, rather than taking their chances alone.

By mid-morning Wirth and his men found a high road and chanced to walk along it, heading west for the sizable town of Brok.

There Wirth guessed there should be a Polish police garrison, if not an actual German outpost. The little unit of deserters marched behind Wirth along the tumbledown road, finally reaching a road sign showing Brok three kilometers distant.

The men squinted ahead uncomfortably into the evening sun, setting in a rosy glow to the west. They’d heen walking all day, without water of food. Out of the glare a German column appeared on the road, speeding toward the blue—black smoke of Treblinka, still smoldering behind them. The column, consisting of a staff car and a pair of troop trucks, came to a cautious halt several meters from the fugitives. To Wirth’s relief it was made up of Ordnungs Polizei led by a second lieutenant. Wirth not only had superior status as an SS officer, he could pull rank.

Wirth marched up to the staff car where the lieutenant sat. The Polizei officer looked at him warily, and did not dismount, nor salute.

Wirth dressed him down.

“Obersturmfuhrer Wirth, aide to SS Gruppenfuhrer Globocnik!

Get out and salute—or shall I put you on report, Lieutenant.

The junior officer was actually an older heavyset man who looked like a small town traffic cop, uneasy in the wilds of eastern Poland. He was easily flustered by Wirth’s verbal assault. The lieutenant rather comically struggled out to of the vehicle, clicked his heels in the dust and offered a Nazi salute that almost knocked off Wirth’s hat.

“Leutnant Jevers reporting!” shouted the the policeman.

“Apologies Obersturmfuhrer, we could not see you clearly through the dust on the road. I was told to be cautious, as there are partisans afoot.”

“What are your orders?”

“We are on our way to a camp called Treblinka. Partisans may have attacked last night. We are to drive them off.”

“Not to worry, Lieutenant. My men finished the partisans this morning” Wiith lied. “It was a hard fight. We are the garrison’s only survivors—other than a few deserters.”

Jevers, uncomfortable though he was, assessed the SS officer with a policeman’s natural skepticism. “Excuse the question Herr Obersturmfuhrer, but why are you on foot. Surely the camp had some transport.”

“All destroyed or disabled, I’m afraid” said Wirth calmly. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. But you are going to have to get there in a different vehicle, as I am commandeering this car.” Jevers blanched “No sir” he stammered. “I am signed for this vehicle. I’ll be court martialed if I lose it.”

Wirth pulled out a fine leather notepad, the pages embossed with SS runes. “I’ll write up the requisition order myself” he said, scribbling busily with a pencil. “This should satisfy whatever rear area clerk signed you out. We are in the field Jevers—there are contingencies. I’ll keep your driver too.”

Wirth tore out the page and handed it to Jevers. Then he turned to the SS corporal from Treblinka. “Write down your name and identification number and those of these fine men as well” said Wirth, gesturing to the sullen Ukranians. “I intend to recommend you all for awards in light of your heroism in today’s ferocious battle.” He turned over his notepad and pencil to the stunned corporal, who started taking down the information. Once the corporal was finished, and satisfied that he’d sufficiently co—opted his fellow deserters into the deception, Wirth took back the pad and pencil. He turned back to Jevers.

“These heroes from the Treblinka garrison are now in your charge Lieutenant” said Wirth, expansively waving his hand at the little band of fellow runaways. “They need food and drink. I am off to Lubin.” Wirth climbed into the car and ordered the driver to turn around. They sped off into the setting sun, leaving Jevers and his new charges standing in the road.

Wirth and his exhausted driver reached Lubin early on the morning of May 29. It was well after daybreak by they time the found their way to Globocnik’s headquarters on the western edge of the city.

Once there Wirth dismissed his driver and ordered the woozy man to head back to his unit at Treblinka. The driver saluted and drove the car out of the headquarters complex onto a deserted side street. There, out of Wirth’s sight, he went to sleep.

Wirth had hoped for a few hours of rest himself, but knew that Globocnik would be at his desk and demand an immediate report. He would not be able to bamboozle Globo as he had the hapless Jevers, but he still had a card or two to play, not least Globocnik’s slip about Heydrich. Not only that, but Wirth, so far as he knew, was the only German officer to survive an encounter with the rampaging enemy commandos—that alone would make him quite valuable. His own death at Treblinka would have gained the Reich nothing, though it would have undoubtedly suited Globo.

Wirth was ushered into Globocnik’s office a few minutes later. “I expected you to successfully defend Treblinka…or die there, Obersturmfuhrer. That was your duty as German soldier and an officer of the SS” Globo grunted, his face showing genuine disappointment that Wirth still lived.

“Herr Gruppenfuhrer, Dr. Erbel would not relinquish command. The enemy cut all communication. Over my protests he ordered me to leave and report to you.”

“That doesn’t sound much like Dr. Erbel” said Globo snidely.

“He rose to the crisis” said Wirth, barely suppressing a smirk of his own.

“Well then, we’ll have to see he gets a medal” said Globo.

“Posthumously Mein Herr?” said Wirth hopefully.

“Yes Wirth. Or so it seems. The place was burned to the ground, and it appears Dr. Erbel with it.”

“Terrible.”

“Yes it is, not only for the Reich, but possibly for us as well. General Heydrich is on his way here as we speak. You must tell me all you can about these enemy commandos before he arrives, so I can present him with an effective course of action before they strike again. This is of the utmost importance. Do you understand?”

Wirth did.

Mueller arrived in Lubin the following day. Somehow, through the barely functioning Polish phone system, he’d managed to contact his unit. Mueller’s commander was surprised he was alive, but apparently satisfied with his story. And with the SS in an uproar over the attacks on Sobibor and Treblinka, Mueller’s commander realized that the prodigal sergeant might be too valuable to leave in Malkinia Gorna and sent a car for him.

Several hours later, to his astonishment, Mueller found himself outside General Globocnik’s office, surrounded by SS staff officers and bodyguards. Over Mueller’s protests, the bodyguards insisted on taking the enemy submachinegun. One of them handed the weapon to an immaculately dressed SS officer, who disappeared into the Globocnik’s office. Five minutes later, the officer ordered Mueller to enter the office and report. Mueller stepped forward in his tattered uniform full of apprehension. He walked into a rather large office crammed with yet more officers. Sergeant Mueller cast his eyes about nervously, before coming to attention before the man sitting behind a great oak desk. The man was not Globocnik. Sitting in Globocnik’s chair was Reinhardt Heydrich.

Chapter 28

The sayeret drove hard and fast to the southeast for two hours after leaving Treblinka. Several times they noticed German aircraft, but only once did a plane react as if the pilot had any interest in them. That plane was a Storch. Whether it was looking for them or on some other mission they could not know.

Yatom wanted to put distance between the sayeret and Treblinka, but not at the risk of a German air attack. Afier seeing the Storch the column changed direction to the southwest, and at the first opportunity drove off into a mixed forest of oak and pine. One of the new trucks contained a single camouflage net which was big enough to cover both Kubelwagons. To hide other vehicles from fiirther aerial observation everybody cut and gathered branches until Yatom was satisfied that the column was sufficiently disguised. Then everyone stopped to eat or sleep, with the exception of the unfortunate few who had to pull the first guard shift.

Yatom could not wait for nightfall to get going again, even at the risk of observation. late in the afternoon, after seven hours of rest and refitting, the column was hack on the road, heading southeast again, driving as fast as the roads allowed. Yatom kept one Kubelwagon well ahead of the main column to scout the route and warn of any roadblocks. The first shift in the scout car fell to Mofaz and Itzak.

Sixty kilometers from Treblinka the high road swung back to the southwest. Driving nearly a kilometer in front of the main column Mofaz and Itzak spotted a roadblock on a small hillock no more than 500 meters away. The Germans were silhouetted against the setting sun, busily stuffing sandbags and digging in, throwing up a zig-zag of slit trenches as fast as their picks and spades allowed. Mofaz stopped the car and radioed Yatom. Yatom ordered Mofaz to proceed cautiously and allow the column to catch up. Itzak stayed behind the wheel while Mofaz scanned the scene through his thermal binoculars.

Mofaz’s Kubelwagon was 200 meters away from the roadblock when he saw the flash of a machinegun. An instant later he heard the rattle of the weapon and the snap of bullets passing overhead. The Germans were shooting high. Itzak drove forward swung the Kubelwagon off the road. He and Mofaz leapt out. Bullets sticlied the nearby roadside as the German gunner adjusted his aim. From his forward position Mofaz sighted in on the sparking German machinegun and chanced a couple of shots with his Tavor. He missed, but got the machinegunner’s attention. Mofaz and Itzak pressed themselves into the earth as the German bullets carved the ground in front of them.

The shooting lasted only a few more seconds—perhaps the machinegunner had lost his aim, or his weapon jammed. Itzak used the pause to crawl into a bit of defilade, where he loaded the grenade launcher slung under his Tavor. Instead of bombarding the Germans with high explosive, the well-trained commando dropped a pair of white phosphorus smoke grenades. Within seconds the German position was shrouded in a milky haze, while within their makeshift trenches several Germans began to scream as the hot phosphorus burned through their wool uniforms and into flesh, torching skin and bone.

The main column came to a halt a hundred meters behind the Kubelwagon. The sayeret ran from the vehicles and began to deploy on the roadsides, followed by Fliegel’s men. Moments later Mofaz next heard the delightful clatter of Roi’s Negev as it sent tracer into the hastily piled sandbags. Two MG-34s manned by Fliegel’s men joined in, pinning the Germans within the position.

Mofaz crawled over to Itzak, tapped him on the shoulder and said “after me.”

The two commandos ran toward the German entrenchment while behind them Yatom directed increasingly heavy fire onto the cowering enemy troops. The Israelis dropped more phosphorus on the Germans, mixed with high explosive rounds. Ilan and Bolander began sniping at any helmet that popped over the rough parapet. The crescendo of smoke and fire allowed the Mofaz and Itzak to splint to within twenty meters of the German entrenchments. From there they could hear the surviving Germans calling to each other. Although neither Israeli spoke German well, they could easily understand the sound of panic. Mofaz stirred the pot by tossing a hand-grenade into a nearby slit—trench. The explosion blew a bloodied helmet into the air, which tumbled down the hill. Itzak threw a grenade, producing a heart-rending scream of horror or pain. Satisfied that enemy was about to break Mofaz radioed Yatom to cease fire.

Mofaz and Itzak charged into the German position. A half-dozen dead and wounded Germans lay around a large tripod mounted machinegun, while down the road a pair of men crept away. The crawling men didn’t look back at the Israelis but just kept going until Itzak hit them with bursts from his Tavor. Mofaz considered sparing the wounded Germans, but then thought better of it—the situation was too dangerous. He put bullets into the wounded and dead alike. A few minutes later the column drove up the scene of the battle.

The dead Germans proved to be yet another unfortunate group of largely middle-aged Ordnungs Polizei. The Israelis had made short work the policemen, but as Shapira and Feldhandler moved through the wreckage of the position they looked worried.

“They dug this position right through the roadway,” noted Feldhandler.

“And look at this machinegun” said Shapira, as a couple of Fliegel’s men attempted to carry the heavy Hochkiss to one of the trucks. “It’s an old French weapon—I can’t remember what it’s called, but it is a piece of work.”

“Nearly took my head off” said Mofaz approvingly. “And not really meant to travel” continued Shapira. “These guys were here to stay. The Nazis are constructing a ring of fortifications around us. They must have observed us this morning.”

“Alright” said Yatom phlegmatically. “That’s all the more reason to keep moving, before they build a wall around us. Grab up the rest of their weapons and ammo and let’s get going. Ron, you and Chaim take over the lead in the Kubelwagon. Take Feldhandler too.”

Yatom walked over to Mofaz, who had his helmet off and seemed to be praying. “You okay Major?”

“Couldn’t be better” said Mofaz seriously. “That charge was impressive. I’d put you in for a medal, but.”

“Just get me home Colonel” said Mofaz, putting his helmet back on and pushing a fresh magazine in his rifle. “These won’t last much longer” he said, tapping the the gray banana clip and walking off to his vehicle.

Yatom drove the column eastward into the night, hoping to outrace the sprouting German roadblocks. But the Germans had reacted to the Treblinka raid with typical efficiency and aggression. Two hours after the encounter with the Ordnungs Polizei Shapira radioed in yet another obstacle at the entrance to tiny village of Zaboe near the tovim of Miedzyrzec Podlaski, only ninety kilometers from Lubin.

Chaim stopped the Kubelwagon just within small arms range of the German roadblock. Shapira scanned the enemy position through thermal binoculars. It consisted of a well built entrenchment linked to a small fortified cottage to Shapira’s right. Suddenly, Germans popped a flare, illuminating the Kubelwagon on the open roadway. Too late, Shapira realized that these Germans meant business.

The German opened fire on the exposed Kubelwagon as if they were on the Russian front. Chaim gunned the engine and tried to drive the vehicle off the road as Itzak had done earlier. As he turned the wheel a burst of fire from an MG-34 struck him in the left shoulder, throwing him out of the vehicle, and sending the Kubelwagon careening off the highway, tossing out Shapira and Feldhandler too.

Shapira hit the ground and rolled, bruised but not otherwise injured. But he watched in dismay as the Kubelwagon tipped over and came to a stop wheels up. Feldhandler sprawled on the ground nearby, his uniform badly torn. The scientist looked bloodied and shaken.

Shapira told him to keep down. Feldhandler had sense enough to this anyway, with bullets snapping over his head. Shapira’s radio squawked with Yatom at the other end, but the Israeli lieutenant ignored it and crawled over to Chaim who lay near the upended Kubelwagon. Chaim had dragged himself into the lee of the vehicle, even as German bullets slammed into it and threatened to ignite its fuel tank. The grenadier’s flack vest was torn near the shoulder where a 7.98 mm bullet had hit it and bit into his flesh. Another bullet had struck a ceramic plate covering Chaim’s chest, breaking it, but not penetrating.

Shapira keyed his Madonna and asked Yatom to put fire on the enemy and come forward. At that moment a second German flare went up and German machineguns opened fire on the rest of the column. With the German’s attention drawn elsewhere Shapira called to Feldhandler, who crawled over. Together, they dragged Chaim away from the Kubelwagon and into a shallow ditch along the side of the road. As three men pressed themselves into the slight depression, a volley of rifle fire hit the Kubelwagon’s gas tank detonating it, scorching their faces, and illuminating their new position. Bullets thumped around the three Israelis. Chaim clutched a battle compress to his wound while Shapira finally returned fire.

Feldhandler gamely put out the bipod on his Galfl and fired off a fifty round magazine. His tracers appeared to hit wildly but caused the Germans to duck and gave the Israelis a small respite.

Shapira reached for Chaim’s weapon and pulled a random grenade from the grenadier’s ravaged vest. Shapira shot the grenade at the Germans. It exploded lamely and let off red colored smoke. He reached for another, hoping that this one would have some explosive in it, when two other grenades struck the German position. They were fired by Itzak and Nir, who had come up with Mofaz and Ido on Shapira’s left. Meanwhile, from across the road, Shapira heard the sound of Roi’s Negev opening up, followed by the combined racket of Fliegel’s men, firing rifles and MG-34s toward the German roadblock. Ido ran over to Chaim. The Israeli medic removed the injured man’s vest and calmly attended to the wound as if nothing was going on. Shapira grabbed the vest, pulled out another grenade and fired it at the Germans. Mofaz came up.

“What do you think?” asked the Major, ignoring Chaim’s distress and the blasted Kubelwagon.

Shapira raised his head to respond, when a bullet put a hole through his helmet covering. Mofaz fired a burst from his Tavor toward the Germans out of natural aggression, but without much hope of hitting anything important. The two men pressed themselves into the ground.

“These guys mean business” said Shapira. “We’ve put a lot of fire on them and they are still fighting.”

“I agree” said Mofaz. He raised Yatom on the radio.

“Mofaz here. We are at Shapira’s position—still under fire. Chaim’s hit but we can’t evacuate him.”

“Acknowledged” said Yatom, still with the vehicles about a hundred meters away. “Any suggestions?”

“Yes. Send in Fliegel’s men. We’ll cover them. I don’t want to risk our own.”

Yatom walked over to Ilan and Bolander who were on the right, taking potshots at the Germans without much luck. “They are very well dug in” said Ilan distractedly.

“Their flares and the burning truck fucks our night vision” added Bolander.

“Don’t waste ammo. Where’s Fliegel?”

Bolander pointed further off to his right. Yatom headed to the right flank. Along the way he ran into Roi, Roskovsky, and Rafi, who had settled into their own little fighting group a few meters from the snipers.

“I can knock that position out” offered Rafi, patting his rocket launcher.

“Not yet” said Yatom, who knew that Rafi only had two rockets left. He hated to waste one on a German roadblock. Finally, Yatom reached Fliegel, who lay prone with his men. They seemed to be frozen.

“What’s the matter?” asked Yatom in German. “Why aren’t you shooting?”

“Micha is dead” said Fliegel slowly. Yatom looked down the line and saw a man with a neat bullet wound in his forhead laying a few meters away. Fliegel had tears in his eyes, and his men looked terrified.

Yatom had no time for hand-holding. Yatom grabbed Fliegel’s hand tightly to get his attention and stared into his frightened eyes.

“Listen—we are going to shoot that plaoe up. They already have their heads down. You are going to attack it. Verstehen?”

“I don’t think we can” stammered Fliegel.

Yatom took Fliegel’s chin, rough with a thickening beard, in his other hand He pulled the young Jew toward him so that their faces almost touched. ”Machts nicht” said Yatom loud enough for the rest of the men to hear. “You go there.” Yatom pointed at the German position “or I’ll leave you here. Alone.”

“We can’t do it by ourselves” said Fliegel excitedly.

“We will help you. But you have to attack. Now listen carefully because my German is not so good.”

Yatom told Fliegel what to do, as outgoing and incoming fire rattled around the position. He made Fliegel repeat the orders, then handed the Bears leader several chemlites. Yatom lightly slapped Fliegel on his face and pushed him out of the position. Waiving for his men to come along, Fliegel set off for the German entrenchments, a ragged line of fighters in tow.

Yatom had no idea whether Fliegel’s men would do as he’d ordered or just head for the woods. As Yatom was neither a spiritual sort, nor a gambling man, he simply lay on his belly and watched the unruly column stumble forward.

Down by the roadway, Mofaz had managed to evacuate Chaim back to the trucks, and reassemble the sayeret. The German position appeared damaged but intact. Rafi offered again to blast the cottage with his B-300, but Yatom declined.

“Why not?” asked Mofaz. “You are going to sacrifice those boys to save a rocket?”

“You insisted I send them” Yatom said, annoyed but not surprised by Mofaz’s sudden moral calculus. “Take your team around the left” continued Yatom. “You can support their attack with Bet”

Yatom ordered Shapira to take his team, catch up to Fliegel and support him, but not to lead the attack. Yatom decided to stay near the trucks with Nir, Rafi and Feldhandler, while Ido continued to work on Chaim. Slowly, the shooting died down. Neither side had good targets, and the Germans, Yatom reckoned, hoped that their attackers had fled. Certainly the Germans had been hurt by the sayeret’s fire, even if they men had not yet broken. The Israelis sniped at the Germans but otherwise held their fire as the Bears crept forward, using a bit of defilade Yatom had noticed and ordered Fliegel to use.

Half an hour later the situation had little changed. Yatom feared that the Bears had bolted and that his own men would have to take the position. Then he caught sight of Fliegel waving a chemlite through the gloom, very near to the German held cottage. Shapira called in a moment later, telling Yatom that all the teams were ready and in position.

“Is Fliegel up to pulling this off?” asked Yatom.

“His men are in position” said Shapira, not offering his commander an evaluation he could not possibly make.

“Beseder. Pick your targets and open fire—send Fliegel forward.”

The battlefield erupted again as tracers and grenades arched into the German position. The Israeli advance had put the enemy roadblock in a crossfire, but the Germans had not been idle during the lull either. German machine guns opened up from new positions and a small group of German soldiers suddenly left their trenches and charged at Fliegel’s men, tossing grenades as they came on. The Bears started to bolt, when Shapira, Bolander and Roi fired into the German attackers from hidden positions behind to the Jewish partisans, wiping out the German team. Using Chaim’s Tavor Shapira launched his last two phosphorus grenandes at the German roadblock and ran forward, ordering Fliegel to take his men in.

Hesitatingly, Fliegel led his men forward. One of them had the sense to toss a grenade back at the Germans, and he was imitated by a two others. Supported by fire from Shapira’s team, the Bears reached the entrenchments around the cottage. The Germans manning the position, seeing that they were outflanked, coolly withdrew. A German soldier tossed another grenade, knocking down two of Fliegel’s men.

The Bears went in the building. From there they could shoot into the surviving German soldiers in the entrenchments. Shapira moved up with team Gimmel and urged Fliegel on. Fliegel charged the entrenchments with the rest of his men. Two more Bears were hit by the stubborn Germans. Fliegel and his men dove into the trenches, where they landed atop the bodies of several dead German defenders.

Mofaz and his men lying in cover on the other side of the road identified the attacking Jews through their NVGs, and the Germans still firing at them. Team Bet now carefully picked out German targets amid the wreckage of the position. But the Germans had cleverly moved one machinegun out of the entrenchments and down the road into a new ambush position. This gun now sliced into Mofaz’s group, driving the Major and his men to ground, banging a round offof Itzak’s Kevlar helmet—his second near miss in as many days, and temporarily knocking him out. By the cottage, Roi spotted the German fire, put his infrared laser on the German gun and blasted it out of existence with his Negev.

Shapira and Bolander reached Fliegel, still under cover in the German trench. Realizing that Fliegel and his shocked men were spent, the two commandos, supported by Roi, took the rest of the German position using grenades and Tavors.

The Israelis found fourteen dead Germans in shot-up cottage and the surrounding entrenchments. By their equipment and uniforms it was clear that these men were first-line German infantrymen, a far cry from the camp guards and Ordnungs Polizei that the Israelis had faced thus far. In overcoming the roadblock the sayeret had burned though much of its ammunition, and suffered its first serious casualty. The Bears had suffered two dead and three wounded.

The Israeli commandos collected the German arms and equipment in a state of somber exhaustion while Fliegel’s men sat by in stunned silence. Yatom ordered his men to check the German dead for papers and maps as well. Nir found an officer’s sachel gave it to Yatom. Yatom took the satchel but was too tired to examine it closely, and just slung it onto his shoulder.

Ido reported that Chaim’s wound was, in IDF parlance, moderate, and treatable, but his arm would have to remain in a sling for the time being. Yatom told Fliegel that they would leave the two dead Jewish fighters behind. The surviving Bears loaded their three wounded onto the truck with Ido, Perchansky and Norit. Itzak, his head aching, but intact, joined them. With Chaim resting, and Itzak treatable with aspirin and rest, Ido set to work on the wounded Jewish fighters.

Yatom and Nir now took the lead scout position in the colmnn with the remaining Kubelwagon, while the other Wagon smoldered off the side of the road. It was well past midnight by the time the sayeret moved out, shaken and dismayed by the rough encounter with real German infantry. Yatom led them further to the south and east, trying to pull away from the encroaching enemy in the few remaining hours of darkness.

Chapter 29

Heydnch felt quite comfortable behind Globocnik’s desk despite the fact that in front of him lay disturbing reports from the field concerning the situation in eastern Poland. Most recently two roadblocks in the Lubin district had been overrun, presumably by Treblinka’s raiders. A single survivor from the second roadblock, a private from the 2123’ Infantry Division, was on the way to Lubin now for debriefing. Pushing the reports aside, Heydrich fixed his eyes curiously on Sergeant Mueller, like a cat inspecting a pigeon. The policeman looked like a man roused from the dead, his uniform filthy and tattered, his face lined and sallow. The sergeant was making an effort to stand at attention, but his body was comically tilted to one side. Heydrich wanted to smirk, but kept his face impassive.

“You are Feldwebel Mueller, from the Sobibor train guard?”

“UnterfeldwebeI Mueller, Mein Herr-. Unless…”

“No Mueller” said Heydrich with a smile. “You have not been promoted not yet. Your insignia are mangled.”

“Es tut mir leid Mein Herr. I have come from the battlefield.”

“You and Obersturmfuhrer Wirth both” said Heydrich, gesturing at one of the SS officers across the room. “You survived an encounter with the enemy bandits ravaging the countryside. How did you manage that?”

“Sir, I was captured by them, but escaped.”

“Yes, so you claim. Tell me about them.”

“With all due respect sir, they are not really bandits—not most of them anyway. They are enemy commando soldiers…” Mueller’s voice trailed off. He was unsure of himself before such an eminence as Heydrich.

“Soldiers from where?” asked Heydrich calmly, but with evident interest.

“I don’t know sir. I am not a well educated man. I’m just a policeman. I’m not very good with languages. I did not recognize theirs.”

“Were they English? Or Russian?” asked another SS officer, standing off to Heydrich’s side.

“I don’t speak those languages sir, but I think not” said Mueller slowly. “I…I brought a weapon I captured off one of them during my escape. An SS officer took it from me a moment ago.” He pointed over at Globocnik’s aide who stood in a far corner of the room. The officer ignored him. “Perhaps it is some evidence of who these men are?”

“This?” said the SS officer at Heydrich’s side, holding out the submachinegun.

“Yes sir, that’s it!” said Mueller as if discovering an old friend. “I believe they called it an Utzi.” That brought a laugh from the assembled officers.

“An Utzi?” said the SS officer. “Are you sure?”

“No sir. It’s just what I heard.”

“Do you know what this writing is on the receiver?” said the officer, pointing to the center of the weapon. Mueller shook his head.

“It’s Hebrew.” This brought a gasp of disbelief from the assembled officers. Heydrich looked over at the SS man quizzically.

“Are you sure Obersturmbannfuhrer Eichman?” demanded Heydrich.

“Yes sir” replied Eichman diffidently yet with assurance. “As you know I’ve studied the language. It’s Hebrew and Sergeant Mueller is correct. The weapon seems to be called an Uzi. The bullets also have Hebrew lettering on them.”

“Bring an ordnance officer in here right away!” barked Globocnik. Heydrich’s aide ran out the door.

“Mueller” asked Eichman gently “surely you are somewhat familiar with Yiddish?”

“Of course sir. The Jews jabber it all the time.”

“Did these soldiers speak something like Yiddish?”

“No sir. Yiddish sounds like bad German. Some of them spoke German—some better than others. Sometimes they spoke a bit of Yiddish too. But their own language—that wasn’t Yiddish.”

“But some of the words” persisted Eichman “did they sound like Yiddish words? Think hard sergeant.”

Mueller did as he was told, afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. He also considered that maybe he should just tell this Eichman what he clearly wanted to hear.

“Well sir” said Mueller, trying to sound thoughtful. “Maybe a few words sounded a little like Yiddish. It was a very guttural language like Yiddish, and those boys did gesture a lot—for soldiers anyway.”

“Satisfied Eichman?” asked Heydrich. Eichman nodded. Heydrich looked again at Mueller, his blue eyes sparkling. “Can you tell us anything else about these men—anything significant. ”

Mueller ran the past days through his mind. He wanted to help out the SS officers, more for his own protection than anything else. His story was true after all. He’d lived with the enemy. Certainly there is something more to say. If he were only rested and had some food in his belly. He hated the tall thin one called Shapira, especially, and the one who beat him, but.

“Their names!” Mueller blurted out excitedly. “I know some of their names!”

“What names?” asked Eichman.

Mueller went on to list the names he remembered—Shapira, Yatom, Perchensky—while Eichman noted them in a small book. Warming up, he described their other weapons as best he could, and their odd uniforms and equipment.

“What exactly did the other weapons look like?” asked Heydrich.

Mueller thought about this. “A little like that one” he said, pointing at the Uzi “but larger, and with telescopes on them.”

“Are you getting this, Reder” said Globocnik to a middle aged intelligence officer standing in a comer.

“Jawohl, Herr General” said Hauptman Reder, who was also writing in a little notebook.

Mueller, continued, offering opinions now. He thought they argued a lot for soldiers, but truth be told—they seemed very tough and competent, making his escape all the more remarkable. Of course, he didn’t bother to tell them that Perchensky was a woman, or that he had cooperated with his captors until his got away.

Finally, Heydrich smiled at him pleasantly and told him tn return to his unit and clean up. Mueller snapped a Nazi salute, clicked his heels and turned about, then practically ran out of the room. Heydrich ordered everyone else to out of the office as well, but for Eichman, Globocnik and Wirth. As Reder departed Globocnik said to him “You know what to do now, don’t you?”

“Yes sir” said the intelligence captain, closing the door. “What was that about?” asked Heydrich. “Just policeman stuff, Herr General” answered Globo easily. Heydrich let it go and turned toward Eichman.

“Well Eichman what are you thinking?”

“That these bandits are Jews. Probably in British employ from Palestine. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Why are they here though” asked Globocnik “raiding our camps? What do the British care about Jews?”

“Churchill” said Heydrich confidently, as if he’d found a clue in a crossword. “It’s just the sort of project he likes—wasteful, useless, but intrepid. He’s probably behind it, without the support of anyone else on the whole damned island.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and Heydrich’s aide introduced a chubby regular army ordnance officer who looked like he’d been dragged away from an early lunch. “Major Kessel reporting sir!” said the officer, delivering an ordinary army salute and then self-consciously wiping his mouth as he put his hand down. Kessel had never reported to a General before, much less two, and had no idea what this was about. He was anxious, but he was a competent officer with no black marks on his record—except his weight.

“You are an ordnance officer?” asked Globocnik. “Yes Herr General, I run the shop here in Lubin” said Kessel without pomp.

“What do you think of this” said Eichman handing him the Uzi.

Kessel took the unusual weapon appreciatively and quickly identified and worked the action. He examined the pistol grip and magazine housing, and noted the safety which had so baffled Mueller. He extended and locked the stock and sighted down the barrel, careful not to point the weapon at any of the other officers.

“Interesting Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer” said Kessel, recognizing that Eichman slightly outranked him, and seemed to be attached to someone who looked remarkably like Reinhardt Heydrich.

Mueller doubted such an eminence would call for him in Lubin but it paid to be careful. “Do you have a magazine for it, sir?” he asked Eichman.

Eichman had the magazine in his pocket. Heydrich nodded his head slightly and Eichman handed it to Kessel. The ordnance officer inserted the clip and worked the action again, cycling a round through and ejecting it. He caught the round nibbly in his pudgy hand, examined it, then removed the clip and replaced the round. He handed the chp back to Eichman.

“Well?” said Heydrich.

“It seems to be a fine weapon. I don’t recognize it. Is it an enemy weapon? Or is it a prototype?”

“Don’t worry about that” said Heydrich. “Tell me, is there anything unusual about it, that would give an enemy, or our own men, a significant advantage?”

Kessel caught Heydrich’s eye. He was comfortable with this sort of thing, it was his business. He’d thought it most likely that the submachinegun was a foreign weapon but hadn’t been sure. Now he was. “Ach nein Herr General” said Kessel with a shrug. “It is interesting—putting the magazine housing in the grip is clever. The safety device, here “he said, manipulating it with his thumb “is a good idea too.” Kessel looked around the room confidently. “The gun is well made, fires from an open bolt like the MP-40, seems to be quite handy and is probably reliable. It is made from high quality stampings, not machined, so it is not very expensive. It is better, much better l’d say than the British Sten, and probably the Russian PPsh-41. But it is not better, so far as I can see in any significant way, to the MP-40. Of course, I would have to test fire the weapon to be sure.”

“So and attacker armed with this weapon would not have any significant advantage over German troops?” asked Heydrich, glancing at Wirth, who stood at ease but looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Well, yes if our men were armed with Mausers, but not if they had MP-40s. This is a nice machine-pistol with some interesting ideas” said Kessel coolly. “but it is not a technological breakthrough by any means.”

“What about the sighting system” pushed Heydrich. Kessel extended the stock again and sighted the weapon. “Well made but ordinary, sir. Ordinary iron sights.”

“Thank you Major” said Heydrich, with an appreciative grin.

“That will be all.”

Kessel stood at attention, but didn’t move. “May I fire the weapon, sir?”

“Be my guest Major” said Heydrich. “General Globocnik will have it sent to you for testing. Dismissed.” Kessel repressed a smile, delivered a ordinary Wehrmacht salute and walked out.

“Impressive officer, if a bit heavy” said Heydrich, looking at Globocnik.

“Yes General” said Globocnik defensively. “He is not really under my command.”

“As you say” said Heydrich offhandedly. “The point is that while Major Kessel’s demonstration was interesting, it was not completely illuminating. The debriefings of Lieutenant Wirth and Sergeant Mueller describe enemy commandos who can see in the dark, and kill silently.” Heydrich paused and built his long fingers into a tent over his papers. “But it appears what we really have is a bunch of Palestinian Jews shooting weapons no better than our own. Yet they rampage unimpeded through the countryside, stoking rebellion and wrecking the Reich’s most important endeavor. Have I summed things up correctly?” Heydrich asked rhetorically. Nobody answered.

“Wirth!” said Heydrich. The SS man snapped to attention. He felt faint and wiggled his toes in his boots, trying to hang on, half expecting Heydrich to shoot his then and there. “Leave us” ordered Heydrich. “Wait outside.”

Wirth stepped out of the office and rushed to the latrine.

“What to do gentlemen?” asked Heydrich.

“Foremost, Herr General” said Eichman “we must start the trains running again. The ghettos are bursting. With Sobibor and Treblinka out of commission we must run everything to Belzac. However, it cannot now handle the extra ‘business.’ Belzac must be expanded and then operated around the clock—at least until Auschwitz is up and running.”

“Who is the best man to get the most out of Belzac?“ said Heydrich, turning to Globocnik.

“Wirth” said Globocnik. “I don’t know what happened exactly at Treblinka, but I do know he is our best man when it comes to the technical aspects of gassing Jews. If we are going to double or triple Belzac’s production, we need him there.”

“Alright” said Heydrich, with distaste. “We’ll promote him and put him in charge of Belzec.”

“Not everybody can be a hero I suppose” he said, puffing out his chest to emphasize his own decorations.

“We must protect Belzac as well” said Globo gloomily “in addition to securing the countryside. I do not have sufficient resources to accomplish either mission.”

Heydrich considered this. What Globo said was true. Heydrich ran his own sub-empire within the greater Reich—one of particular interest to the Fuehrer, and yet he, like every other officer had to beg for resources. The war in Russia consumed enormous quantities of everything. Rommel incessantly demanded men, machines and supplies in North Africa, and much that was sent out to him ended in the bottom of the sea doubling the drain on the Wehrmacht. And with the United States now in the war things would only get worse.

Germany had to win in Russia and North Africa, sink America’s merchant fleet, and defend itself from increasingly worrisome air raids. Killing the Jews was a priority, but Heydrich was expected to do it on a shoestring. Himmler would have to give him more, much more. Germany could not afford a revolt in Poland with the Wehrmacht already stretched in Russia.

“I’ll take care of that Globocnik” said Heydrich projecting a confidence that he did not really feel. “You will get the men you need.” He turned to Eichman. “Find Wirth and give him the good news.”

Eichman hurried out, and after casting about the anteroom, eventually found Wirth down the hall on the toilet. He passed on word of the promotion then and there.

Chapter 30

The sayeret now pushed due east on rough roads. This move across the broken countryside, though hard, took them outside of Heydrich’s net for the time being. By the time dawn broke on May 30 the weary band found themselves in a forested area near the village of Kozohty. Staying well clear of the hamlet the column pulled into a dense wood.

The Israelis hid the trucks before posting a few bone tired sentries so that everyone else could drop to sleep. The sayeret carried this burden alone—Fliegel’s Bears had shot their bolt.

By midday most everyone slept at least a little, and taken in food. Chaim got up and moved about, which encouraged the Israeli commandos, but two of the three wounded Bears were much worse off. Ido believed they would survive only if the sayeret reached safety and the men received sustained rest and steady attention.

The suffering of the wounded men only further undermined the fragile condition of Fliegel’s men. Yatom recognized the signs of battle fatigue clearly enough. He was amazed that these young Jews, most of whom had never held a rifle before, had accomplished so much already. Their burning desire for revenge had sustained them, but it was only temporary courage. Physically weakened and emotionally fragile at the start of the mission, the Bears were now completely exhausted. Even Fliegel was next to useless. The Bears were broken, and Yatom knew that they would probably not recover without hot food and a few days of rest—neither of which he could offer.

The sayeret was worn-out but far from broken. Still, five days of ceaseless running and fighting had taken its toll. The Israelis were not in top form anymore. They too needed rest and replenishment. Mofaz took on the task of reminding the tired commandos to attend to the necessary tasks of cleaning their weapons and equipment—a weak spot in the IDF, even in the best of times.

Yatom called an orders group early in the afternoon to evaluate their situation and plot the next move. The usual group gathered on a bed of pine needles. Yatom summarized their situation. Things were getting dicey, said Yatom, who noted that they would soon start running out of food, water and fuel. They could ration the food and water, but the extra jerry cans of petrol they hauled out of Treblinka would only be good for another 70 kilometers or so. The hard driving was tough on people too. Beyond petrol, most acute problem was with the sayerets own equipment. They had shot off two thirds of their 40mm grenades, and about half of their rifle ammo. Everyone had dipped into the extra ammo that Feldhandler brought along. Most critically, the sayeret’s batteries were beginning to fail—again, even considering Feldhandler’s extras. Batteries ran almost all of the Israelis tech gear, from radios to thermal and night vision scopes.

Feldhandler had rechargers that he believed would work on the Polish electric grid, assuming they could find a secure place with running electricity. Having set forth the sayeret’s numerous problems, Yatom pulled out one of his maps and traced a line further east, which seemed the safest direction for the time being.

“At the Polish frontier we’ll head south again. We stop when we reach the refugees from the train—if they are still alive” said Yatom.

“But before that we must find someplace with fuel and electricity, even if it is during the day. We’ll have to risk it.”

“Where?” said Mofaz.

“As far east as possible—around here” said Yatom, putting his finger on the map around a town called Kolonia Rozanka.

“These Polish names will kill me” said Mofaz “if the Germans don’t first. I’m glad my people are Sephardim” he joked, meaning Jews from North Africa or the Middle East. “No wonder you Ashkenaz are so messed up.”

“You still haven’t said what the plans are when and if we reach the refugees from Sobibor” said Shapira.

Yatom scratched his face, which, like most of the commandos, was now covered with a thickening beard. “Once we find them, if we do, we’ll see to their welfare and defense. Then, hopefully, we’ll go home.”

“What was that about Sandler meeting us a Belzac in three weeks then?” persisted Shapira. “Isn’t Belzac on the list too?”

“We still have to attack Belzec” said Yatom “but not with the full sayeret. Sorne Jews from Treblinka, together with Sandler’s men, should be able to at least penetrate Belzac and knock out the gas chambers. Do you agree Dr. Feldhandler?”

“Yes” said the scientist in an unusually subdued tone. “Except that we need to have at least a couple of our own men to lead the attack…”

“Dr. Feldhandler doesn’t trust our Jewish friends,” said Yatom, pointing over to where Fliegel sat dejectedly with several of his men “to handle things alone. Honestly, I agree. So an officer and one man will have to assist in the Belzac op. That’s all.”

“Who?” asked Shapira.

Yatom shrugged. “We’ll draw lots. Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes” said Shapira. “Look at this.” He handed Yatom a piece of bloodied paper typewritten in German.

“Where is this fiom” said Yatom irritably. “What is it?”

“It’s from the satchel we took from the Germans at the last roadblock.”

“My ability to read German is not so good” said Yatom, handing the paper back to Shapira. Shapira gave the paper to Feldhandler.

“Maybe you can explain this to the commander” said Shapira.

Feldhandler took the paper and examined it lethargically. “So?” said the scientist. “It appears to a set of orders, evidently from the German officer at the last roadblock.” Feldhandler read some more.

“Let’s see” he went on blithely “it says find the partisan band… destroy them… at all costs… etc. So what?”

“Who is the order from?”

Feldhandler looked to the bottom of the paper where a large Nazi insignia was stamped next to the signature block. “Reinhardt Heydrich” he said calmly.

“What’s wrong Professor?” asked Shapira.

Feldhandler considered deliberately, finally catching on.

“Heydrich was assassinated?”

Shapira pulled one of Feldhandler’s beaten paperback histories of the Holocaust from the cargo pocket of his fatigue trousers. “Heydrich died on June 4, 1942” said Shapira, waving the book at Feldhandler.

“June 4 is a week away Lieutenant—even a junior officer should be able to figure that out.”

“No Professor. The attack on Heydrich was on May 27—two days ago—and he was completely incapacitated afterward. He died of sepsis in a Prague hospital a week later. This order is dated May 28.” Feldhandler grabbed the book and read quickly, then looked again at the blood-stained order.

“What’s the point of all this?” said Yatom.

“Heydrich probably more than anybody, was the architect of the ‘final solution’ said Shapira. He organized the Wansee Conference. He effectively implemented Hitler’s grand design. And now thanks to Dr. Feldhandler, he will keep on doing that. We’ve wrecked two of Heydrich’s death camps, but somehow he is now around to build more.”

“Is this true?” asked Perchensky, staring at Feldhandler.

“Is what true?” said Feldhandler rhetorically, like he was back in a physics classroom. “That Heydrich is alive, or that he’ll replace the camps we destroyed?”

“Both” said Perchansky venomously.

“Perhaps our arrival altered the timeline, and as a result Heydrich escaped his assassination. Such changes are inevitable.”

“This is great” said Mofaz. “We go through all this and end up helping the Germans!”

“Not only that” continued Shapira “but my guess that this aggressive pursuit we’ve faced is because of Heydrich. He has the power and influence to do it.”

Feldhandler stood and looked around. “It’s all for the better. We’ve destroyed Heydrich’s death camps, wrecked his grand plans of mass murder, and showed him that Jews can fight. It’s a huge embarrassment and a greater victory for that. The Germans would be after us no matter who’s in charge. Heydrich isn’t a boogeyman; he’s just a Nazi bureaucrat.”

“What if he rebuilds the camps?” said Mofaz.

“He won’t” said Feldhandler. “The Germans tore down Sobibor and Treblinka after the 1943 revolts. They didn’t rebuild them then, why would they now?”

“Because by 1943 they were running out of Jews to kill” said Perchensky.

“Maybe” conceded Feldhandler “but what we have done is still a net plus. We’ve saved countless people and stopped the death trains. This is not the time to doubt ourselves. That’s the trouble with us Jews—always questioning, always doubting—not acting”

“Bullshit” said Mofaz, uttering a rare curse, and bringing the argument to an abrupt halt. The group sat silently for a few moments. Feldhandler seemed unconvinced by his own words.

“All this is interesting” said Yatom finally “but it doesn’t change our present situation. We need resupply, especially petrol and batteries. Let’s get everyone up and on the road.”

The sayeret departed well before nightfall, but kept the trucks festooned with leafy branches, the better to hide from German reconnaissance flights. Again they drove east across the rough Polish plain, staying off the main roads. Yatom knew that the wounded, Chaim included, would suffer along the jarring route, but saw little alternative. He feared for the condition of the trucks as well, but the sturdy German LKWs didn’t falter. A German bomber flew high over the column just before dusk but didn’t attack. Most encouraging, there were no roadblocks. The sayeret had outraced the Germans’ ability to deploy units to cut them off.

Before dawn on May 30 the column reached the former Polish frontier and turned south. With gas almost exhausted and everybody wearied from the harsh ride, they pulled into a rumpled village called Rozanka, just off the high road. Yatom selected the village because it appeared, usually for a place of its size, to be connected to the power grid. Thus, he led the column into the town Hanzel-like, following a power line instead of crumbs.

It was pitch black, but through his thermal binoculars Yatom noted that Rozanka looked like a feudal throwback, a collection of a few rundown cottages amid forest and field, dominated by a small Catholic church, and two fine stone manor houses. In another time or age they would have housed the local nobility. Perhaps thought Yatom, they still did. In any case, it was to these superior buildings that the powerline ran.

Yatom halted the column 100 meters from the nearest of the large two manors and dismounted with Nir and Rafi. The commandos their clipped on their NVGs, but hoarding the last battery juice for the devices, didn’t activate the goggles. A little light spilled from a window in the larger of the two manors, which was also the furthest away. The light was clearly electric. Yatom led the team to a roadside ditch and flipped on his NVG for a quick look around. Just off the road, about twenty meters from the first house was a poorly sandbagged guard post, manned by two slumbering soldiers, sitting on wooden chairs. Keeping to the ditch the Israelis crept closer, until they came opposite the guards. Rafi raised his Tavor and sighted in on the men, when Yatom stopped him.

“Wait” whispered Yatom. “They don’t look like Germans.”

“Ukranians then” said Rafi, eager to shoot. “No.” It was Shapira, who had pressed up to Yatom’s position. The spilled light from the nearby building allowed a few more details to emerge from the murk.

“They look like Russians” said Shapira. “Russian clothes, and look at the weapons.” Across the laps of the sleeping men was the archetypal Russian submachinegun of World War II, with a wooden stock, ventilated barrel and most notable, big drum magazine—PPSh-41s.

Yatom carefully examined the sleeping guards. He was in no position to engage in a scholarly debate over the equipment. The sayeret leader decided quickly. “Nir with me” said Yatom. He turned to Shapira and Rafi. “Cover us.”

The pair of commandos bounded across the street. They came upon the groggy Russians who tried to stand, only to be knocked down by rifle butts. The Russians struggled to their knees, but Yatom and Nir kicked and punched them back to unconsciousness. The commandos crouched next to the crumpled guards as shouts and footsteps sounded from the two big houses just down the road. Across the way Shapira and Rafi raised their Tavors to the sounds and watched a half dozen armed men tumble out of the larger house. Lights came on in the nearer house, illuminating the street. A large man in a Russian uniform shouted toward the fallen guard post.

Nobody in the sayeret spoke Russian so far as Yatom knew—not even Feldhandler. Perhaps Perchenshky, but she was well back in the trucks. Yatom tried German.

“Halt” he yelled. “Wer sind Sie?”

“Wer sind Sie?” shouted the Russian in return, who stopped with his men in the middle of the road.

Yatom took a chance. “Sprechen Sie English?”

The big Russian laughed. “Yes. I speak English” he said with a thick accent. “Are you English?”

“Yes” lied Yatom. “Who are you?”

The Russian stepped forward into a splash of light from the first house. He was a giant, dressed differently from the other soldiers, wearing an unbuttoned but outlandishly bemedaled officer’s tunic over a filthy undershirt, baggy brown pants and old fashioned riding boots.

“My name is Marshal Samsonov of the Soviet Russian army. This is my headquarters. You are trespassing—English.”

“You’re partisans?” asked Yatom.

“If you wish” answered Samsonov. “I command Soviet forces in this sector.”

“This sector is behind German lines.”

“You don’t see any Germans here do you. We like to keep them out” laughed the Russian.

While Yatom talked to the Russian Mofaz led several other commandos down the road on foot. Yatom noticed the movement and stepped carefully toward the Russian with his arms out in a friendly gesture. Samsonov kept his eyes on Yatom.

“We are English commandos on a mission” said Yatom. “We need petrol and other resupply. Can you help us?”

“You are far from home. You attacked my men” said the Russian with a surprised look. He gestured broadly at the unconscious guards.

“I work with the English sometimes. Why wasn’t I informed of your mission?”

“I am sorry about your men. They are not dead.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them” said Samsonov dismissively. “They deserve worse.”

“How do you work with the English?” asked Yatom carefully.

“It is I that should be asking you the questions, no?”

“I’ve told you what I can. Our mission is secret” said Yatom simply, hoping this would suffice with the big Russian. Samsonov was a man who preferred talk to listening, and he did not press the issue. Instead, Samsonov waived to a soldier standing behind him. A young man in a weather-beaten Soviet uniform stepped forward carrying a machinegun. The weapon had a large banana shaped magazine sprouting from the top. Yatom vaguely recognized the gun from old newreel films, but he was neither a historian nor a World War II weapons expert.

Samsonov pointed to the weapon as proof of his British contacts, and looked hard at Yatom. Uncharacteristically, Yatom dropped his head and shuffled his feet, uncertain what to say. Shapira, still hiding by the side of the road, saw Yatom’s distress. He also recognized the gun. It was a Bren light machinegun, a common British weapon. Russian appeared to be telling the truth. Taking a chance, Shapira carefully stepped out of the shadows.

The soldier with the Bren gun swung the weapon toward Shapira.

The Israeli lieutenant held out his hands, his Tavor slung behind him.

“We were not informed about you either” said Shapira confidently, and affecting a fake British accent. “But jolly good to see you anyway.”

Mofaz, Ilan and Feldhandler cautiously walked into the Russians’ view behind Shapira. Rafi remained hidden in weeds by the side of the road. The two groups of heavily armed soldiers eyed each other. “Who of you is in charge?” demanded Samsonov.

“I am” said Shapira, before Yatom could respond. Shapira gave the sayeret leader a quick wink. “Colonel Jones at your service“ continued Shapira. “Like my man here said, we need petrol and some other supplies. We are allies old boy. If you help us I’ll see that you get plenty more Bren guns and much else besides.” Yatom looked at Shapira and let the charade continue.

Samsonov, for his part, seemed not to like Shapira’s impromptu performance. His twisted his face into a scowl and shifted his body toward the Israeli lieutenant. Samsonov looked monstrous as the mottled light from the houses fell across his massive frame. “You are in occupied Soviet territory, Colonel Jones” said Samsonov very slowly, crushing each English syllable under his thick accent. Shapira had the impression of a bear slowly stalking its prey in the forest, crunching brabbles along the way. “Nothing here is easy to come by. I don’t have petrol or anything else to give you for free comrade.”

“Then at least put us up for a few hours in one of your houses, Marshal” said Shapira. “My men need rest. Perhaps we could discuss a fair exchange in the morning.”

Samsonov stood remarkably still, more like a predator than a friend. “You are behind the attacks on the German camps?”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“I know what happens in my territory. What is your unit?”

“His Majesty’s Parachute Brigade” said Shapira, not missing a beat. “I am pleased to meet you.” Shapira extended his hand to the Russian.”

Samsonov stepped forward and took Shapira’s hand. The two men gripped each other tightly.

“Very well, Colonel Jones” said Samsonov. “How many men do you have?”

“A platoon” answered Shapira. “That house should do nicely” he said pointing at the smaller of the two well lit buildings.

Samsonov thought for a moment, then clapped his hands. A soldier immediately ran up to him. They spoke in rapid Russian. The soldier followed by several others trotted over to the house and started shouting excitedly. As the Israelis watched half a dozen other sloppy looking Russians stumbled out of the house followed by an equal number of half-dressed women. The smaller house was clearly a brothel. Marshal Samsonov seemed to have made a pleasant base for himself in the middle of a nasty war.

“Come” said Samsonov. “The house is yours for the night. You’ll find it quite comfortable I think, and if you wish, the ladies can stay—but you will have to pay.”

“Thank you Marshal, but you may have the ladies stay elsewhere” said Shapira.

“As you wish. Put your vehicles there” said Samsonov, pointing at the yard between the two houses. “I’ll put out a guard so you can rest, and we will talk further in the morning, yes?”

“We are grateful indeed” said Shapira sincerely. “May I ask one more thing before we go?” Samsonov nodded curtly, his expression suspicious.

“How is it that you speak such excellent English?”

Samsonov paused, his gaze baleful. “My father was a merchant—a middleman you would say. In the years just after the revolution I traveled with him to England—several times. He did much trade there.”

“I see” said Shapira. The Israeli was ready to take his leave when the Russian started speaking again.

“He traded prosperously even after the revolution, and I with him, until Comrade Stalin reproached him—for the good of the motherland.” Samsonov’s lips curled into a smile, but his eyes remained fixed on Shapira, as if the two parts of his face were disconnected. Shapira stared back at Samsonov uneasily, wanting to end the discussion. Samsonov waited some more seconds, his eyes straying from Shapira to the commandos arrayed along the road.

Finally, the Russian clicked his heels, nodded curtly, and stalked away toward the larger house. His men followed him furtively, like rats in a pack thought Shapira.

The Israelis parked the trucks as Samsonov instructed and carefully unloaded the wounded who took three of the six available beds. Fliegel’s men plus Norit and Hannah followed and quickly claimed the other three beds—the women took two, while the Bears piled around the remaining cot, agreeing to take turns. The Israeli commandos resigned themselves to another night on the ground—but least with a roof over their heads.

The house was warm, dry and flush with electric light. Feldhandler, with Perchansky and Roskovsky assisting, immediately began fiddling with his converters and redrargers while the other Israelis handed over a jumble of NVGs, radios and gunsights for recharging. Despite Samsonov’s promise to guard them, Yatom insisted on putting out his own watch, with Itzak and a glum looking Bull named Lev getting the first duty.

Yatom told Itzak to patrol around the house with Dev until relieved. “Just make sure our Russian friends don’t shoot you by accident.” Itzak returned a wry smile, not sure if Yatom was joking about his dark skin or just making a general comment. Lev looked at him       curiously—proliably the first dealings the young Jew had had with any black man, much less one that would give him orders.

Anxious for a bit of sleep himself, Yatom nevertheless insisted on calling over Shapira and Mofaz for another a powwow. They sat at the table where Feldhandler worked on the electronics.

“How is it going Doctor?” asked Yatom, relieved to be speaking Hebrew again.

“It is working—but it will take a most of a day to charge all of this stuff.” Yatom looked at Shapira. “Your little performance was impressive. I’m glad you decided to come on stage when you did.”

“You’re welcome.“

“Do you think we have a day?” asked Yatom, addressing the group.

“No” said Mofaz irritably. “I heard most of it—my English is good too—I don’t trust that big galut”

“What he said seemed to be true” said Shapira. “Some carried British weapons—how else would they get them but from Allied airdrops?”

“I don’t know Lieutenant” said Mofaz. “You’re the historian. Ijust know that I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like anything” said Feldhandler. “We know you don’t like the general situation. What specifically makes you think we should not rest here for a day?”

“There is something about him” said Mofaz thoughtfully “that makes me think he is at best a criminal, at worst an enemy.”

“What exactly?” asked Yatom.

“I don’t know” said Mofaz. “You know” said Shapira “Major Mofaz may be onto something. That last bit Samsonov said about his father and Comrade Stalin—perhaps he’s not a Communist.”

“Most people in the Soviet Union were not Communists” said Feldhandler “just like most kibbutzniks”

That brought a laugh from the group, even Mofaz. The Israeli kibbutz movement was probably the purest practical expression of true communism modern history—but had recently fallen on hard times, economically and philosophically.

“I think we should stay through the day and depart again tomorrow night” said Perchensky, injecting a little practicality into the discussion. “The wounded especially need rest.”

Yatom looked at Mofaz.

“Major?” asked Yatom respectfully.

“Beseder” said Mofaz. “But we still need petrol, which this Marshal Samsonov is not donating. What are we to trade for it?”

“We have plenty of weapons” said Yatom. “So does he—unless you are thinking of trading our equipment?”

“Not our equipment” said Yatom “except perhaps an Uzi or two. The Russian might like an Uzi. He might value novelty.”

“I doubt he’ll trade much petrol for one or two Uzis” guessed Shapira “but it’s worth a try.”

In the large house next door, Marshal Samsonov also sat at a table, considering his options, a bottle of rough vodka lubricating his own council of war. Samsonov had removed his fancy dress jacket and replaced it with his real army shirt, which carried the worn shoulder tabs of a senior sergeant. Another sergeant called Kuba sat at the table along with artillery lieutenant named Zinoviev. Zinoviev had long ago surrendered his authority to Samsonov, preferring to drink, fuck and accept the rare salute from the rabble around him. “These are certainly the commandos who have been raiding the German camps” declared Samsonov. “Anybody disagree?” Samsonov’s boorish threatening tone didn’t really invite disagreement, and his men were rarely inclined to challenge hisjndgnrent.

“You’re going to inform Captain Reder?” asked Zinoviev looking over at the German wireless set in the corner of the room. “He certainly would pay us well for such advice.”

“Would he, Zinoviev?” said Samsonov in his deliberate way.

“Maybe he would tell his master to send a division and liquidate the lot of us.”

“Why would he do that?”

“It’s what Nazis do idiot” said Kuba. “Once we’ve served our purposes.”

“We’ve turned in plenty of partisans other than this lot” said Zinoviev. “We’d still be of value to the Germans.”

“You might be right, Zinoviev, but it would be better to present these Englishmen to the Germans on a platter, rather than have them come and carve the roast themselves—that might give them ideas.”

Samsonov paused and poured another tumbler of vodka for himself.

“Reder mentioned several times that these commandos were well armed. It concerned him. Did you notice their weapons?”

“Not really” said Zinoviev drunkenly. “I did” offered Kuba. “The weapons are odd—never seen anything like it—their uniforms and equipment too.”

“If we had them, and their weapons, we’d be very well set” concluded Samsonov.

“What are you planning?” asked Zinoviev warily.

“I’m planning to capture them—or kill them if they prefer” growled Samsonov. “And not dither about it either, like a proper officer such as yourself.”

Samsonov drained his tumbler again and looked across the table.

“What men do we have right now?”

“The men here in the house with us, all of my men, and the guard” said Kuba enthusiastically, always eager for a little piracy.

“How many is that?”

Kuba started counting on his fingers, but Zinoviev interrupted him. “Thirty-eight—give or take two or three” said the lieutenant.

“And the rest?”

“They are off doing our business, as you ordered” said Zinoviev, trying to shake off his own liquor, if indeed a fight was near. “Doing business” meant fanning through the countryside, extorting food and whatever else they could from the local peasants and shopkeepers.

“Thirty-eight is plenty” said Samsonov. “Gather up every man not already posted on guard, and have them in the big room in thirty minutes.”

“It’s going to be dawn soon” tried Zinoviev, suspicious of Samsonov’s schemes.

Samsonov looked at him dismissively. “Reder said these men liked to operate at night—maybe even had secret devices that let them see in the dark. So, dawn would be a good time for us to attack.”

Itzak patrolled around the house and temporary motor pool despite his fatigue. Dawn broke on the eastern horizon. He’d been out nearly two hours. Until his relief, he fought to stay ready and alert, constantly moving, and gnawing on bits of Feldhandler’s dry and chewy Powerbars. He carried neither NVGs, a night scope for his rifle nor his radio—all of which were being recharged. The men considered themselves relatively safe among the Russian partisans. Indeed, Lev, the eighteen year old who was supposed to be patrolling with him had long sinoe domed offnutside a shed near the house’s northern side.

Before he’d been deported Lev was a seminary student. He still wore sidelocks but seemed to have otherwise given up on orthodox paraphernalia and rituals after his ride on the death train. At twenty-three Itzak was not that much older than his partner, but five years in the army make a difference. Before he’d joined the IDF Itzak had been a student too—but that seemed long ago. Itzak hoped to join Lev in a peaceful slumber before too long.

Two Russians stood guard at the same roadblock the sayeret had encountered hours before. Unlike the original pair, these two didn’t sleep. Itzak decided to talk to them—if a common language could be found—to kill the last minutes of his watch. They looked at him warily whenever he went past on his rounds—whether it was because he looked strange, or they were hostile, Itzak didn’t know. By initiating a discussion—or trying at least—he might find out.

He started toward the guardpost when he heard loud talk and rustling back near the shed. Itzak turned around to see Lev being savagely beaten by several Russians using their rifle hutts. More armed Russians were running towards the house. Itzak processed the information, and made his decision. Dropping to one knee he opened fire with his Tavor.

Itzak cut down three of the charging Russians, then remembering the two guards behind him turned back for them. They shot at him first, the wild fire from their PPsh—41 submachinegnns hitting the ceramic plates in his vest and knocking him to the ground. Itzak recovered and rolled away from them into a shallow ditch which defiladed him from the roadblock guards. From the small defilade, he fired again at the Russians moving toward the house, hitting two more.

The Russians still near the shed shot at Itzak, striking him in the right thigh with round from a 7.62mm Mosin-Nagant. The high velocity bullet blew crimson blood and tissue into the dirt. Stunned by the blow, Itzak fired back blindly, emptying his magazine at the Russian riflemen. He only vaguely registered that other bullets were striking around him as he forced himself up on his left leg. Dropping the Tavurhe prrlled out a grenade and tossed it at more Russians now emerging from the nearby woods. Meanwhile the soldiers at the guard post shot him again, this time hitting his left arm and shoulder as well as the protective vest. Itzak fell to the ground again. Behind him toward the house he heard Mofaz calling his name, and welcome rattle of other Tavors joining the battle. He wanted to respond but could not. Itzak drew his pistol, even as he sensed his life blood draining. The Russians at the guard post were struggling to reload their submachineguns with new drums. Still prone, Itzak shifted his body toward the guards and aimed the Sig. The two men were silhouetted in the morning light, like on a firing range. Itzak gunned them down.

Mofaz reached Itzak just as the young commando let the pistol slip from his hand. Itzak lay on his back in the Polish dirt, a wine dark stain of blood soaking the ground about him. Mofaz threw his body on top of the dying soldier as a group of Russians standing at the gateway to the big house fired towards them. Mofaz deliberately killed one of the Russians at the gate, and drove the others to cover. He was about to fire again when he saw Shapira, Bolander and Roi charge into the Russians, shooting them apart in a hail of automatic fire.

Itzak died in those seconds he lay under Mofaz, strangely comforted. Mofaz tore open the Lieutenant’s vest searching for an injury, but saw the gaping wound in the Itzak’s leg and understood.

Yatom emerged from the house followed by Nir and looked about. Itzak had killed eight Russians hirnselfin the northem yard, and Mofaz, Shapira and Roi, several more. Another disorganized gaggle of Russians who attacked through the motor pool had been gunned down by Rafi, Chaim, and Roskovsky, shooting from the windows of the small house. The Russians had done almost everything wrong or amateurishly—but had they not been staggeringly drunk the sayeret still might have been in real trouble. As it was they’d lost a good man. Yatom ran to the gateway of the big house and there met Shapira.

Mofaz, soaked in Itzak’s blood, joined them moments later. It was time to deal with Marshal Samsonov.

Samsonov and Zinoviev had tried to watch the battle from the upper windows of the big house, which looked over the smaller manor.

The two Russian officers had noted a lot of shooting and screaming, which was to be expected, but no other sign, one way or the other, as to whether the attack was successful. Kuba had offered to waive a pair of women’s bloomers from the neighboring house to signal success. Quite a funny little idea frorn the raucous sergeant thought Samsonov.

But unbeknownst to the Marshal, Kuba was dead, killed by Itzak’s grenade. The bloomers, thick though they were, didn’t stop shrapnel.

“I think we should go” said Zinoviev abruptly. “Why?” grunted Samsonov. “You frighten too easily. How did you ever become an officer?”

“Samsonov—seriously—we should get out of here. The attack…” but Zinoviev couldn’t finish. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to challenge the hm sergeant. Several more minutes passed and the big house fell silent. One way or another the battle was over, he only question was who won. No bloomers waived from the smaller manor, thought Zinoviev glumly.

Then on the lower floors the two men heard shooting, the cries of several women and a terrifying, if muffled explosion. This was followed by more shouting, now from angry men in a bizarre language, not English at all. Samsonov was sure he heard the voice of Colonel Jones, in the strange tongue. The enemy soldiers continued to shout to each other as they clambered up the stairs, the clump of boots marking their progress, supplemented here and there by the crump of a grenade, or the burst of an automatic weapon. Samsonov and Zinoviev sat nervously at the big table. A loaded PPSh-41 lay between them. Zinoviev ignored it and reached for the last bottle of vodka, sucking down several huge gulps. Samsonov picked up the gun at the sound of clanking equipment and footsteps in the hall. The door to the room was wide open. Samsonov pointed the gun at the open threshold. A small odd looking grenade skittered across the floor.

Zinoviev closed his eyes and waited to die, hoping it would not be too painful. Samsonov pulled the trigger on the submachinegun spraying rounds at the door until the grenade exploded. The Russians were blinded by an effulgent flash and stunned by a hard concussive blast. Seconds later the ‘English’ commandos were on them, punching, kicking and clubbing, but not killing.

Marshal Samsonov came to in his undershorts with his hands bound in front of him. He was sitting in front of the wireless set. Zinoviev squatted beside him, similarly inconvenienced hut, thought Samsonov, the the lieutenant appeared happy just to be alive. ‘Colonel Jones’ and the other English offirer stood nearby, along with several of their troops. Examining the commandos in the light of day, Samsonov thought that the soldiers didn’t look very English at all, they looked swarthy—like Arabs or Turks. The muscular officer who had beaten his guards the night before walked over and grabbed Samsonov by the chin. It seemed that this man, and not Colonel Jones, was now in charge.

“You are going to do just as I say” said Yatom in English “and answer my questions. Do you understand?”

Samsonov considered playing dumb, maintaining that what had happened was a mistake, but realized that no matter what he said, Zinoviev would undermine him, if he hadn’t already. Samsonov nodded.

“Good” said Yatom. “Do you work for the Germans?”

“Yes” said Samsonov “but I have no choice.”

Mofaz standing nearby, and still raw over Itzak’s death, stepped in and smashed Samsonov’s fare with a closed fist.

“No excuses from you” hissed Yatom. “Answer my questions. Afterwards you will get on your radio and call your German contact.”

Sanrsonov nodded. Yatom questioned Samsonov for several minutes, learning the identiy of his German contact. Yatom and Ido then led Samsonov to the wireless set in order to contact Captain Reder in Globocnik’s headquarters. Yatom told Samsonov just what to say. Samsonov sat in front of the wireless, but did nothing. Yatom slapped the huge Russian across the face, but Sanrsonov sat, still dumb. Finally the Russian pointed at Zinoviev. “He must do it” croaked the Russian sergeant as he gestured at his comrade. “I can’t operate the wireless.”

The Israelis looked down at the ancient wireless set, which appeared little more than a jumble of wires and boxes, bolted to a metal frame. Feldhandler finally figured it out. There was no microphone—it operated in Morse.

“Bring the other one over” barked Yatom. Mofaz dragged Zinoviev, who didn’t speak English, over to the wireless set.

“Tell him what to signal” Yatom instructed Samsonov. The two spoke in Russian for a few seconds. Perchensky, the only one among the Israelis who spoke any Russian at all attempted to follow. The sudden betrayal and the death of Itzak had reawakened, at least for a time, her loyalty.

After the Russians finished talking Perchensky tried to translate, speaking now in Hebrew. “As best I can figure, the big one told the little one to pass on the signal as you instructed” she explained. “But the signal is in Morse, and in code on top of that. I-low can we know he’ll do what we say?”

Yatom thought about it for a few seconds, but without consulting further grabbed Zinoviev by the scruff of the neck and told him in English—“Do it!” The terrified Russian got the message and began tapping out a signal in Morse. Either the Russian lieutenant would send the signal Yatom wanted, or he would betray them again. Either way, Yatom figured, the sayeret would be long gone, and Zinoviev dead.

Zinoviev completed the message, and several seconds later the Israelis heard a Morse reply. One way or the other, the signal had gotten through.

Nir and Bolander collected the radio set and attachments and carried the equipment out to the waiting trucks. Yatom, Shapira and Ido followed, leaving Samsonov and Zinoviev alone with Mofaz. The two quick shots echoed down the hall before Yatom reached the steps.

Yatom waited there for a moment so that he and Mofaz could walk out together. “That was quick” said Yatom.

“I’m not a sadist. They deserved worse.”

The two ofiicers left the house and found the rest of the sayeret and Fliegel’s remaining men hard a work at a collection of outbuildings behind Samsonov’s headquarters. There the Israelis found a cornucopia of anns and supply, including hundreds of gallons of precious fuel. The sayeret sorted through the supplies, refueled the vehicles, and loaded on extra jerry cans of petrol. They recharged as much of their electronics as they could.

The Israelis counted a dozen Bren guns, scores of Sten sub-machine guns, and over a hundred Lee-Enfield rifles. They found two American—made 81mm mortars with sixty bombs between them.

There were also four Soviet Degtyarev light machine guns, several down more PPSh-41s, along with hundreds of British, Soviet and German grenades. The Israelis loaded the haul in their own trucks and

a pair of good German LKWs that Samsonov had used for himself.

While loading one of the LKWs Shapira ran into Norit showing Hannah a Sten, and describing its use and operation.

“You seem very familiar with that” said Shapira. “Why wouldn’t I be?” answered Norit, as if Shapira was talking about a fork. Shapira forgot that the Sten was one of the most widely used weapons in the pre-state yishuv.

“No.no reason” mumbled Shapira. “I just didn’t know if you could really shoot.”

“Try me” said Norit, locking and loading a magazine.

“Okay, okay Rambo” said Shapira in English, baffling the two Jewish women with the anaclironisrn. “Not right now, but I think you’ll have plenty of chances.”

Norit smiled, which made Shapira feel good for the first time since Itzak fell. The feeling didn’t last, as the baleful Mofaz came upon them. ”Jalla cheroa” said the Major, his voice barely above a whisper.

He dragged Shapira away. Shapira had never seen Mofav so disconsolate. After a brief orders group the sayeret carefully loaded the bodies of Lev and Itzak on the groaning trucks for the journey south. If Zinoviev had sent the right signal, and if the Germans bought it, they would be looking to the north.

Chapter 31

Heydrich and Eichmann had flown back to Prague by the time Hauptman Reder reported to Globocnik’s office with news of his contact with Samsonov.

“This is good news, Reder!” exclaimed the Globocnik. “Good police work pays off, does it not? Informants are our greatest resource.”

“Ja, Herr General” said Reder, mimicking his superior’s enthusiasm.

“You are absolutely sure about this, yes?”

“Yes sir. It was definitely Samsonov. The signal was slightly garbled—some mistakes in the Morse—but they are usually drunk. Quite typical actually.”

Globocnik ruminated over this for a moment. “The other problem with informants, besides drunkenness, is that they are turncoats in the first instance. We must be cautious.”

“Certainly sir, but Samsonov is not an ideologue” said Reder confidently. “He will follow whoever offers him the better deal. A doubt a fleeing band of bandits could offer more than we do. In any case” concluded Reder “it makes sense that the enemy commandos would turn north back to their own drop zones. It’s what I would do.”

Globocnik could not argue with the man’s logic. The enemy commandos were obviously British or in British employ. They were on the run, and the way out was to the north, where they could at least resupply, or perhaps escape by submarine through the Baltic Sea. Globocnik called in his aide and told him to place a call to Heydrich in Prague.

It was several hours before Heydrich called him back, just as Globo was preparing for dinner with his Polish mistress. The General shuffled back into his office, happy at least that he had not begun drinking yet. Globo briefed Heydrich on Reder’s report, repeating the intelligence officer’s conclusion that the raiders had likely turned north, back to their presumed drop zone. Heydrich had no reason to doubt this assessment, brrt too much was at stake for him to bet the farm on it. He agreed that the search efforts should shift northward and ambushes established at the known British drop sites.

“Has Wirth set off for Belzac?” asked Heydrich.

“Yes General” said Globocnik impatiently “this morning with a detachment of engineers and several hundred Jewish laborers. It will take several weeks, but when the expansion of Belzac is complete it should be capable of processing up to 10,000 a day.”

“Good. It is vital that the camp remain in operation. Reports indicate a general increase in partisan activity throughout the General Government, including within the ghettos.”

“I am aware of this” sighed Globocnik a little disinterestedly. His dinner and mistress would be getting cold.

“Have you initiated reprisals for the latest outrage?”

“No sir” said Globocnik carefully. “The reprisal following the Sobibor raid seems to have done little good. The Polish population does not generally oppose our anti-Jewish actions. Attacking Polish gentiles is counter-productive. And there is not much more we can do to the Jews…”

“Enough of that” broke in Heydrich with irritation, mostly because he knew that Globocnik was right. He changed the subject. “As far as these raiders are concerned” continued Heydrich immodestly “I’ve secured for you the services of a full regiment of Waffen SS, as well as a security division.”

This did impress Globo. Waflen SS regiments were jewels in the Nazi crown, hoarded by Himmler and the Fuehrer himself, and desperately needed on the Russian front. “May I ask what unit Herr General?”

It was a breach of security to speak of specific deployments over an open phone line, but Heydrich was in a particularly boastful mood.

“A regiment of Das Reich—just returned from the east a few months ago. Veterans and capable of doing whatever is required. A courier will deliver detailed orders as to the employment of the units tomorrow. You are to follow them to the letter.”

“Yes General” answered Globocnik enthusiastically. No surprise, thought Globocnik, that he would have little discretion in the employment of the regiment. Nonetheless, it would be a feather in his cap even to have nominal control of such a unit. The Fuehrer himself would probably keep tabs on it. Globocnik settled the phone in its cradle threw on his hat and happily hurried out to this dinner date.

Heydrich’s orders arrived by courier the following morning, the SS motorcyclist, complete with leather duster, delivering the envelope to Globocnik personally, while Captain Reder looked on. The first orders concerned the deployment of the 207 Security Division, a lightly armed unit of modest quality that had extra police and Gestapo attached, as well as a detachment of Russian Cossack cavalry. Globocnik would deploy its regiments to cover rail lines, bridges and other key sites, while its secret police elements and the Cossacks tracked and destroyed the emergent partisan bands.

The second set of orders concerned the deployment of SS Panzergrenadier Regiment Der Fuehrer. Unlike the various SS units already under Globocnik’s control, the Waflen SS was the fully armed fighting element of the organization. The troops were ideologically indoctrinated fanatics, who embodied the ideal of the unyielding an merciless National Socialist superman. Waffen SS divisions were not necessarily better than the best regular German divisions, but the were as good, and better supplied and equipped. More than that although structured and equipped as fighting units, the Waffen SS could be counted on to perform any necessary dirty work against Jews or partisans without compunction. 2rd SS Panzergrenadier Division, Der Ptzehrers parent unit, had already participated several Einsatzgruppen massacres in Russia. If Regiment Der Fuehrer could not pacify eastern Poland, nobody could.

As expected, Heydrich left Globocnik little flexibility in the regiment’s deployment. One battalion was to be sent to Wirth at Belzac. Heydrich believed that with a Wnfifen SS battalion guarding the camp, in addition to the installation’s normal complement, the last of his dedicated death factories would become invulnerable. Globo could hardly disagree. The two remaining battalions were to be held in reserve, once the British commandos or the major partisan force was found and fixed by police and security units. Then the SS battalions would move in for the kill. One battalion was to be deployed north of Lubin, the other to the south.

It would take at least two weeks for the new units to arrive. In the meantime, Globocnik pressed the other formations under his command to the north in hopes of finding the enemy commandos at the suspected British drop zones, or along the coast if escape aboard a submarine was the goal.

Reder thought escape the likeliest possibility given the supposed bloody nose the commandos had suffered at the hands of Marshall Samsonov. But Globocnik began to doubt his intelligence chief when another day passed without Reder getting further word from Samsonov. Samsonov was a drunk and a criminal, but unlikely to remain out of touch for so long. Increasingly uneasy as well, Reder suggested sending a patrol out to partisan turncoat, but Globo could not spare the men—yet.

Globo decided to wait, hoping that his problems would go away Ideally, the enemy commandos would be caught by his available troops, or flee back to Britain on a on a submarine. Either result would have suited Globocnik. Their Regiment Der Fuehrer would find their time in Poland little more than an opportunity for training, and Globo could return them to Heydrich safe and sound.

Chapter 32

The ruse involving Samsonov had worked so well that the Israelis didn’t see another German until they approached Sobibor again, early in the evening of June 1. Even the Storch reconnaissance planes had disappeared with Globocnik’s efforts now firmly fixed to the north.

Yatom stopped the column near Sobibor at sunset, and drove ahead with Feldhandler and Shapira to have a look at the wrecked death camp. From a safe distance in the woodline they saw a small work crew of Germans and Jews, under the watchful eye of a few SS guards, demolish the last evidence of the place. A team of prisoners, assisted by a bulldozer, pushed old building timbers, fence-posts and wire into a ditch. The Germans carefully avoided the still intact minefield, but otherwise had turned the place into little more than an innocuous open lot in the woods. Even that wouldn’t last, as in the distance another group of Jews planted samplings over burial pits filled with thousands of bodies.

Satisfied that Sobibor was history, and that the Germans had no intention of hanging around, Yatom stood up, brushed himself off and put away his binoculars. “Well, Sobibor is no more. Let’s go.”

Shapira touched Yatom’s arm. “Commander, they will kill those prisoners when the work is done.”

Yatom sighed. “We can’t save everybody, Lieutenant.” Shapira looked at Feldhandler for support, but he shrugged and walked off towards the hidden Kubelwagen. The three men returned to the main column. Skirting the Sobibor site, Yatom led the sayeret toward the forest beyond the rail line to the southwest, a few kilometers east of where they’d left Jezek and the refugees from the train days before.

About eight kilometers west of Sobibor Yatom identified a farm path that crossed the railroad track at a narrow cutting. The sayeret drove down the track for two more kilometers south of the rail-line, past several abandoned and dilapidated homesteads, until the path dead ended in another thick stand of woods. Yatom dismounted and walked forward across a derelict potato field until he found what appeared to be a forester’s road. The Kubelwagens, cars and trucks bounced across the rutted meadow toward the road. They followed it west for several kilometers, until it dumped them on yet another farm path, bordered by another pair of deserted barns. Shapira checked his compass and ran a pencil over a map, then pointed to a forested hill about 3000 meters away.

“I think that’s where they should be” said Shapira. “The capsule should be a few kilometers further to the south”

Yatom looked through his binoculars toward the distant hill hoping to see some sign of the refugees. The far—off height appeared silent and empty. Several moments later Mofaz and Ilan walked over to assess the situation.

“What do you think Ilan?” asked Mofaz. The sniper had the best eyes of the bunch. Ilan peered through the glasses.

“It looks like the right location, although we are approaching the area from a different direction. I don’t see any sign of life in the trees.”

“We may be too far away or they may have moved on” said Shapira. “They weren’t supposed to stay there anyway. But hopefully they left an outpost or lookout.”

“Let’s find out” said Yatom. The column continued down the farm path and rumbled its way across several more broken fields. The commandos looked ahead nervously at the tree covered ridgeline.

They were driving into what would have been an excellent location for a German ambush. Not only were they hemmed in by rough terrain and trees, but the sun was setting behind the ridge to the west. The light was in their eyes, and the column was perfectly silhouetted for German artillery or machinegunners. But as the pushed on they heard only the groaning of the truck engines, accompanied by the buzzing of insects and the chirping of birds. This section of Poland was still mostly a wilderness, untouched by hideousness of the war.

Yatom halted the column at the base of the hill. Beyond the hill lay another, larger one. Shapira recognized the second hill—the stream that they had led the refugees to flowed along its base. “That’s it” said Shapira decisively, checking compass and map to be certain. Yatom and Feldhandler nodded. Yatom, who had been driving the Kubelwagen himself dismounted and scanned the rise with his thermal binoculars.

“Ron, take Bolander and check the place out. We’ll wait here.”

Feldhandler climbed out of the German jeep and stood next to Yatom, while Shapira waived to the young marksman. Bolander joined Shapira in the Kubelwagen. Shapira drove while Bolander kept his Tavor at the ready. Halfway to the larger hill, Shapira remembered that he was driving a German vehicle, and wearing, as he often did on the road, a German tunic over his combat vest. He got out of the car and took off the tunic, and with his recharged radio called Yatom. “We are going the rest of the way on foot. I don’t want to get shot by some lookout who mistakes us for Germans.”

Yatom acknowledged the message. He should have thought of that, and reproved himself for his sloppiness. I shouldn’t have led the column through an obvious ambush site either, he reflected. Yatom knew that he, along with everybody needed a good rest.

Shapira and Bolander walked down the rutted path another 200 meters, and then moved off the road into the brush. It was nearly dark, a bad time to approach a sentry, but there was nothing for it.

Shapira scanned the hill with his thermal binoculars, while Bolander did the same through his rifle sight. About 100 meters up the north side of the hill Shapira’s thermal picked up the form of a seated man.

Bolander caught the figure a moment later, and noticed a second man also sitting nearby.

Shapira notified Yatom that they had found sentries and were going to make contact. The commandos moved up the hill slowly, staying under cover. They were able to approach unnoticed by the ill-trained guards. The two Israelis crouched behind a pair ofthick pines a stone’s throw from the sentry position. Shapira called to the guards in German, hoping for the best.

“Hello, Kameraden. Wir sind Juden. Wir sind Freunden.”

The startled sentries tumed awkwardly toward the commandos and shouted their challenge. Shapira repeated his words, and added quickly in rough mix of German and Yiddish, that they were the soldiers who had stopped the train, attacked Sobibor and then departed the week before.

“Kommen Sie raus!” said one of the guards. Shapira and Bolander fixed their helmets in place and made certain their ballistic vests were fastened. They stepped forward slowly. Despite the fading light Shapira immediately recognized one of the men from Sobibor, a squat, middle-aged fellow, with unblinking eyes and a completely bald head.

“I know you” said the man, recognizing Shapira as well. Shapira removed his helmet and advanced a few more steps. “My name is Issac Sobel” said the bald man. “And this is Albrecht Dunie” he continued, gesturing to the other man as if they were at a cocktail party. Dunie stepped forward and took made a small incongruous bow. Shapira, feeling a bit like Stanley, introduced himself and Bolander.

“So” exclaimed Sobel “the Allied commandos have returned!”

“Yes.”

“Where are the rest of your men?” asked Sobel matter-of-factly.

“In the valley, waiting for my signal” said Shapira. “Where are the rest of your people? Did you find somewhere to stay?”

“Yes. We can go there” said Sobel cautiously “but it will be difficult in the dark.”

“Is there a road?” asked Shapira. Sobel ignored him and stared out into the valley looking for the column.

“They are on the other side of that hill” said Shapira, to satisfy Sobel’s obvious curiosity. “Now how do we get to your people?”

“There is no road that goes there from this place. I can show you the way but it would be better to wait for morning.”

Shapira had no intention of doing that. “Is De Jong still in charge?”

“Yes, among others, including myself” Sobel shot back. “I led a workers union—I ran the Jewish government in the Lodz ghetto.”

“Whatever” said Shapira in English, unmoved and annoyed by Sobel’s preening. “Send Mr. Dunie back on foot to warn De Jong” ordered Shapira, switching back to German. “You’ll come with us, and take us on whatever roads there are—we’ll figure out the rest.”

“What about my sentry post?” asked Sobel. His initial joy at the meeting had tumed into dismay, ordered around by the young and disrespectful foreign offieer.

“There won’t be any Germans coming along here for the time being” said Shapira. “Let’s go.”

No roadway crossed the ridge upon which Sobel had stood guard. Instead he demanded that the column reverse itself and then led it on a tortuous adventure over rutted back roads that were even worse than those near Treblinka. Sobel sat in the front of Yatom’s Kubelwagen while Shapira drove, trying his best to follow the man’s convoluted directions in a mix of German and Yiddish. For all Sobel’s uncertainty as to the ronte—he was from Silesia in the western Poland, not the wastes of the east—he remained sure and confident of his abilities.

Having failed to impress Shapira with his status he tried Yatom. Sobel recounted his pre-war successes and his importance to the Lodz ghetto. He declared that he was third in command of the escaped Jews, after the Dutchman De Jong and the Czech Jezek, and intimated that as a Pole, he ought to be in top dog—after all, most of the refugees were Poles, and they were in Poland.

Why asked Yatom, nearly an hour into their journey, as they drove through a tiny and nearly abandoned Polish village, was a man of such importance pulling guard duty on a lonely hill?

“Because” answered Sobel “I’m a socialist. No member of the community is above the basest duty.”

“What was your profession before you became a union leader?” asked Yatom, as the men were jostled by yet another pothole in the cratered farm track

“This and that” said Sobel unhelpfully. “I’m a Macher—I make things happen; or at least I did.”

“You were one of the leaders of the Jews in Sobibor?”

“Yes. I presided over the executions of the camp commander and guards after you left. De Jong wasn’t really up for it” as I recall.

“He wasn’t a prisoner of the camp” noted Yatom. “No” agreed Sobel. “There are differences even today between De Jong and me and the survivors of Sobibor and the refugees from the train. Wait!” yelled Sobel suddenly “turn here!”

Shapira swung the Kubelwagen to the left onto a track running between ragged beet fields. “The town is just beyond these fields and past those trees” said Sobel as they continued to bounce along. Yatom turned back to make sure the rest of the column was still in order behind him.

“What differences?” asked Shapira, suspiciously. He thought Sobel seemed a little too sure of himself. Shapira’s German was better than Yatom’s and he caught in Sobel’s words and inflections the grating rhythms of an angry man.

“I’ll explain later Lieutenant” said Sobel, making the rank sound disparaging. “We are almost there!”

They emerged through the trees into several hectares of potato plants. Across the potato fields, silhouetted against a midnight blue sky, was a small town of substantial looking houses and barns. Unusually, there was no church visible on the skyline, a sight to which the Israelis had become accustomed, no matter the size of the settlement.

“This is Biali” said Sobel with a touch of pride. “A Jewish town reclaimed.”

The three Israelis in the Kubelwagen looked at Sobel curiously, but before they could question him further they were challenged by a voice in the night, speaking Polish.

“It’s alright Chaimowitz!” cried Sobel, climbing out of the cramped Kubelwagen. “It’s me—and these are the soldiers from Sobibor, back to help us!”

Chaimowitz had sensibly called his challenge from a ditch near the road rather than standing on it. Now he emerged from his hiding place with another man, each simply armed with a Mauser rifle. The two sentries met Sobel, and approached the German-made Kubelwagen to verify that the so-called Macher was telling the truth.

Chaimowitz, who had shared a reeking the cattle car with Jezek, recognized Shapira and Feldhandler from the rescue the week before and smiled in relief. He waived the column through and went back to his ditch.

Despite the late hour dozens of people came to meet the column as it rolled into Biali. They poured out of houses and communal buildings to greet the returning soldiers, partly out of curiousity but also eager for food or other loot from the outside world. Some in the crowd were the wives and parents of Fliegel’s men, hoping to find a husband or son alive and unscathed. Half of these would be disappointed, for the Bears had suffered heavily.

As families greeted their loved ones, attended the wounded hero or mourned a loss, Yatom saw in the milky light cast by the half moon the tall frame of De Jong, hurrying from the building he now used as a makeshift headquarters. Yatom, Shapira and Feldhandler dismounted and met the De Jong in the center of the street, Sobel hurrying behind. De Jong offered Yatom his hand, and the Israeli took it gratefully, genuinely happy to see the hardy Dutchman again, and thankful that there would not be a long round of hugging.

De Jong greeted Sobel formally. “Albrecht arrived thirty minutes ago” said De Jong, gesturing toward the hill to the northeast from which Sobel’s fellow sentry descended. “What took you so long?”

“We never scouted the roads to the east, so it was difficnlt to navigate in the dark” grumbled Sobel. “It’s something we should have done.”

The Israelis noted the strained talk between the two men, but were more interested in the terrain. Looking at the hills and ridges surrounding the town, the Yatom now recognized how roundabout their road journey had been. The sentry hill was only about two kilometers distant as the crow flies, but there was no road access from that direction, where ridgelines blocked and protected the town in its valley. There were only limited vehicular approaches from east and west, making the place both hard to notice, and defensible. De Jong had chosen the refuge well.

De Jong ignored Sobel and turned back toward Yatom. “We worried for you and the boys. It seems not everybody made it back.”

“No” answered Yatom. “We lost a man too. Lieutenant ltzak Belete. He’s in the back of that truck”

“And the other death camp…?”

“Destroyed” said Yatom simply. “But it was a difficult journey back. The Germans are hard at work trying to find us. You will probably have to defend this place.”

“You will help, of course?”

“For as long as we are here we will do what we can.”

De Jong looked at Yatom dubiously, grateful that the commando had returned, but puzzled about where he intended to go. The Dutchman accepted that, for whatever reasons, the commandos had parachuted into German occupied Poland. But he knew well enough that they could not just parachute out. Yatom and his men were, after all, in the middle of Nazi occupied Eastern Europe. The commandos couldn’t exactly catch a plane or a train back to the Palestinian Mandate.

“How long will that be?” asked the Dutchman deferentially.

“Weiss nicht” said Yatom curtly, his tone suggesting the subject was closed.

“You and your men must be tired and hungry” said De Jong. “We don’t have much food, and obviously, they hoped that you brought some.” De Jong gestured at the crowd still buzzing around the trucks looking for a handout.

“What?” interrupted Sobel. “You’re going to deny these men food?”

“No Sobel” answered De Jong. “I was just stating the truth. Of course they can eat and rest.”

“We have our own rations” said Yatom, which was barely true anymore. The Israelis had run out of Ioof the day before—irritating the already dyspeptic Mofaz—and were existing on captured German potatoes, Samsonov’s cabbages and energy bars. “We also have plenty of weapons and ammunition for you.”

De Jong put the sayeret up for the night in the old town hall building that served as his headquarters. Yatom’s men and Feldhandler shared a group of three good sized of rooms with comfortable furniture and even a cot—which went to Chaim—while Perchensky, Norit and Hannah shared another. Fliegel and his men had disappeared into Biali with family and friends. The town might have been short of food, but it wasn’t short of space. Bolander, sharing with Shapira, Chaim and Roi, the original team Gimmel, noticed it.

“I kinda expected the town to look like the Warsaw Ghetto” said Bolander in English, exercising his native tongue with some pleasure.

“But his place seems almost like suburbia—plenty of space and fine houses. There is probably food in the fields, or will be when harvest time comes.”

“I don’t think they are starving anyway” said Roi, understanding his comrade, but switching the conversation back to Hebrew. “They are a little hungry because there is a ration plan. They’re lucky to have a place to live and any food, given the alternative.”

“Roi” said Chaim jokingly “you sound like a politician.”

“I know what I see and hear. These people owe us their lives. Itzak’s dead. You’re injured, but they still complain.”

“They’re Jews” laughed Bolander. “And they are in trouble. Try coming to Israel from America.”

It was an old argument between the soldiers. For men like Bolander and Shapira, the contentious Israeli way could prove challenging and grating, yet sabras like Roi saw themselves as reasonable and polite. Just don’t stand in line with them at a falafel stand, or ask them to be grateful fnr American aid thought Bolander.

Shapira interrupted before things got out of hand, waving another of Feldhandler’s history books. “It says here that Biali was the scene of a particularly brutal massacre, even by German standards, just a few months ago.”

“The German Mueller, who got away” said Bolander. “He was there, wasn’t he?”

“Here” said Shapira. “The massacre was in the sun—ounding woods. There must be hundreds, even thousands of bodies outside town.”

“That’s why the town was empty” concluded Bolander. “The Jews from the train have simply taken it back.”

“We should have shot that bastard when we had a chance” said Chaim from his cot. “Now he’s free.“

Bolander shrugged Israeli style—he didn’t like the silent accusation against Perchensky. “We’ve killed plenty of Germans, and most likely we’ll kill a lot more before we get out of here” he said defiantly.

In the next room, Yatom, Feldhandler and Mofaz were discussing just that—getting out of 1942 Poland. The capsule was nearby, and Mofaz insisted that they secure it first thing in the morning. Yatom agreed, and Feldhandler didn’t argue, but the scientist warned Mofaz not to get his hopes up. Yatom cut off another argument by reminding Feldhandler of their deal. Two deaths camps were down and a force would go after Belzec as soon as they could formulate a plan. In the meantime he was to work at activating the capsule and transporting the team back to Dimona—sixty-nine years into the future.

“Mofaz” said Yatom “you and Feldhandler go out there before dawn. Take Nir and Perchensky with you. Shapira and I will talk to De Jong and this fellow Sobel.”

“What about Jezek, the Czech?” said Feldhandler. “We left him in charge too.”

“l’ll ask about him” said Yatom. “I didn’t see him when we arrived. Maybe he didn’t want to be a leader after all. Not everybody does.”

“Sobel and De Jong don’t get along” noted Feldhandler. “There are a lot of problems here.”

“Not your problem professor” growled Mofaz. “Don’t overtax your brain. We’re getting up in a few hours and going to the capsule. That’s your problem.”

In the morning Yatom and Shapira along with most of the men, met De Jong for breakfast in the large common room that once served as the town’s assembly hall. The Dutchman saw to it that the sayeret had bread and cheese with hot tea.

“Where are your other officers, and the dark—haired woman?” asked De Jong, noting the absence of Mofaz, Feldhandler and Perchensky.

Yatom ignored the question and posed his own. “Where are the Czech Jezek, and your friend Sobel?” Yatom liked the bluff Dutchman but wanted him out of the sayeret’s business. These Jews had enough problems without concerning themselves with the sayeret’s.

“You know Sobel is not my friend” smiled De Jong. “But he has power among the people from Sobibor. There is a split between the two groups—those from the train and those from the camp.”

“Why is that?” asked Shapira.

“You can guess for yourself’ said De Jong. “The Sobibor group went through much more than we did. They lost their families completely, and suffered greatly in the camp. To my mind the Sobibor survivors are psychologically scarred—often hard to deal with. We, from the train, are normal people thrown into a difficult circumstance.”

Shapira nodded, but De Jong went on. “They are also almost all men—few women, no children. I, on the other hand, am responsible for 1,700 people, of whom half are women and several hundred children.”

“The two groups don’t cooperate?” asked Shapira.

“Of course we do. But we don’t see eye to eye on many things.”

“Where is Jezek?” persisted Yatom.

“He is here and should meet us in a few minutes. Jezek is well liked by both sides. He’s a teacher and philosopher, a central European, while I am a Dutch naval officer, and Sobel a Polish businessman. But Jezek has family with him. I do not. He is a reluctant leader, greatly concerned for his wife and children—which to be expected.”

At that moment the Czech walked through the door, a thin and slightly stooped man with a kind face who looked much older than thirty-eight. De Jong greeted him warmly, and Jezek smiled at the commandos.

“I am sorry I was not here to meet you last night” said Jezek. “I was in the Polish village.”

“The Polish village?” asked Yatom, fearing he had misunderstood the German.

“Yes. William did not explain?” asked Jezek. Yatom shook his head as Sobel rumbled into the room.

“We hadn’t got to that yet” answered De Jong.

“What didn’t you do yet De Jong?” Sobel taunted.

“Stop” said Jezek to the Pole. Sobel obeyed Jezek, grabbed for a crust of bread, and sat down. De Jong was right—Jezek seemed to command respect even if he didn’t want to bear the mantle of leadership.

“Biali was always two villages” said Jezek. “Biali is the main town, which we are in now. It was almost all Jewish. The smaller village, Biali-Podlaski, was Polish—I mean gentile. After the Germans massacred the Jews a few months ago, the Poles helped themselves to Biali. We have moved them back to the village, which they are not very happy about.”

“How many Poles are there” asked Shapira.

“Of the gentiles—about 600 people” said Jezek. “They are poor farmers mostly. We have guns now, they do not. So they do as we say. But it is not a good situation for the long term.”

Yatom and Shapira exchanged glances. It was like Middle East politics. “What are you doing about it?” asked Yatom.

“My men are keeping them in their place” said Sobel. “They’ll learn that Mausers can kill Poles as well as Jews if they decide to cause trouble.”

“About thirty men from Sobibor have moved into Biali-Podlaski” said Jezek. “They are not diplomats.”

“Nor should they he” shot back Sobel angrily. “This is a war of survival.”

Yatom looked again at Shapira. With a barely perceptible twitch he told the lieutenant that he wasn’t interested in this squabble.

“There are arms enough for hundreds of men now, rifles, machineguns, grenades, even a pair of mortars” said Shapira, clearly speaking for his commander. “It’s only a matter of time before the German army comes after you. We need to organize you into a proper militia, prepare defenses, and consider ways to protect the women and children.”

“How are we going to fight off the German army?” complained Jezek “even if we have a few hundred guns.”

“You don’t have much choice” said Yatom “Sobel here knows that.” He paused and tried to formulate his words carefully in German, which over the past week had come back to him rather well. “This is an excellent refuge” continued the sayeret leader. “It’s hidden, defensible, out of the way. If you keep a low profile, beat off enemy patrols, and prepare for the worst, you just might survive. The alternative is certain death—so what choice do you have?”

“What do you propose?” asked Jezek.

“We distribute the weapons, train you, and build a system of bunkers and fortifications around the village and the surrounding ridgelines” said Shapira. “You’ll learn how to shoot, patrol, defend, attack and keep your men organized and supplied. You will not be a crack army, but a serviceable one, and I suppose, given the alternatives, a fanatical one.”

“There are enough weapons to equip a small battalion” said Yatom. “Properly prepared and motivated, you should be able to hold off a whole German regiment.”

“Would they really commit such a force against so minor a threat?” asked De Jong, trying to follow the commandos logic.

“Maybe not” conceded Yatom “but that’s the point-deterrence. It could be an economy of force problem for the Germans. They have bigger fish to try.”

“Hopefully” said Jezek evenly.

Yatom and Shapira spent rest of the morning with De Jong, Sobel and Jezek, describing the plan for arming and defending the Jewish town. The inventory of captured weapons was impressive: 27 machineguns; 78 submachineguns; 252 rifles; 302 grenades; 51 pistols, plus the mortars. All the weapons were of various makes and models. Some shared common ammunition, many did not, but there were plenty of bullets, at least for one or two serious fights. Not included in the totals were a dozen MP-40s and a half dozen MG-34s that the sayeret kept for itself, for the inevitable moment when their own ammunition ran out. In addition the Jews of Biali already had the weaponry from the Sobibor armory: over a hundred rifles, a pair of MG-345, several more MP-40s, several dozen pistols, scores of grenades and over 200 landmines.

“You are probably the best equipped partisan force in Poland” said Yatom. “Properly trained and fortified, you should be able to hold off all but the largest and most determined German attack.”

“Yes,” said Jezek, “you already said this, but how?”

“The fittest men and women will be organized into rifle companies,” said Shapira. We will do it, and we are going to mix the population up based on ability, not whether they are from Sobibor or the train. We’ll assign squad leaders and weapons. Machinegun crews will he specially trained. We also have four scoped rifles. Our own snipers will train the eight most promising men and women… ”

Yatom and Shapira continued with the plan, the centerpiece of which was a relatively elaborate system of bunkers which would surround the town on all sides, maimed by small teams of riflemen and machinegunners. All the Israelis had fought extensively in Lebanon against Hezbollah’s bunker systems and came to appreciate how a small but determined force could take advantage of well constructed fortifications, especially in heavily wooded and hilly terrain. Those men not and women not fit for combat, would help dig the bunkers, which would extend out into the forested hills in each direction from the town. These would create killing grounds for an invading enemy. Mines and booby-traps would complete the array.

“How long will all this take?” asked Sobel doubtfully.

“Forever,” answered Yatom, “or until the war is over. We start now, do as much as we can as quickly as we can—building defenses and training. And you keep doing it and perfecting it, because you will have to if you are going to survive.”

Mofaz did many things well, including what the Israelis called topo which means finding your way cross country by compass. He led his party to the southeast, through forest, bramble and early morning dew. They walked for over two hours, Mofaz never hesitating and only occasionally checking compass and map. Even so, while navigating to the exact coordinates was easy, the Israelis still had tmuhle finding the capsule, so well had they hidden it. Half buried in the forest, skillfully covered in netting interlaced with fallen tree branches thick with leaves, it would not have drawn the attention of anybody but someone who knew exactly what to look for. Underneath the camo netting the strange capsule assumed its unusual black blobbish appearance.

Feldhandler found the entrance keyboard, upside down, and put in the code to open the device by feel. The capsule door popped open with a small hiss.

They had to clamber onto the capsule and drop through the door. Feldhandler, surprisingly nimble after a few days of soldiering, entered followed closely by Mofaz and Perchensky. Nir stayed on guard outside.

Inside the capsule, the three Israelis were initially disoriented. Security straps from the seats dangled in their faces and bits and pieces of miscellaneous extra equipment clanked about on the roof beneath their feet.

“This is going to make things difficult,” said Feldhandler as he shined a flashlight through the inky cabin. The critical control panel was above his head as were the computer keyboards and screens.

“Your logic is generally upside down anyway,” said Mofaz. “This ought to he a breeze for you.” Perchensky snorted hut otherwise kept silent. She was tired of Feldhandler and Mofaz, and just wanted to get to work.

Feldhandler reached up and flipped some switches. The capsule’s generator hummed to life, and red security lights popped on. The scientist hit a couple of other buttons and the main lights ignited. The bright modern lighting hurt their eyes, after spending over a week mostly in the dark or in spaces illuminated by glowsticks or weak battery powered light. Even the electric light back at Samsonov’s base had been feeble compared to this.

“What now?” said Mofaz suspiciously, not trusting that Feldhandler really had his heart in the task ahead.

“Calm down Major,” Feldhandler replied, sensing Mofaz’s anxiety.

“It will take time just to boot up the computers. Then it will require a lot of guessing and calculation, which will not be resolved today, or probably for several days. And we can’t run the machines indefinitely, or we’ll drain too much power. Plus, we have to work upside down. Why don’t you wait with Nir outside?” Mofaz’s dark eyes bore into Feldhandler. Instead of challenging the Major, Feldhandler reached into his backpack and withdrew a small metal can. “Here’s the last of my loof. We missed breakfast and had a long hike. Share it with Nir—please.”

“Go on,” pleaded Perchansky, anxious to avoid another argument between the two.

Mofaz took the loof barely suppressing a smile, and climbed out of the capsule. Outside he happily blurted just three words: “Nir. Come. Loof!”

Later that evening, after Mofaz and his group returned from the capsule, they buried Itzak Belete and Dov Feld, the boy killed with him. It was late for burial under Jewish law, which stipulates the dead are to be buried Within a day, but it was as early as necessity allowed. A rabbi from Lodz presided. Mofaz tossed in the first clump of earth onto Itzak’s grave.

Chapter 33

According to Feldhandler’s history books, on June 4, 1942, Reinhardt Heydrich died. Instead, on this day Heydrich awoke early, drove to his office in Prague—with an armed escort—to personally smooth the transfer of the prized Der Fuehrer Regiment to Poland. By midday, the first units of the regiment had been alerted at their training ground in Lueneburg Heath in Germany. The same day, well ahead of his troops, Der Fuehrers regimental commander, Obersturmbannfuhrer Otto Kumm, flew into Lubin.

Globocnik had mixed feelings about meeting the SS officer, although Globo well outranked him. On the one hand Kumm, a ruthless and aggressive commander, might finally rid Globocnik of his partisan problems. On the other, it would have been better had Globo been able to resolve the problems himself. That seemed unlikely now. Patrols by aircraft and motorized units showed no sign that the enemy commandos had headed north to the British drop zones or a submarine rendezvous. To make matters worse, a Polish police patrol found Samsonov’s lifeless body, those of his men, and his considerable storehouses emptied. The enemy commandos had disappeared, even as groups of amateurish but combative partisans raided targets throughout the eastern Polish marches.

Wirth was at Belzac working feverishly to expand the death camp, assisted by an extra detachment of ordinary SS guards and 1000 Jewish slave laborers. Globocnik hoped Belzec would survive until the SS arrived. All in all, it had been a bad few weeks. Globocnik was drinking beyond his already considerable excess, and suffering arousal problems to boot. It was in this state of distracted agitation that his aide ushered in Colonel Kumm.

Kumm was a tall, slim, pleasant looking man in his early thirties. Like many SS officers he wore his peaked cap, adorned with the SS death’s head insignia, at a deliberately jaunty angle. Around his neck hung the Ritterkreuz, Germany’s highest military honor, won that February for action in Russia. Kumm smartly clicked his heels and saluted Globocnik upon entering the office. Simultaneously, Majors Kessel and Reder, who were seated with Globo, jumped to their feet and saluted Kumm. Globocnik returned Kumm’s salute and when everybody had finished the formalities, bid Kumm to sit. Kumm took his seat, removed his cap and smoothed his hair.

“Colonel, to your left is Major Kessel of the ordnance corps” said Globocnik “and next to him, Captain Reder, from intelligence.” Kumm sat ramrod straight in the chair and moved his head just slightly toward the two junior officers, but said nothing. The pair were unimpressive looking staff officers thought Klum, even if Reder wore an SS uniform—mere policemen and functionaries, not combat soldiers.

“Do you know why you are here colonel?” asked Globocnik condescendingly.

“To hunt partisans,” said Kumm curtly, ignoring Globocnik’s tone.

“Do you know why your regiment was selected for this mission?” continued Globo in the same tenor.

“Not precisely Herr Genera,l” replied Kumm betraying a hint of annoyance. “I assume because we did it in Russia.”

“That’s part of it Kumm. It is also because we need the best troops available. This mission is of the utmost importance.”

“Killing partisans is not so difficult General. It is like destroying ants. You find them, cut them off, and burn them.”

“Certainly,” smiled Globocnik. Kumm was a typical SS officer thought Globo—he really seemed to believe he was an Ubermensch. “However, these partisans might be tougher to kill than ants. They are accompanied by a unit of British commandos, possibly made up of Palestinian Jews. They not only have proven difficult to track down, but they are quite destructive.”

Kumm had fought some remarkably tough Russian troops over the past year and remained unimpressed. “In what way General?”

“They seized and razed two important installations,” recounted Globocnik, “in addition to overrunning several other positions and killing hundreds of German and allied troops. In their wake, Jewish and Polish partisans are coming out of the woodwork, raiding the countryside.”

“What kind of installations?” asked Kumm.

Were Kumm not an SS man Globocnik might have used a euphemism, but he assumed Kumm had killed a few Jews in his day. “Extermination camps. The survival of these camps and their successful operation are national and SS priorities.”

Kumm didn’t blink an eye. “What do you want my regiment to do?”

Globocnik motioned to Reder. The intelligence officer stood and moved to a small map table, followed by Globocnik and Kumm. “There are other troops moving into eastern Poland now,” said the intelligence officer, pointing at the map. “Security troops and Cossacks mostly…”

“Cossacks are good,” interrupted Kumm, showing some actual interest. “They are hard to control but excellent against partisans.”

“Yes Colonel—the point being that we intend to use these troops, and the other garrison troops already deployed, to find the commando group, at which point one of your battlegroups will destroy them.”

“Fine,” said Kumm, “except that my regiment has no transport. It was entirely destroyed in Russia. We have been waiting months for trucks and armored half-track carriers?”

“That has been taken care of. You will have sufficient motor transport for two of your three battalions, plus a company of half-tracked carriers, and vehicles for your reconnaissance company. Also, two platoons of Stug III assault guns—eight guns total.”

Kumm nodded. He was impressed. Obviously somebody had attached high importance to this mission. Still, a battalion remained immobile. “What about my third battalion—is it to remain behind?”

“No,” said Globocnik, pointing to the map. “One mobile battalion will deploy in the north near Siedice, the second near our present location, just outside of Lubin. The third—the the non—motorized unit, will deploy further to the south in a fixed position guarding the Belzec extermination camp.”

“My men are to guard the camp?” asked Kumm dubiously.

“Yes Colonel—just the one battalion. Is that a problem?”

“My men are combat soldiers. They are trained to attack or to defend critical breaches in the line. They are not camp guards.”

“Nonetheless Colonel, you will designate and deploy one battalion as such. This order comes from Reichsfuhrer Himmler,” said Globocnik, happy to put the Waffen SS colonel in his place. Kumm squinted and ground his teeth, his instinct to obey wrestling with his distaste for the assignment. Well, at least most of his regiment was getting wheels and tracks.

“Colonel,” pressed Globocnik, luxuriating in Kumm’s discomfort, “Major Kessel here can help explain why this assignment and your deployments are so unusual. Major.” said Globo, waiving his hand as if he were introducing a nightclub act. Kessel reached into a small kit bag and pulled out the Uzi, then joined the other officers at the map table. “Have you ever seen one of these in Russia, Colonel?” asked Kessel.

Kumm looked at the weapon with professional interest. “No Major. Is it a new British weapon?”

“Apparently. It is a 9mm submachinegun—a very good weapon. In tests, it is as good as an MP-40, maybe a little better.”

“And these commandos are armed with these weapons I take it. Good to know” said Kumm sourly.

“We don’t believe that this is the enemy commandos’ primary weapon” said Kessel. “Look at this.” Kessel tossed an empty cartridge casing at Kumm. The SS officer snatched it out of the air and quickly examined it, turning it over to look at the caliber. “5.56 mm—that is interesting. It’s a large cartridge for a varmint sized round” said Kumm knowledgably. Kessel handed Kumm a tiny bullet. Kumm attached it to the cartridge and nodded approvingly.

“A clever idea, eh Colonel?” said Kessel, pleased the the SS officer was paying close attention. “Small bullet, lots of power, high velocity. I believe that these commandos are carrying rifles that fire that round.”

“We’ve recovered bullets from the bodies of victims and empty cartridge casings at various battle sites, but no intact cartridges,” said Reder. “It’s strange—more often than not soldiers in the heat of battle will drop an intact round or two.”

“Not my soldiers,” said Kumm.

“Well then,” said Globo as if securing a debate point “these commandos and your men have something in common.”

“Kessel is your name?” asked Kumm, ignoring Globocnik.

“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer.”

“It would be a good idea for the ordnance corps to copy this round” said Kumm, playing the complete cartridge between his fingers. “High velocity means accuracy, and because the cartridge is small and light, soldiers can carry more ammunition.”

“My thoughts exactly!” said Kessel happily.

“And the wounds the round makes are quite devastating” added Reder, trying to get in on the fun. “If you captured their weapons, the job of the ordnance corps would be that much easier.”

“Okay, Herr General,” said Kumm agreeably, warming to the challenge. “My regiment is up against a competent enemy, armed with new weapons. What could be better?”

“Nothing,” agreed Globocnik. “Where do you want to establish your headquarters—here in Lubin, Siedice, or Belzec?”

“Here,” said Kumm to Globocnik’s annoyance. “Lubin will be midway between my battalions. My headquarters is ordinarily fully mobile so I can move to the action when the enemy is uncovered. In addition to staff and support elements, I’ll keep the regimental reconnaissance company and artillery with me too. So I’ll require a sizable and well equipped Kaserne.”

“My aide, Lieutenant Wetzel will take care of all that,” said Globocnik. “When do you expect the rest of your regiment to arrive?”

“Two to three weeks at the latest,” said Kumm. “That’s how long the enemy has to play.”

Chapter 34

Spring turned to summer as the sayeret marked a full month in Nazi occupied Poland. Feldhandler and Perchensky toiled resolutely at the capsule, such that even Mofaz became convinced that their efforts were genuine. Yet this hardly calmed him, for their difficulties suggested that the sayeret might well remain stranded.

When Feldhander was not working at the capsule. He, Hannah and a clever schoolboy called Zim fiddled with the radio captured from Samsonov. By mating that machine with an Israeli field radio, the scientist and his students managed to create a crude but effective electronic surveillance and jamming device. In the event of an attack, Zim and Hannah, who between them spoke three languages, would attempt to jam or eavesdrop on German communications.

Perchansky in her off hours found herself in the company of the burly and confident Bolander, who though a few years her junior, had become her ardent lover. They met as often as possible, in a small basement room she “rented” from a family down the street from the town hall headquarters. Her rent was a portion of her food ration, which she happily exchanged for the pleasure of and comfort of her trysts with the virile commando. It even made her long days with Feldhandler bearable.

Several other commandos had also managed to find feminine companionship, particularly among some of the more cosmopolitan ladies from Vienna and Prague, who found the fit, suntanned and tough warriors especially tempting. Yatom, hesitant to allow the dalliances at first, relented after a few days of grumbling. He only ordered them not to visit the town’s single brothel, owned by a veteran Warsaw harlot, who handled all the business herself.

When the men and women of Biali were not training or otherwise preparing the town’s defenses, they engaged in a remarkable variety of activities that within a month gave little community the appearance of actual prosperity. Schools and synagogues were reopened, as was the local theatre. Tradesmen practiced their crafts—mainly repairing what existed, but sometimes producing new goods for trade within the town, or to a much lesser extent, without. A half-dozen doctors and as many nurses opened a clinic, further staffed by volunteers, and supplied with captured medical equipment from Sobibor and Treblinka.

Yet Biali was not prosperous. The traditional scourges of war, disease and hunger, held the little town in their thrall, despite the efforts of the community leaders, the doctors and nurses. By the second week of June most of the sayeret, like much of the rest of the population, had come down with the shilshul, or as they often put it in English, the shits. Ido came equipped to deal with traumatic injuries, not diarrhea. Feldhandler had only brought a couple of packages of commercial imodium, which quickly ran out between the needs of the commandos, and the children of Biali—for whom the commandos sacrificed many doses. Similarly, there were no antibiotics, other than Ido’s basic load, and a few packages of oral doses that Feldhandler had packed away. Ido kept control these, dispensing them with particular stinginess. Yatom warned the men that venereal diseases were not covered under the limited medical plan.

Hunger made matters worse. With their rations depleted, other than a few surviving Powerbars, the sayeret was no better off than anybody else. The main foodstuffs were stored potatoes and beets from the previous year’s harvest, and a few early pickings from the nearby fields. Livestock consisted almost entirely of swine, which many of the Jews refused to eat—and many who did fell ill. Yatom encouraged his men to eat the pork, cooked very well, to supplement their meager rations. All but Mofaz and Rafi eventually did.

Sobel managed to foster a trickle of trade into Biali, using the the neighboring gentile village as a market for both Biali and the outside world. This yielded extra bread, meat and dairy products for the town, though in truth, Sobel’s effective coercion of Biali—Podlaski was the Jewish town’s real stock in trade. Jezek and Yatom disliked this, but had no choice but to tolerate it. Sobel the M acher indeed got things done.

Maintaining connections to the outside was a necessary risk. Yatom learned that the main east—west road to Biali had become little used after the massacre, and trade ran mostly through a track that intersected Biali-Podlaski. He feared that were the Germans to launch an attack, it would likely come down the little used east-west road from Lubin, called locally the Lubinstrasse, and he insisted that this avenue be mined. The risk of mining the Lubinstrasse was two-fold—that any trade down that road would be cut, or that a mine detonation might alert the Germans to partisan activity in the area. Though neither Jezek nor Sohel liked the idea, Yatom had several dozen of Sobibor’s mines sown on the road anyway. These were placed far from the town near the intersection of the Lubinstrasse with the north-south high road that ran to Chelm. A nearby forester’s track was also mined. Yatom hoped that if a German patrol hit a mine along the Lubinstrasse, they would not associate it with the isolated town, still five kilometers distant. On the other hand, if the Germans launched a major attack down the road, the mines would be critical to slowing the advance and giving Biali’s defenders time to man the town’s defenses.

Creating those defenses absorbed most of Yatom’s time and energy in the weeks following the sayeret’s arrival in Biali. With the aid of several Jewish engineers and an architect, Yatom designed and supervised the construction of Biali’s fortifications. Each day he set off with work crews, usually accompanied by De Jong and the architect, an Austrian named Natan Nudelman. Nudelman had made a career designing expensive villas, but now threw himself into the intricacies of making camouflaged fighting positions. Yatom and De Jong selected sites for dozens of small three and four man bunkers, intended to hold a single machinegun crew, or a few and submachine-gunners. The bunkers faced in all directions, towards anticipated enemy attacks, and in opposite directions in order to hit invaders from behind, and on every flank. Nudelrnan’s designs allowed the bunkers to be reasonably fortified and blend almost invisibly into the hills. Around each concentration of bunkers Yatom laid out a few more precious mines, supplemented by ad-hoc boobytraps, including many simple spiked trap holes that Yatom based on little more than what he’d seen in Vietnam War movies. The bunkers were built on all sides of the town, but concentrated to the north and west, where Yatom guessed an attack was most likely. In these areas the workers built a forward and secondary lines of bunkers, to give the defenders the chance to retreat. Around the town itself, four extra large bunkers were constructed, facing north, south, east and west, as a last defensive line.

There were so many bunkers that not all could be manned at once—the Jews would have to determine the avenue of a German attack and orient the defense accordingly to have any hope of throwing it back. Unless the Germans chose a roundabout route through the hills, Yatom figured that Biali would face attack down the Lubinstrasse and the forester’s track that paralleled it to the north. The forester’s road terminated in an abandoned encampment a little less than three kilometers northwest of the town from where the Germans could easily launch a final assault on Biali. Yatom’s crews built a half—dozen bunkers within those deserted buildings too, turning the innocuous looking shacks into a killing ground.

Mofaz drowned his anger and worries in a multitude of tasks. Mostly, assisted by Nir, Bolander and Roi, he trained the bulk Biali’s new militia in basic infantry tactics. Driven by desperation and boredom the conglomeration of Polish, Dutch, Czech and Austrian Jews had made good progress, especially considering differences in language, culture and outlook. Most were destined to man Biali’s bunkers, where they were expected to fight to the bitter end. However, a few promising candidates were given more advanced instruction in the arts of war.

After an initial few days of target practice Mofaz and Bolander selected the best marksmen, including two young women, and sent them to Ilan for sniper training. Using two scoped Mausers and a pair of scoped Mosin—Nagants, the Israeli sniper trained four two person teams in shooting, spotting and camouflage skills. They were to deploy between the bunkers and on the flanks and aim for German officers and NCOs.

Rafi, assisted by a former Polish artillery officer named Podolsky, trained a pair of mortar crews to use the two 81mm mortars captured from Samsonov. Yatom permitted each crew to lob four bombs into the hills for practice. They all missed their intended targets, but not by too much. A heavy barrage would do some real damage to unprotected troops.

In addition to working with the local doctors and nurses in the Biali clinic, Ido trained them, and the clinics volunteers, in emergency battlefield medicine and evacuation. A dozen young men, mostly religious students who didn’t want to fight were selected out and trained as battlefield medics and stretcher bearers.

Roskovsky, worked with a pair of former Silesian miners, and using his own C-4, captured German explosives, and the mines and grenades taken from the death camps, to build all manner of improvised explosive devices. They designed demolition charges, booby traps and anti-devices. In particular, Roskovsky successfully built a half dozen explosively formed penetrators or EFPs. These copper-lined hollow charge devices created a molten slug of copper out of the lining and hurled it forward at hypersonic velocity. Roskovsky had brought three sophisticated radio controlled EFPs with him on the mission. Each was capable of penetrating a modern main battle tank. The six he constructed in Biali were detonated by cord, and were less powerful, but he guessed that their power was sufficient to take out a 1940s era tank. Roskovsky planned to put out the EFPs as an enemy attack developed along on the likeliest route of advance. To do this Roskovsky selected and trained a small combat—engineer platoon, with each squad led by one of the miners. These men would place and detonate the homemade EFPs, with all the dangers that entailed.

But the elite of Biali’s small army trained with Shapira and Chaim. This group consisted of twenty four volunteers, including several survivors of the Bears, who prepared for a limited assault on Belzec to be led by the two Gimmel team commandos. Yatom only decided to go after Belzec after hours of consideration and debate involving all members of the sayeret. Feldhandler still argued that that he entire sayeret with as many other Jews as necessary should attack and destroy the death camp. But Yatom refused to consider Feldhandler’s arguments, or be held hostage to the scientist’s demands.

In part this was because Feldhandler now seemed genuinely committed to returning the capsule anyway. Whether this was due to the challenge of the task, or emotional exhaustion Yatom neither knew nor cared. Mofaz was dead set against attacking Belzec as were several other men. But Shapira saw the assault on Belzec as a moral necessity. He volunteered to lead it alone, using only Jewish volunteers from Biali. Chaim, his wounds having healed sufficiently to go back into action, insisted on going too.

Shapira’s only reservation was personal, based on his increasingly intense relationship with Norit, the two having become lovers with a day of arriving in Biali. But Shapira also knew that Belzec had historically been the deadliest of the death camps, and could not see the point of all their sacrifices if Belzec continued to operate.

“Do you know,” Shapira told the sayeret during one of the debates “that only two living Jews ever emerged from Belzec, out of perhaps 700,000 people who entered the place?”

“Things are different now,” said Yatom. “We made it so.”

“I doubt it. It’s more likely that Belzec will be pressed to make up for the loss of the other camps. Besides, Sandler is going there, and expecting to meet us.”

“Who knows if he is even alive, or that he will bother, or can even find the place,” countered Mofaz. “Without the rest of the sayeret it’s likely to be a suicide mission.”

“I don’t intend to take the place,” argued Shapira. “I’ve talked to Roskovsky. He can fashion most any type of demo charge we need. The idea is to infiltrate or break into the camp only where the gas chambers are located, destroy them, and withdraw. That’s it.”

Yatom finally agreed to the mission, on the condition that the sole objective would be to destroy the gas chambers in the extermination sub-camp, not conquer the place. That would be hard and dangerous enough reckoned the sayeret leader—but not impossible.

Norit insisted on coming with Shapira when she learned of the plan. Shapira refused to consider it, and ultimately convinced the tough Israeli girl to remain behind only by pointing that her sister still desperately needed her. Shapira promised that he would return one way or another. Norit, hardened by Treblinka, and the loss of everybody important to her but Hannah, knew that such talk was empty. Yet, she was too tired and damaged to fight on. She accepted that her lover was almost certainly doomed.

Roskovsky supplied Shapira with three types of explosive especially for the Belzec mission: a simple satchel charge he created from explosives taken from the Sobibor land mines; grenade bundles in which four stick grenades were taped together and could be detonated with the pull of a single detonating cord; and Molotov cocktails which he created from petrol and motor oil, mixed with tar. Each man in the assault unit would carry a satchel charge or a grenade bundle plus a Molotov.

Shapira found a site map of Belzec from one of Feldhandler’s books. His plan was to focus the assault on the extermination subcamp, which like at the other camps, was somewhat isolated. The assault force would have to penetrate the sub-camp either by infiltration or attack. Hopefully, Sandler and his men would be on days after meeting. Nor was she shy about that, giving her body to him with abandon, and willing to pleasure him with the skill modern men expected from the most jaded contemporary women. Rather, it was an ineffable feeling that Norit did not do what she did for herself, or because she believed it was what a coarse culture expected of her, but because it created a mutual and willing covenant between them, that extended beyond words like love or passion. And so though Norit said little to him in tiny room they now shared, She pressed her hold on him anyway. They kissed for a long time, like kids. He caressed her neck and shoulders as she shed her clothes. He found himself wildly impassioned as usual, as he had been for the past weeks, as he let his shaggy brown hair brush down her belly. Stopping there, he dropped his head, and kissed the point where her thigh met her pubis, restraining himself from diving in completely. He lingered at this sexiest part of a woman. This was something Norit had not known before Shapira. Whatever pleasure she had, she considered a gift anyway, and though she anticipated it would soon be lost, she gave herself to the moment. She thrust her pelvis toward him, rocking her hips in pleasure before cutting him short before her climax and making him enter her, so they finished together. They still did not speak when they were done, but lay together until making love again, finishing just before Hannah returned to the apartment. Dressing quickly and without embarrassment they greeted her warmly and walked out into the chill ghostly dark of the blacked—out town. Shapira could hardly see Norit’s face in moonless night which made it easier for him to say goodbye. “I don’t much believe in fate” he said awkwardly and inadequately “but that’s where we have to leave things now.”

“You’re being selfish,” she whispered sharply.

“Yes,” said Shapira. “Here, take this.” He handed Norit his iPod. “I’ll show you how to use it. If something happens, it’s a token to remember me by.” He gently placed the headphones in her ears and selected a song that a central European girl in 1942 would not find too odd or offensive—“Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles. She smiled in amazement as the little device poured the melody into her head. He kissed her one last time and then hurredly disappeared into the ebony shadows, anxious to get to his men and be on his way to whatever providence had in store for him.

Chapter 35

Kumm had spent most of June shuttling between Lubin and Lueneburg Heath, overseeing the transfer of Der Fuehrer to eastern Poland. News of the move was greeted cynically by the unit’s veterans, especially since the divisional command announced that the the other two regiments of Das Reich would be going to France to complete their training cycle. But there really were not many veterans left. Between the men who had returned from Russia with Kumm, and several hundred others who returned from convalescences, there were fewer than 500 veterans out of a regimental strength of nearly 3500. The others were all either barely trained teenaged recruits or slightly older officers fresh out of the notoriously harsh SS Junkerschulen. Morale among the new men was extremely high, but combat skills were not. And while the rest of the division would have months to train in the French countryside, Kumm’s largely inexperienced regiment would be thrown into combat before it was fully prepared. At least, thought Kumm, it would be against partisans, and not real soldiers.

Such action was considered a good way to blood green units anyway. As for the ghostly British commandos—he hoped that they were mostly figments of Globocnik’s imagination. A single rifle cartridge and a submachinegun was not much evidence for phantom Spartans.

Over the course of several weeks trains brought Der Fuehrer’s men and equipment, including new vehicles, into Lubin. Despite the urgency of the movement, Kumm’s regiment still competed for railroad access with transports filled with Jews heading to the ghettos of Warsaw and Lodz. The destruction of the Sobibor and Treblinka camps and the temporary shutdown of Belzac meant that the ghettos were no longer emptying, creating severe security, administrative and health problems. Still, Heydrich and Eichmann kept the trains running.

Kumm, however, could not complain about the quality of his equipment. As promised, when the men of the regiment arrived in Lubin by train, they were mated with scores of new trucks. Eight gaudily camouflaged assault guns arrived as well, along with motorcycles, Kubelwagens and four scout half-tracks for the reconnaissance detachment. A dozen larger half—tracked carriers, painted mustard yellow, were split between the two mobile battalions. The regiment was only deficient in artillery. Much of the divisional artillery had yet to be replaced, and what was available the divisional command refused to release, despite Kumm’s appeals. This included all of the regiment’s normal complement of regimental support, antiaircraft and anti-tank guns. The only artillery that moved to Lubin was the mortar battery assigned each battalion. As far as the Kumm’s divisional commander was concerned, the assault guns and mortars would be more than sufficient for fighting “Jewish partisans.” Put that way, Kumm could hardly protest.

With the regiment’s men and equipment came the individual commanders of Der Fuehrer’s three infantry battalions. Hauptsturmfuhrer Hans Opificius, commander of the battalion headed for guard duty at Belzec, was the first battalion leader to arrive in Lubin. He looked jealously at the regimental transport already in the depot. He and his men would have to continue on to the Belzec by train, just like its victims. The battalion assigned to Siedice, far to the northwest, was under the command of Sturmbannfuhrer Horn. Horn arrived in Lubin the following day and departed for Siedice shortly afterward, taking half of the assault guns and half-tracked personnel carriers with him. The last battalion to arrive was 2d Battalion under the command of Haupsturmbahnfuehrer Sylvester Stadler. Stadler’s men would remain in Lubin with the regimental command elements.

Stadler, even more than Kumm, looked like the prototypical SS officer. Tall and well muscled, he preferred to attend to business in his onto the mine. The cyclists moved carefully down the road, which was roughly paved in brick and broken flat stones. It reminded Kaiser of an ancient Roman road before his half-track ground up the paving stones. The passage itself was largely in shadow under tall oaks and pine, with the sun low in the sky behind them. After a kilometer one of the motorcyclists stopped and pointed to a crater in the road, surrounded by bits pieces of broken equipment and what looked like dried blood and flesh. It was obviously where the Polish police had encountered the mine.

One of the Kubelwagens held team of engineers. These men dismounted and cautiously moved down the road. The engineers quickly identified several other mines, mostly hidden under loose bricks and stones. They marked some with panels, and carefully removed several more from the roadway. The column waited while the engineers worked in the gathering dark, alert in case of an ambush. Nearly an hour later the engineers had made a neat pile of five mines, marked four others, and laid out tape marking a safe route forward.

Kaiser dismounted and walked to the second Kubelwagen, where his platoon sergeant, Scharfuhrer Schmundt, stood nonchalantly smoking a fragrant Russian cigarette. Schmundt was a couple of years older than Kaiser and veteran of fighting in France and Russia. He came to attention as Kaiser faced him, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and looked at the young officer warily but respectfully.

“What do you think, Scharfuhrer Schmundt?” said Kaiser curtly.

“Think about what, sir?”

“This road—we’ve been stopped nearly an hour with no signs of partisans, or an ambush.”

“Yes sir, seems a dead end,” said Schmundt. He was not one to shy from a fight, but he was not averse to returning to his comfortable barrack in Lubin either. The other soldiers looked at the lieutenant expectantly, hoping that indeed he intended to collect the mines, turn the column around, and drive back to the Kaserne in time for a late dinner. Kaiser looked down the darkening road and kicked at a broken piece of brick. He’d accomplished his mission—found the minefield, cleared it, and invited a partisan attack. That the patrol remained unmolested likely meant there were no longer any partisans about, having laid the mines and vanished long ago. Kaiser was about to turn about when he thought again of Rommel. Great soldiers did not win their laurels by doing only what was necessary, but by pressing on, seeking action.

“Mount up, Schmundt,” said Kaiser in what he took to be a decisive and jaunty tone. “We are not done yet. We’ll push down this road another kilometer or two before heading back. Tell the cyclists and the engineers.”

“Jawohl Herr Untersturmfuhrer,” said Schmundt smartly, mildly disappointed. A minute later the column was on the move again, carefully wending its way around the marked mines and pressing on into the shadowy woodland. They drove another two kilometers with without seeing any sign of human habitation beyond the occasional fallow field or deserted barn. The cyclists had detected no additional mines. Kaiser was about to turn back, when several hundred meters ahead it appeared that the rutted byway opened up into a shallow valley. Curious, he pushed on and was rewarded with a change of landscape. Meadows extended to the north and south of the road which ran through a pair of low forested ridges a few hundred meters further on. According to Kaiser’s map the ridge on the left was Hoehe 31—the hillock to right Hoehe 28. After the claustrophobic drive through the dreary wood, the valley looked open and inviting, as if offering itself up to his conquest. Instead of turning back he ordered the column forward.

Kaiser saw the first cyclist fall in a shower of sparks before he heard the rippling echoes of a light machinegun. The BMW slew out from underneath its rider, and the SS man in his leather coat went rolling along the dirt track. The trailing cyclist pulled up short and dismounted quickly, running for cover by the roadside, only to be cut down, dust and blood erupting in a fine mist from his back. Kaiser looked around for sources of fire, but to his dismay could see nothing. He had been trained to expect tracer rounds but saw none. The incoming bullets made a snapping hiss as passed by, just like during his dangerous but realistic training. Then they started bouncing off the armored sides of his half-track. The two SS men in the third motorcycle pulled off the road, dismounted safely and began shooting to the northeast. There must be a target there thought Kaiser. He called out excitedly to Schmundt. “Do you see where the fire is coming from Schmundt?”

Schmundt didn’t. The sergeant calmly ordered his men and the engineers to dismount their Kubelwagens and find cover, then turned and trotted to the back of Kaiser’s half—track, ignoring the bullets that angrily snapped around him. When Schmundt reached relative safety behind the armored vehicle, Kaiser shuffled through the cramped half-track to meet the sergeant at the rear hatch. “They are firing from everywhere” said Schmundt simply. “The sources of fire are hard to detect—the positions are well camouflaged.”

Another brace of bullets hit the half-track and Kaiser yelled to the machinegunner to shoot back—anywhere The powerful MG-42 began spraying rounds at the distant ridgeline. Kaiser felt a little better for it. He crawled over to his radioman, also crouched in the armored cabin of the track. He told the signaler to report the contact back to Lubin, and ask for further orders. Suddenly a blast rocked the half-track. A trooper had tripped one of Roskovsky’s simple but effective booby-traps—made from a German hand-grenade—hidden in the brambles along the roadway. Schmundt peaked around the track and saw his three man team splayed by the side of the road and their Kubelwagen peppered by shrapnel and its left—side tires blown. One soldier appeared dead, the other two wounded and in shock. For the first time since he’d come under fire that day the SS sergeant felt upset and uncertain. Schmundt looked back into the half-track at Kaiser, now hoping for the young officer’s support.

Instead, Kaiser kicked the radioman. “Report!” he yelled.

“Nichts!” said the frazzled signaler, who looked barely eighteen. “There is just static on the set.”

Kaiser screwed up his courage, and with Schmundt looking on, defied the screaming bullets to stand erect in the track. He raised his binoculars and scanned the ridgelines. Having stood up Kaiser was surprised that he was not more terrified. His training was kicking in. He guessed that the column was under fire from at least three enemy positions. Kaiser detected a flashing weapon on the ridge to the north and was about to direct his machinegunner to it when several bullets richochetted off the armored shield of the gun, and the young trooper fell back, his right eye shot away.

The the lieutenant had had enough. “Schmundt! Climb aboard!”

“Those men are wounded lieutenant!”

“Then fetch them,” ordered Kaiser nervously, “but hurry.”

Schmundt dashed round the half-track and signaled the engineers in the second Kubelwagen to help him. Sticking to the foliage in the roadside, Schmundt and the engineers managed to help the two wounded troopers to the the track, and shove them in.

“Schmundt, let’s go!” yelled Kaiser.

The sergeant clambered into the half-track, realizing by doing so he was abandoning the bodies of the dead troopers—not good form, but he’d had enough, and orders were orders. Kaiser kicked the driver. “Reverse!” he yelled.

Schmundt signaled to the engineers from the second Kubelwagen mount up and pull back. One of the engineers ignored the order and ran toward the dead man from Schmundt’s Wagon, but gave up as another burst of fire danced at his feet. He dashed back to his own vehicle, which turned violently down the broken track, out of the line of fire.

The surviving cyclists, though slightly wounded by bullet fragments, mounted the BMW with the sidecar and did the same, roaring off like motocross contestants. Kaiser grabbed the MG-42 and fired the rest of the ammunition belt at the northern ridge. Having covered the retreat he ordered the track to turn about. The driver nervously backed the vehicle into a tree, then spitting dirt and stones regained the roadway. With the engine screaming the half-track rumbled down the road, chasing the other vehicles to safety.

Kaiser’s battered column reached the main road several minutes later, leaving behind hundreds of torn up paving stones, the dug up mines, three SS troopers, two motorcycles and a Kubelwagen. Kaiser’s signalman was finally able to raise Lubin. Chagrinned but duty bound, Kaiser reported his losses. But said the lieutenant, he had found plenty of partisans.

Chapter 36

Yatom was working on the bunker line when he saw Lieutenant

Kaiser’s motorized patrol enter the low valley that led to Biali. Now he’d been surprised by the Germans. Sentries should have been posted along the Lubinstrasse, near where it met the high road, but for some reason the men had not shown up that day. Only a few of the carefully constructed bunkers on the ridgelines were manned, mostly by complacent and untested men and boys.

The SS column emerged near the end of the woodline and moved forward confidently. The vehicles were carefully painted in an elaborate camouflage scheme of mustard yellow, overpainted with green splotches—so different from the dull gray vehicles Yatom had so far seen in Poland, and for that matter, in the movies. The column followed the dashing motorcycle outriders. He recognized the bigger vehicle in back as a kind of half—track, similar to vehicles the IDF had used for generations.

For a moment, the Israeli commander simply admired the scene. Yatom’s instinct was to stay down, hide and let the vehicles pass. They would hit a mine eventually, as Roskovsky had sown a thick field across the road between the main ridgeline, where Yatom was, and the smaller hillock to the south. Having encountered the minefield, Yatom reckoned that the Germans would probably secure their losses and turn about, as the Polish police patrol had done a couple days before when they encountered the mines near the high road. Yatom realized that somehow the Germans had avoided those mines off the high road, which was disturbing in itself.

Any hope of laying low was dashed when a nearby bunker manned by three excitable Jewish teenagers with an MG-34 cut loose on the German cyclists. Yatom’s annoyance was softened by admiration for the boys’ aggressiveness. He got on the radio to alert the rest of the sayeret and Biali’s defenders in case they were needed.

Yatom, along with De Jong and Nudelman, ran to an unoccupied bunker and waited for the German reaction. But before the Germans could respond, a second hidden Jewish position at the base of the hillock opened up on the column—a Bren gun by the sound of it. The position was so well camouflaged Yatom missed it when scanned the little hill. Nudelman smiled as he saw German cyclists fall in the spray of bullets, while the Kubelwagens slewed left and right to avoid the fire. It was the first time the architect had ever seen Germans under attack—and from Jews no less. Yatom raised his binoculars again, though dust from bullets and the wheels and tracks of the German vehicles made it hard to see clearly. Two more Jewish positions now joined the ambush—another MG-34 and a small team of by the sound of it. Suddenly, De Jong and Nudelman threw themselves on the ground as German bullets snapped over their heads. The halftrack’s machinegun was spitting out bullets toward them at an alarming rate, the gunner spraying the hillside like a man trying to knock grime off his car with a water hose. Yatom raised his Tavor.

Yatom saw a flash through the rifle sight and then heard the crump of the booby—trap as it mangled a German infantry team and their Kubelwagen. Nudelman let out a little holler, and Yatom shook his head in admiration Roskovsky’s jury-rigged device. Still, the machinegunner in the halftrack was pouring fire onto the ridge—he was bound to hit something eventually. Yatom aimed the Tavor at the machinegunner. The range to the half-track was long—about 300 meters—but within Yatom’s comfort zone and the weapon’s capabilities. Using his day sight he put a visible laser dot on the target. Conscious of his dwindling ammo he fired three shots at the drumming machinegun, and watched with satisfaction as the gunner fell away. Several German soldiers from the second Kubelwagen shot back toward the nearby bunker filled with the Jewish teenagers. Then the enemy soldiers scrambled to their feet and dragged two of their wounded into the half-track. Yatom held his fire.

“Relax Nir,” said Mofaz, “I’m not reading Dr. Feldhandler’s books. The German army” Mofaz paused hating what he was about to say “in our time, still uses this weapon—they call it the MG 3. That’s how good it is—fires 1000 rounds a minute—or something like that.” He put the weapon and a box of ammo in the trunk. They threw the shot up motorcycle into the damaged Kubelwagen, then hooked it up to the staff car for a tow back to Biali—no point in wasting spare parts or fuel. Roi uprighted the good BMW and threw on the leather coat.

“I always wanted one of these!” said the young commando, as put the machine in gear and gunned the engine. Roi took off down the road toward the village, his Negev machinegun bouncing on his back as the bike sped eastward.

That evening, Yatom, Mofaz, Feldhandler and the Biali leadership sat down to discuss the day’s events. Shapira was absent, having already set off for Belzec with Chaim and the troop of demolition men.

“What do you make of today?” Jezek asked Yatom glumly. “It is not good?”

“No, it’s not good,” agreed Yatom. “Your men—boys—did well. We lost one. But they fought and that’s important. The bunker system worked, even sparsely manned, and the mines and booby-traps are proving useful. But…”

Feldhandler took over. “These men were SS—the most brutal combat troops the Germans have. And it was just a patrol. I think they will come back in force and most likely very soon—maybe tomorrow or even tonight.”

Jezek frowned. Sobel looked horrified. “We’ve moved a company of troops to the bunkers along with weapons and ammunition” said Yatom. “A second company is on alert. The third will stay in reserve until we see what the Germans have in mind.”

Yatom looked at Mofaz. “These German troops are much better than what we’ve faced so far. Make sure the men know this.” Mofaz nodded.

“Did you get any information from the captured German?” asked De Jong.

“Some,” said Feldhandler. “The man—a boy really—has broken arms and ribs. He is in and out of consciousness, and doesn’t know much except the unit that he is with, and what happened in the fight. According to his paybook he’s been in active service about eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks—that’s all?” asked Mofaz.

“Maybe the unit is rebuilding. But these recruits are still fanatics.”

“What’s his rank?” asked Sobel.

“He’s a Schuetze, a private—as low as you can go in the SS, so he can’t offer much. The unit is Regiment 4 of the 2nd SS Panzergrenadier Division. Regiment 4 is called… Der Fuehrer”

Sobel snorted.

“It’s not funny” continued Feldhandler. “They are an elite outfit and utterly ruthless—even if filled out with new recruits. If they break through, they will kill everybody in Biali—again.”

“What equipment?” asked Yatom.

“He only knows about his own company, which is a recon detachment. And we pretty much already know what that is. But he did say the regiment had at least some tanks or assault guns.”

“Artillery?” asked Yatom.

“Doesn’t know.”

“Any good news?” asked Mofaz biliously.

“Yes,” said Feldhandler proudly. “Their radios didn’t work. His sergeant couldn’t communicate with the platoon leader, and he had the impression that the platoon leader was also out of communication—at least before he got blown up—which means our little electronic warfare station is working.”

“I am glad you and your men are still here,” sighed De Jong. “You are not going to leave us in the lurch are you?”

“No. We’re not going anywhere until Lieutenant Shapira and Sergeant Ben David return” said Mofaz sourly. “Besides, our arrangements are not made anyway.” He looked bitterly at Feldhandler.

With nothing more to say, the Israelis left De Jong, Jezek and Sobel to their own devices in the town hall and assembled the rest of the sayeret in the yard. They were down to nine, with Itzak’s death and the departure of Shapira and Chaim. Mofaz briefed the men as to the quality of the SS as Yatom had asked. The young commandos took it in stride—they’d fought Hezbollah and the Revolutionary Guards hadn’t they?

“These guys are probably better” said Yatom “but we are better still. And we cannot let this town fall. You know what will happen.” The soldiers nodded soberly. Looking at Roskovsky Yatom said “Tonight put out the EFPs, your claymores and the rest of the mines. We expect they will have armor.” Roskovsky nodded.

“Rafi you still have two rounds for the B-300?” asked Yatom.

“Yes.”

“You’ll carry Dr. Feldhandler’s Galil tomorrow. It has four anti-armor grenades. If you expend your B-300 rockets, switch to that.”

“What about the mortars?” Rafi had worked with the two mortar teams.

“Help the teams set handle the fire missions.”

“I’ll take Rafi’s Tavor,” said Feldhandler “since you’ve given away my rifle—or give me Itzak’s.”

“I have Iztak’s,” snapped Mofaz. “I’m not wasting a 40mm in your hands.”

“Okay then,” said Feldhandler “give me yours.”

“Enough!” growled Yatom. “Doctor, you’ll man the MG42 we picked up today from the main bunker on the hillock. You’ll support Ilan and Mike who will be in their sniper nest nearby. Use your pistol for backup. Now give Rafi the Galil.”

Feldhandler turned over the big rifle and his sack of grenades.

“We’ll keep your Tavor with the mortar crew,” Yatorn told Rafi.

To avoid another surprise Yatorn ordered Bolander to ride the captured BMW to the end of the Lubin road and watch for enemy movement. Bolander was to report any contact, then ride like hell back to a carefully camouflaged bunker where he would join Ilan. There the two snipers would pursue their grim work, focusing on the SS leadership. The four newly trained Jewish sniper teams would be spread both the main ridge and the hillock and try to do the same.

Roi was annoyed by all this, as he considered the motorcycle personal property, but was now bereft of his bike and relegated to duty in the main bunker on the central ridge, where he could best employ his Negev, and a backup MG-34. Yatom told Ido to fight in the line with the rest of the sayeret leaving medical care to Biali’s capable teams of doctors and nurses. When he was done Yatom told the men to gather their equipment and move out. After the men were away Yatom and Mofaz turned to Feldhandler.

“What is the status of the Device?” asked Yatom. “Perchansky is working on it now. We are making progress.”

“How do we know that?” snarled Mofaz. “Ask her yourself” said Feldhandler. “She wants to get away as much as you do—maybe more. Besides, we’re not going anywhere until Shapira and Chaim return—right colonel?”

“Until they return,” said Yatorn carefully “or we know that they cannot.”

“Fair enough,” said Mofaz. “We are going to fight this battle one way or the other. From a professional standpoint, it should be interesting.”

“You sound like you’re beginning to enjoy this,” said Feldhandler hopefully.

“Not a chance doctor—I want to go home. But it’s nice to work without having to worry about rules of engagement.” Mofaz paused and looked at Yatom. “I’m going to join the men” he said leaving them, cradling Itzak’s old rifle.

“Mofaz is best off when he’s fighting, or planning a fight,” said Yatom. “He just doesn’t like to acknowledge it.”

Chapter 37

Globocnik posted Der Fuehrer’s headquarters group to an old Polish army base just outside of Lubin. Eager to get out of his own office on a fine summer morning, the SS General agreed to meet Kumm and his staff at the junior officer’s HQ for a briefing. Globocnik’s motorcade included his own chauffeured staff car, and another that carried Major Reder and Sergeant Mueller. Both cars were escorted by motorcyclists and a dozen Ordnungspolizei in a truck. Globocnik wasn’t taking any chances, even in Lubin.

Kumm and his staff greeted Globocnik respectfully in the regimental commander’s conference room. Kumm had already neatly organized and covered the place in maps. With Kumm were his own operations and intelligence officers, as well as the tough looking 2nd Battalion commander Stadler, and Lieutenant Kaiser from the reconnaissance unit. Globocnik took a seat at the table and Kumm got down to business.

“Yesterday, Herr General, a reconnaissance patrol led by Untersturmfuhrer Kaiser, ran into a rather large partisan concentration, here.” Kumm pointed on the map to an area northeast of Lubin, not very far from Sobibor.

“Was there any indication that the British commandos were with this partisan unit?” asked Reder.

“No Major,” said Kumm. “But resistance was heavy. We lost men and vehicles. I would like to move against this partisan concentration as soon as possible—preferably tomorrow—with everything I have available.”

“Everything?” asked Globocnik dubiously. “You mean the units in Siedice and Belzec too? That’s out of the question.”

“Well then Herr General, the 2nd infantry battalion based here in Lubin, along with my headquarters assets, armor, and such” responded Kumm, his voice urgent.

“The Waffen SS is up for a fight eh?” chirped Globocnik with a smirk. Kumm glared at Globocnik but held his tongue. “No Kumm” continued the SS General. “I don’t want to risk the entire battalion and leave Lubin stripped. You must leave some companies behind.” Globocnik had come to like the idea of having the SS around—it made him feel safer.

Kumm wanted to complain. Globocnik had already spread his regiment across the wastes of eastern Poland and now was preventing the concentration of his single available battalion. But he was an SS officer and the enemy Jewish partisans—it it would be unseemly to argue about it further.

“As you wish Herr General. I’ll leave behind two infantry companies, but take the rest.” Kumm made it sound like a final offer.

“Fine Colonel” said Globocnik pleasantly. “Now, for the issue of how to handle matters at the scene—I assume you will be successful, and that means prisoners.”

“The Wajfen SS does not take prisoners.”

“Oh I know. I don’t expect you to take any partisans prisoner, and that includes all the partisans—without regard to sex or age…” said Globocnik conspiratorially.

“I know the drill Herr General,” said Kumm impatiently.

“Not this time,” hissed Globocnik, fixing Kumm with his policeman’s stark stare. “You will not execute any captured adult male partisans until Sergeant Mueller here has had a chance to identify them.” Globocnik pointed to policeman, who, like Kumm, looked very unhappy. “Mueller is the only man, still alive, to have seen these foreign commandos, and it is my desire, and I should say General Heydrich’s desire that they be take alive, if possible.”

“So I’m to transport the prisoners back here for…”

“No, no, no,” interrupted Globocnik. “Sergeant Mueller will travel with you. He will identify the commandos at the scene—if you seize any—and you will return them to Lubin. Everybody else—” Globocnik waved his hand idly, “—pfft!”

“Also” broke in Reder “any captured arms or ammunition.”

“Very good Herr General,” said Kumm. “Sergeant Mueller can ride with me.” Kumm looked coldly at Mueller who turned away from the glaring SS commander. “Would you like to hear my operational plans?”

“No,” said Globocnik, to Kumm’s relief. “I’ll leave the details—and Sergeant Mueller—to you.” Globocnik rose to go. “You move out tomorrow morning?”

“Yes Herr General. This business should be concluded by tomorrow night.”

“Let’s hope so Colonel,” said Globocnik as he stood at the door to the conference room, not reassured by Kumm’s cool confidence.

After Globocnik’s departure Kumm, Stadler and his staff officers got down to the planning the raid. They were all disturbed that Globocnik refused to allow all of Stadler’s battalion to move, but not unused to dealing with difficult and even foolish superiors. Kumm especially was distressed—he’d arrived with an entire regiment—less his artillery—only to see it whittled away. After the officers exchanged a mutual glance of exasperation, they went back to work.

Kumm was anxious to get going, before the enemy had a chance to fully react to the reconnaissance probe. But the regiment was still short of fuel and other supplies. Plus, his men had yet to configure the half-tracks for battalion and regimental command and communication—and for an engineering platoon—as well as a hundred other details. Six of the half-tracked personnel carriers would be given to a pair of assault platoons, but most of Stadler’s remaining three companies would ride to battle in trucks.

Captain Holzer, Kumm’s operations officer, passed out a neatly typed out order of march and operational plan. The plan reflected Kumm’s experiences in Russia, where after a period of trial and error, he had successfully crushed several partisan bands. Kumm’s plan did not involve anything like hearts and minds, but rather speed, envelopment and brutal force. Holzer’s order reflected this, calling for the four assault guns and mounted troops to move aggressively down the two available roads to pin the partisans, while infantry infiltrated their flanks. Once surrounded, Kumm’s artillery, consisting of eight 81mm battalion mortars in two batteries, would pound the partisans into submission; at which point the infantry would mop them up. If any of the enemy survived the battle, they would parade before Mueller as instructed. But if Kumm’s men fought correctly, not many enemy troops, partisans or commandos would be left alive—and no old men, women, or children in any case. Under SS policy, anybody in the battle zone was considered a partisan. It was gruesome, but it made Kumm’s job easier.

Chapter 38

A full company of Biali’s defense force, and half the sayeret sat in the trenches and bunkers on the ridges west of Biali all day on June 27th anticipating an attack that did not come. Bolander waited alone, well in advance of the main positions, with the motorcycle and a radio, watching the southwest road to Lubin. Yet the road stayed quiet and empty. On the evening of the 28th fresh men entered the defensive positions to give others a break, and half the sayeret returned to Biali to rest and recharge batteries for the coming night. Yatom ordered Roi to replace Bolander and the Negev gunner happily roared out to take the forward sentry post.

Just after dawn the next day Roi returned from the sentry post for a rest, and found Yatom dozing in the command bunker atop the main north-south ridge that dominated the Lubin road. Like the other positions the command bunker was built cleverly into the hillside and carefully camouflaged, but was somewhat larger and better constructed than most of the other fighting points—Nudelman had designed it to take a direct hit from a heavy shell. Roi put up the motorcycle and asked Yatom if Bolander should take the bike back out to the high road. Yatom told him no. In fact, Yatom had begun to hope that there would not be any attack at all. Possibly the SS patrol misinterpreted the clash on the 26th, or the patrol leader didn’t make an accurate report. Perhaps the Germans just no longer cared that much. Earlier that morning Shapira had transmitted a brief message that he had linked up with Sandler’s men, and would move on Belzec within the next two days. Maybe, just maybe, Yatom thought, the sayeret would get away without further fighting and loss of life.

Yatom was acutely aware that the unexpected lull had not been good for morale among the sayeret or the men and women of Biali. Everyone had been geared up for an attack. That intense sense of anxiety and urgency was good, but didn’t last forever. Eventually it robbed people of strength and resolve. Biali’s defenders could not stay on alert forever.

Yatom decided to speak with his deputy. He left the bunker, and walked over to the deserted forester’s encampment that guarded the right flank where Mofaz was stationed. Mofaz was grumpy again. The abandoned buildings of the settlement cast early morning shadows over acres of high grass and weeds. Yatom suggested that if things were still quiet by midday, they stand down the ridgeline defenses, pull back the sayeret and just leave a small advance force in the hilltop fortifications. Mofaz agreed.

Restless and with nothing better to do, the Yatom decided to stroll his lines until the expected midday withdrawal. He found Bolander and Roi sitting outside the command bunker, the motorcycle between them, chatting amiably and eating a meager breakfast of dry bread and cheese. Yatom considered sending Bolander back out, but didn’t have the heart to disturb the young soldier. He squeezed each man on the back of the neck in an unaccustomed show of affection and moved on to check the mortar position.

Two hours later the sun had risen over the trees, and although it was only mid—morning Yatom, still on the main ridge, had had enough. He stood up and raised his binoculars to take a last look at the Lubin road when his Madonna crackled in his ear. It was Roskovsky. The engineer was forward of the main positions with his platoon. There he was to block the access roads and coordinate the detonation of the EFPs.

“I hear vehicles to the west” said Roskovsky. “They are close.”

Yatom looked through the binoculars again, and noted a thin cloud of dust over the western trees he’d missed just a moment before. He cursed his own lassitude.

“Standby” answered Yatom. He had Nir broadcast a general alert and warn the radio station in Biali that the Germans had finally arrived.

Men and women rushed back to their positions, covering over the bunkers with dirt and brush and breaking out extra machinegun bullets and grenades. In Biali the reserve companies gathered their weapons and started marching westward. At the radio rig, Zim and Hannah, assisted by Perchansky, searched the ether for German transmissions. Feldhandler, Norit, and De Young climbed into a staff car and headed for the southern hill position, the Dutchman driving, with the professor cradling his MG 42 and Norit, who was to be his second on the team, the extra ammunition. Feldhandler hoped that they would not be too late.

Kumm stopped the Waffen SS column near the two approach roads identified by Lieutenant Kaiser. Satisfied that he was in the right place, Kumm directed Kaiser to lead one armored column down the Lubin road, where he’d been ambushed before, accompanied by two half-tracks full of combat engineers to deal with the mines. On the other road, which appeared to be an old forester’s path, a pair of engineer halftracks led a second column. Infantry dismounted from their trucks along the high road and marched into the woods that lined all the roadways. One company flanked the mobile column on the Lubin road to the south, while a second covered the woods to the north of the forester’s path. Two more platoons tromped the forest between the two approach roads, headed right for where Roskovsky and his men had deployed. Kumm sent the mortar batteries into the woods to the north and south of the Lubin road with orders to find clearings from which to fire. He set up his own mobile headquarters off in a small field several hundred meters east of the north—south high road. Stadler, in his own half-track, led a mounted armored infantry platoon and two Stug III assault guns down the forester’s road in the wake of two engineer vehicles. Two more Stug III’s followed the Kaiser’s force on the Lubin road.

The twin German columns advanced slowly to allow the engineers to do their job. Teams of engineers walked ahead of the half-tracks on both roads, stopping now and then to probe and dig up the mines of Sobibor, and disarm booby—traps. As they approached the eastern ridgelines where Kaiser had been ambushed two days before, the first shooting rattled the late morning air, as engineers came under long ranged machinegun and rifle fire from hidden Jewish bunkers. Several engineers on each road fell, but the Germans ignored the casualties and kept coming. A mine exploded beneath one of the engineer half-tracks on the forester’s path, knocking off a track and stranding the vehicle but otherwise doing no harm. The engineer company commander, who had seen much denser minefields in Russia, reported that the mines were not sown thickly, and that the armored columns could chance an all out advance. To Kumm, who had also faced much worse on the Russian steppes, the engineer’s clearance was like a spur in his flank. Kumm got on the radio and ordered a general advance. The German halftracks and assault guns churned forward.

The Yatom’s defenses were ready, but just barely. His people were in place but psychologically, the inexperienced men and women in the bunkers had expected a break, not to be thrust suddenly into a life or death struggle. Worse, the Germans now come on remarkably fast.

The sudden aggression of the SS impressed Yatom. They’d clearly realized that the landmines posed little threat and the enemy now erupted down the two access roads with armored half-track vehicles in the lead.

A small halftrack followed by a pair of Kubelwagens emerged from the wooded area entered the open valley that lay before the two fortified hills. The little force then veered off the Lubin road and headed cross-country towards the smaller hill to the south. The platoon moved so fast that it went by a pair of Roskovsky’s EFPs before he could set them off. The German recon platoon was headed straight for Feldhandler, Norit’s and De Jong assigned bunker, and the sniper nest supposed to be manned Ilan and Bolander. Neither group was yet in position as the German recon vehicles closed. Several bunkers other bunkers on the little hill opened up on the German platoon, and the machinegun in the halftrack spat back at them. Yatom ran over to Rafi who crouched in a shallow trench near the road on the main ridge. B-300 ready as well as the Galil—a large rocket grenade protruding from the barrel.

“Rafi, can you hit that halftrack with the rifle grenade—I don’t want to waste a 300 round on it” Yatom asked anxiously, pointing at Kaiser’s elaborately camouflaged vehicle. Rafi watched as the small half-track raced for the saddle between the two Jewish held hills. He estimated the range at 150 meters but closing, as the halftrack ground forward. It was a long shot for the rifle grenade.

“I’ll need to get closer” said the grenadier calmly.

“Do it—be careful.”

Rafi grabbed the Galil and slipped easily out of the trench and moving forward through the high grass. Yatom left him to his business. The Israeli commander didn’t have time to follow every detail of the fight. As he moved back to his command post he could already hear machineguns opening up all around him as the Germans continued to pour down the approach roads.

Lieutenant Kaiser stood erect in the recon half-track as it bounced across the field toward the southern hillock, Hoehe 28. An occasional machinegun bullet pinged off the vehicle armor now and again, but most of the fire missed. The Kubelwagens behind him were having a more difficult time, swerving about to avoid the bullets, but so far none of his men were hit. He was just 100 meters from the critical point where the main road ran between the northern ridge and the southern hillock, splitting the partisan defenses in two. He planned to regain the road at that point and pass right through, into the enemy rear. That would disrupt the enemy defenses, and perhaps even collapse them—an achievement would make up for his losses in the ambush two days before.

As he neared the southern hill Kaiser ordered his driver to turn to the left to regain the road. A burst of machinegun fire struck the halftrack’s rear compartment when the vehicle turned, wounding a trooper inside. Kaiser ignored his cry. One of the Kubelwagens was hit badly by another burst of fire and crashed. Still Kaiser pressed on, followed gamely by the second Wagon. He was only fifty meters from the road when he saw a brief flash come from the high grass on the ridge called Hoehe 31 now to his left-front. For a split second his eye caught sight of a dark projectile, then a shattering explosion rocked the halftrack which burst into flames. Kaiser was blown back into the rear space of the vehicle, the screams of his crew ringing in his ears along with echoes of the blast and the roar of the fire. He tried to move, but his legs had been practically severed by the shaped—charge rifle grenade. Fire started to envelop his back as he lay on the floor of the shattered halftrack. Ammunition cooked off around him—bullets flinging themselves off into the morning sky like fireworks. As the shock of the blast wore off, Kaiser registered pain in his severed legs and his roasting back. He hoped he died quickly. He didn’t.

Kumm watched Kaiser’s track burst into flames from his own command halftrack on the Lubin road, over a kilometer away. Up until that point he had shared the excitement of the aggressive lieutenant, recognizing that the brave young officer was attempting to split the enemy’s defenses, and reach his rear. The sudden loss of the vehicle surprised him—he did not see an antitank gun. Seconds later the surviving Kubelwagen was riddled with bullets and near the same spot and ground to a halt, its crew dead or fleeing. The recon platoon was destroyed.

Losses didn’t bother Kumm, so long as they served a purpose. And Kaiser’s sacrifice did just that. It showed Kumm what to do next. He called one of the mortar batteries on a phone line strung from his vehicle, and asked if the battery commander had brought smoke with him. The commander responded affirmatively but cautiously. He had smoke, but not much, the supply situation not having been fully sorted out before the battle group departed that morning. Kumm told the battery commander to lay down all the smoke he had across the entire front. He rang up the second battery commander and told him to start putting some shells onto the enemy ridgeline.

The battery commander asked “where exactly?” Kumm just told the man to shut up and shoot.

Yatom caught the destruction of the German recon platoon out of the corner of his eye, and radioed Rafi congratulations order him back to his trench. In the meantime, Han and Bolander had checked in, having taken their positions on the southern hill. They confirmed that Feldhandler, De Jong and Norit were nearby in their bunker with the MG 42. That good news was balanced when Mofaz reported halftracks moving toward his position from the forester’s road. He asked Yatom to either send over Rafi with his anti—tank weapons, or have Roskovsky hit them with his EFPs.

Yatom carried one of the tactical radios—Itzak’s—on his own back. He raised Roskovsky and told him to knock out the halftracks moving down the forester’s road if he could. Roskovsky had a total of nine EFPs. Three were the high quality radio controlled devices he’d brought from Israel, while the other six pieces were jury rigged devices he’d made out of leftover cans, copper, explosives and wire. Those six were command controlled by detonation wire connected to six detonators manned by six very nervous, newly trained Jewish combat engineers.

Roskovsky and his men were well in front of Yatom’s position, quite near the Germans who were advancing through the patch of forest between the two roadways. Half company of German infantry was heading right for him, but his men were still well hidden and not yet under fire. Though he’d missed the small half-track that had sped by a few minutes earlier, he saw other half-tracks deploying off the road on either side of his men. The closest vehicles were on the forester’s road to his right—the vehicle’s Mofaz wanted knocked out.

Roskovsky crawled to a trio of teens he had deployed there, who lay hidden in the brush. From their position, detonation cords snaked out to three homemade EFPs concealed amid tall weeds and bushes just forty meters away. As the first half-track passed an EFP, Roskovsky tapped one of the boys on the head and signaled him to shoot.

The boy pressed the detonator as the track rumbled by. Nothing happened. He looked at Roskovsky, panic on his face as the big armored vehicle continued to advance. Roskovsky tapped the next boy and made a motion for the boy to hit it. This one worked, but halftrack had almost passed when the second EFP detonated. It blew a hole through the back of the vehicle but didn’t destroy it. Still, the blast killed a few of the SS engineers in the back and wounded several dismounted men nearby—a man in flames leapt from the vehicle. The halftrack’s driver steered the vehicle off the road in his own panic, then regained the path and drove it straight ahead toward the Jewish positions.

Roskovsky ignored the damaged halftrack as it drove away. He moved to the third boy who was targeting the following halftrack with the third homemade unit. As the track moved past the hidden device the boy set it off. This EF P struck dead on—a molten bolt of dense copper shot straight into the vehicle cabin, killing the crew instantly and setting the vehicle A few engineers managed to flee the stricken vehicle, leaving their comrades to roast inside.

Their bombs expended, Roskovsky motioned teens to come with him, before the Germans spotted and killed them. The little band crawled across the wood were the second team lay beside the Lubin road. Roskovsky was preparing to attack the German armor on that road when he heard artillery falling behind him and the shouting of German infantry coming at them through the woods.

On the ridgeline Yatom saw Roskovsky’s EFPs destroy one halftrack and damage another. The damaged vehicle sped madly towards his positions. Two or three machineguns peppered the halftrack as it crashed its way forward, its rear compartment aflame. From the fortified forester’s buildings on Yatom’s right Mofaz fired a 40mm grenade. The projectile arched through the sky and struck the burning halftrack, exploding against its front armor. The stricken halftrack ground to a halt forty meters from the nearest Jewish bunker. The machinegun team in the bunker gunned down the surviving Germans as they attempted to escape the burning armored truck. So far, so good, thought Yatom. Then the artillery started.

Stadler had been happy with his column’s progress when he saw the two engineer halftracks suddenly get hit by some kind of huge roadside mines. One half-track blew up and the second sped off toward the enemy, though on fire. Stadler’s command track was next in column, followed by two more half-tracks loaded with infantry. He immediately ordered his driver to halt.

The German battalion commander raised his binoculars and followed the progress of the damaged engineer halftrack as it continued to advance toward a small settlement, despite the fact that it was still burning. It almost reached the suspected enemy position when it was hit by a grenade that seemed to come out of nowhere. The front of the vehicle exploded, and the wrecked machine came to a halt between the settlement and the enemy held ridgeline.

Stadler, quite unexpectedly, now faced a crisis. His engineer platoon was mostly destroyed, he was out of communication with Kumm—the radioman improbably claimed that their communications were being jammed—and his dismounted infantrymen were not yet up. So Stadler did what he had been trained to do—he attacked. He ordered the two armored infantry squads in the half-tracks behind him to go forward. Behind the halftracks were two Stug III assault guns. Stadler ordered them forward too. With his radio out he dispatched runners to find the infantry companies on his left and right and have them charge ahead. Then he kicked his driver and sent his halftrack out of the woods and into the narrow valley that led to a clutch of old buildings that was the forester’s settlement.

Action sometimes brings its own reward and so it was for Captain Stadler. Just as his track breached the woodline a smoke barrage fell in front of him, blinding his enemies, and mortar bombs started hitting the ridgeline. He loved Colonel Kumm!

“Aufmarsch!” yelled Stadler in his headset, heedless of whether the other vehicle commanders could hear him. Then realizing that they probably could not, he pulled out his signaling flags and waved them on. As his half-track lurched forward, Stadler grabbed the nearby machinegun and opened up on the foresters’ settlement.

Back on the Lubin road Kumm pounded his radio in frustration. His signal officer officer apologized—there was no question that the German radios were being jammed. Kumm only had communication by phone to the artillery, or by runner anywhere else. He could hear the explosions along Stadler’s line of advance but did not know his subordinate’s situation. But he trusted Stadler and in the German doctrine of Auftragstaktik—to stick with the mission no matter what.

Kumm felt better as he watched the smoke barrage fall, and saw the first 81mm shells impact the enemy ridgeline ahead. His own infantry halftracks and Stug IIIs started forward. He had to hand it to Globocnik and his staff officers—they were right about things. These were no ordinary partisans he was facing. This was a straight up battle against a determined, dug in enemy, and he was attacking into the teeth of their defenses. He looked over at the police sergeant Mueller, who sat alone and unhappy several meters away. It seemed as if the police sergeant knew that things would be tough, and wanted no further part in it. Mueller disgusted Kumm—war was war—whether in Poland or Russia, whether against regulars or partisans. It was always hard.

In the woods several hundred yards from Kumm, Roskovsky watched the elaborately painted German armored vehicles advance toward his hidden EFPs on the Lubin road. He also noted German infantry creeping through the woods straight for his positions. Roskovsky turned his attention back to the mobile column, which was throwing up clouds of dust as the heavy vehicles crushed the damaged paving stones beneath their tracks. Smoke from the German barrage wafted back over his position adding to the murk. In the midst of the dust and smoke the Israeli engineer couldn’t tell if his EFPs were on target or not, he just knew that he had to fire them all immediately, before he and his men were annihilated by the SS troopers coming right at them. Roskovsky crawled over to a second trio of teenaged engineers hiding by the main road and signaled them to fire their three jury-rigged charges. Again, only two detonated successfully. Roskovsky then fired his two radio controlled EFPs also nestled along the Lubin road. In the smog that had enveloped his position he could not see whether any of the EFPs were on target, he just hoped that the mass firing hit something.

Beyond the smoke and dust, out of Roskovsky’s sight, three of the five EFPs tore successfully into the Germans. On the Lubin road one of Roskovsky’s modern EFPs detonated as a Stug III passed. The assault gun, though well armored by the standards of 1942, was helpless against a device designed to penetrate a modern main battle tank. The copper slug passed clean through the Stug III, igniting its ready ammunition, blowing it into a hulk of shattered, twisted metal, and extinguishing its crew. On the same road a homemade charge went off close enough to one of Kumm’s infantry half-tracks to damage the front cab, wounding the driver and putting the squad of panicked SS troopers riding in the back to flight. The two other charges that detonated on the main road missed completely. With the German infantry almost on him, Roskovsky’s set off his last EF P, a radio charge that was still on the forester’s road, as he heard yet another Stug III rumble forward. The powerful device just managed to knock a track off the assault gun as it roared past. The vehicle slewed to a halt, otherwise intact, its gun pointed forward toward the Jewish positions.

Roskovsky didn’t know any of this. He only knew that his little band had to retreat to the fortified ridgeline or die. And he didn’t figure they had much chance. The advancing SS infantry had identified the little group of engineers through the brush and opened fire. The three boys by the Lubin road fell as they tried to come to him, desperation and fear etching their young faces before they died. Roskovsky turned away, trying to keep his wits as German weapons flashed through the smoke and dust. He shouted at the three surviving engineers, and crushed the detonator for a Claymore, showering an SS squad with shrapnel. He tossed his two last hand grenades into the gloom toward the enemy gunfire flashes, and ran for it, followed by the young engineers.

The SS gunned down the three boys just as they broke from the tree line into the open. Roskovsky, running ahead of them, reached a cloud of drifting smoke from the mortar barrage. The top of the ridge, and relative safety, was still 200 meters away. The smoke threw off the aim of the SS troopers shooting at Roskovsky. He got a good fifty meters onto the lower part of the ridge before he was hit. The first bullet struck a ceramic plate in Roskovsky’s vest, knocking him down, but not hurting him critically. The big engineer shook off the blow, and set off again, bounding another twenty meters before an MG 42 round hit him in the back of the leg. He fell again, unable to rise, but continued to crawl forward. Roskovsky knew he had little hope of survival, but he wanted to get as far from the Germans as possible before he died, so that they could not retrieve his body or equipment.

The smoke began to to clear and Roskovsky heard armored vehicles advancing on the roads to his right and left. Behind him the SS troopers continued to shoot toward the ridge, but they could not advance beyond the woodline, as fire from Jewish bunkers targeted them through the thinning smoke. Roskovsky heard the distinctive popping of Roi’s Negev, as 5.56mm rounds snapped over his head. Ahead, Roskovsky heard Yatom’s voice through the din, telling him to keep moving. Roskovsky looked for the bunker through the thinning smoke and struggled forward several more meters, pulling on grass, weeds and saplings to drag his useless leg along. He caught sight of Yatom’s bunker off to his left, and looked toward it hopefully, when when a long burst of fire from an MG 42 hit him several more times, hammering his body into the blood soaked ground. Roskovsky lifted his head one last time, fifty meters from the first of the Jewish bunkers, before another burst of fire penetrated his helmet and drove him into the sodden earth—dead now, but out of the Germans’s reach.

From the top of the ridge Yatom had watched Roskovsky’s struggle as a ghostly image in his thermal binoculars. The German smoke barrage had temporarily blinded the Jewish positions, but the thermal scope easily cut through the gray-white clouds. Yatom directed Roi’s Negev at the SS who were tracking Roskovsky through the murk. Many Germans, not realizing that the smoke offered them no cover from the deadly machinegun, were killed as they attempted to follow the Israeli engineer up the hill. Yatom could do nothing more as watched Roskovsky struggle amidst the drifting smoke, only fifty meters away. Roi, seeing the same thing, dropped his Negev and started crawl from the bunker in order to drag the engineer back, Yatom restrained him.

“It’s our duty!” shouted the young sergeant as Yatom gripped Roi’s webbing.

“No” said Yatom simply. The Israeli ethos of always going after the dead and wounded had cost the lives of too many men. Yatom believed it had become something of a fetish. He wasn’t going to lose Roi to a hopeless act of valor that would not improve their tactical situation in the slightest.

“Pick up your weapon” ordered Yatom. Roi shrank back and retrieved his Negev, then poured the rest of the belt toward the advancing Germans, knocking two more men down and driving the rest back.

Evaluating his situation from the command bunker next to the emotional Roi, Yatom realized that his tactical situation had deteriorated. Yatom’s intelligence was bad. He did not know how many armored vehicles his men faced, or how many Roskovsky had managed to damage or destroy. Yatom reckoned that Roskovsky had expended all his EFPs before he’d died, but Yatom could only guess the damage inflicted on the enemy. He’d seen a secondary explosion on the Lubin road, and smoke from a burning vehicle on the forester’s track. However encouraging the smoke and explosions were, the reality emerging from the enemy held woods promised disaster. On Yatom’s left a turretless assault gun and two half-tracks loaded with German infantry and engineers debouched from the Lubin road, emerging from the smoke screen and heading toward the main ridge. He recognized the Stug III assault gun from old World War II films, but was uncertain of its capabilities and weaknesses. On his right another assault gun and three half-tracks rolled down the forester’s track aiming for Mofaz’s position. All the while, the Germans continued to pound the ridgeline with mortars, joined by direct fire from the Stug IIIs. Behind the barrage, German infantry were emerged from the woods far flanks, obviously intent on fully enveloping the Jewish position.

Yatom’s combat experience was extensive, but had mostly consisted of well—prepared raids and assaults. He had never fought a defensive battle before, much less one with amateur soldiers on strange terrain. There was little to do but hang on. He radioed Mofaz and Han on his right and left flanks, and ordered them hold fast. Yatom then went down the ridge, dodging German shells, until he found his own mortar crew, and his only reserve formation—a company of about 100 men under the command of Fliegel, waiting in the safety of the reverse slope. Nearby was a makeshift aid station where Ido worked with a half dozen doctors and nurses on several men already wounded by the German artillery. Yatom grabbed Ido and told him to put his medical duties on hold—he needed the medic to assist Rafi in dealing with the German armor. Yatom then walked over to Fliegel, trying to appear as confident as possible, despite the falling mortar bombs. He took the Silesian fighter aside, hopeful that Fliegel had not lost his nerve. Yatom described the grim situation.

“The Germans are likely to break through somewhere” explained Yatom. “When they do, you and your men are going to have to stop them, or we’ll be finished.”

Chapter 39

The telephone rang in Kumm’s command halftrack. Since the enemy had jammed his radio he’d had his signals section run telephone wire to the front lines. It was more cumbersome than radio, and it meant that he could not talk directly to Stadler in his mobile halftrack, but it worked after a fashion. Lieutenant Vogel, commander of infantry Company 2 on the right flank was calling to report that his men had moved into position in the treeline opposite the smaller hill, Hoehe 28. The SS platoons from Company 3, operating between the roads, had routed the enemy engineer detachment in the woods to his left, and were in place opposite the larger ridge, Hoehe 31. That left Stadler, who was still out of communication but presumably moving forward with Company 1, sweeping the far left flank.

The attack had got off to a rough start. Columns of smoke from his stricken armor still smudged the skyline, but Kumm believed that things were looking up. Not only was the infantry advancing, but ahead of him one of the surviving assault guns was pushing to the central ridge, every few seconds pausing to fire a shell into a partisan bunker. Two half-tracks loaded with infantry followed the Stug III, their machineguns blazing. One mortar battery still pounded the big ridge, Hoehe 31, while the second had opened up on Hoehe 28 to the right, softening it up for Vogel’s men.

Kumm called back Vogel and ordered him to attack Hoehe 28 immediately. He rang off and called the commander of Company 3, which had routed the partisan engineers. He ordered the company to move out of the woodline and renew its attack on the main ridge to support the armor on their right. Company 3 would have to go straight ahead, right at the enemy bunkers, regardless of the cost. That, after all is what the SS did.

The only missing piece was Stadler. But Kumm trusted his subordinate to carry out the mission plan and assumed Stadler’s armored column and infantry were assaulting the forester’s settlement.

Stadler was only about two kilometers from Kumm, but invisible to the regimental commander through the dense trees that divided the roadways on which the German attacks proceeded. It bothered Stadler that he was out of communication with his commander, but like Kumm, the SS battalion commander was feeling confident. He was in the van of the attack on the left, following a Stug III assault gun and two more half-tracks loaded with infantry and engineers—mirroring Kumm’s attack on the right Behind him the damaged Stug fired into the old forester’s settlement, supporting his assault. His mounted troops were shooting like demons from the halftracks at the ridge. They were taking machinegun fire, but nothing heavier, in return. On his far left infantry Company 1 was moving to encircle the partisans. It looked like the enemy was about to be trapped and overrun—like wiping out an anthill—as Kumm had said.

Yatom left Fliegel and returned to the main bunker where he checked up on Roi. The machine-gunner had recovered his wits and was shooting from the bunker into the wood-line against the Germans who had killed Roskovsky. Roi had used up his ammo for the Negev and was shooting an MG-34, helped by two young fighters who serviced the weapon and spotted targets for him. Near Roi one other bunker continued to fire but the others on the forward slope had fallen silent, either victims of shock, mortar attack, or the Stugs cannon. “Hold them Roi” yelled Yatom from the rear bunker entrance. The commando sergeant put his thumb up and got back to work.

Yatom ran back down the ridge and gathered up Ido, now stripped down to fighting trim. Together, he and the medic ran to position on the left of the ridge, still dodging the occasional German mortar bomb. Rafi greeted them in his trench and pointed at a German assault gun which was now less than 100 meters away. It had already destroyed two nearby bunkers, killing the men inside. Rafi had the B-300 to hand, but with only two rockets available was waiting for Yatom to authorize him to fire. “Do it” said Yatom.

Rafi but the assault gun in the launcher’s crosshairs. The turretless German tank appeared huge in the sight—the B-300 was accurate out to more than 300 meters and this would be an easy shot. He loosed the rocket. It struck the Stug III near the gun mantlet, emiting a fantastic flash and sending a jet of molten metal into the fighting compartment, instantly killing the crew. The assault gun slewed to a stop. From the surviving bunkers nearby the Israelis heard cheers. Yatom turned to Ido and handed him the Galil, already loaded with a rocket grenade—one of three that remained

“You know how to use this?” Yatom asked the medic. Ido nodded, though it had been awhile. “Take out the halftracks” Yatom told him. Yatom grabbed Rafi, still holding the B-300. “Go join Mofaz on the right” ordered Yatom. “You know where?” Rafi nodded, and ran off with the rocket launcher. Yatom headed back toward the mortar teams.

It took Ido all three rockets, but when he was done, the medic had put the cure to the German armored attack on the Israeli left. The two half-tracks were left smoking next to the destroyed Stug. Ido took the Galil, which still had plenty of bullets, and fired at the surviving German armored infantry, who to his amazement, instead of running away, were still trying to take the hill Joined by a Bren team in a bunker to his right, he managed to pin the German infantry several dozen meters away.

Yatom heard the detonations of the Galil rockets and hoped they had hit home, but he had no time to check. He continued on the the mortar pits without turning back and arrived dog-tired from his exertions. Though anxious to act, he sat down in one of the pits and caught his breath. Between the radio, the armored vest, his weapons and ammunition, Yatom was carrying over forty kilos of gear. The mortar crews, ten Jews mostly from Bohemia huddled in the pit staring at the exhausted Israeli commander, while the occasional German shell crashed around them. Somewhat recovered Yatom dusted himself off and said carefully in German “Can you shoot back?”

“Yes sir!” said Poldolsky the crew chief, a man of about Yatom’s age, and a former Polish army artilleryman. “Everything is ready, we just need the coordinates.”

Yatom put up his hand, to calm the eager gunner. If he’d been back in modern Israel, the fire coordinates would have been generated automatically by artillery radar and GPS systems, but now he’d have to do things the old fashioned way. Yatom radioed Ilan and Bolander on the hillock across the valley. The snipers had the best eyes and optics in the sayeret, and in addition to sniping duties, Yatom had put them on the neighboring hill just for this purpose—as a makeshift forward observers. Although the hillock was not quite as high as the main ridge it offered a better view of the valley below and the likely location of the enemy artillery.

“Find the enemy mortars” Yatom told Han, and signed off. The snipers scanned the distant trees, looking for the telltale signs of an artillery discharge, using optical and thermal sights. They matched their observations to a local map upon which Rafi and marked half-kilometer square grid coordinates—not particularly precise given the congested battle area. It took the snipers a few minutes, during which time Yatom and the mortarmen had to endure a more incoming rounds. Fortunately, the German mortarmen were concentrating on the front slope and top of the ridge and were apparently unconcerned with what might be on the reverse slope. On the adjacent hillock, llan and Bolander were under intermittent mortar fire too, but they ignored the incoming bombs, safe in the well constructed bunker. Finally, Ilan radioed coordinates. Yatom checked them against his own map and did a quick calculation. He gave the result to the crew chief who calibrated the mortars. They fired off a round. Ilan observed the fall of shot and called a correction. They repeated the process—twice—slowly bracketing the location of the suspected enemy battery. As they did this the German fire slackened. Yatom figured that the enemy mortarmen, realizing that they were under counter-battery fire, were holding back while they decided what to do. During this pause, Ilan finally satisfied himself that the Jewish mortars were adequately registered and radioed the call “fire for effect.” Poldolsky’s mortarmen began to work in earnest.

As the mortar duel was underway, Mofaz and Nir, on the far right of the Israeli line, were trying with dwindling success to stave off Stadler’s attack. The two commandos fought from a fortified shack, one of half a dozen in the old settlement, each manned by a section of Jewish fighters. Both commandos carried 40mm launchers under their Tavors, which Mofaz had already proved could damage a halftrack. The Stug III assaulting their position was a different matter. They’d each fired a round into the Stug without effect Between them they only had four grenades left. Just as disturbing was the realization that that these Germans were very well led. The surviving halftracks stayed far away, shooting their machineguns but otherwise not offering themselves up for another easy shot. Meanwhile the attacking Stug and another further off down the forester’s lane, continued to pound the settlement with their cannons, while infantry maneuvered on the flanks, infiltrating the position. The shelling was taking its toll, both on the two commandos, and especially the thirty other Jews who defended the place. Already, several positions were in ruins or under attack by the encroaching German infantry. The Mofaz and Nir had risked life and limb moving from position to position trying to encourage the shaken defenders, and plug local breaches. Now, exhausted like Yatom, and unwilling to expose themselves to the point-blank fire of the assault guns and the nearby German infantry, they hunkered down in their shack hard by the ridge-line. They could not hold on much longer.

Mofaz and Nir shared the shack with a Bren gun team of two men and a woman. The Bren gunners were near the end of their tether, huddling behind a wooden wall reinforced with piled rocks, as a distant halftrack poured machinegun fire at them. “Let’s try to take that one out” said Mofaz, pointing at the German vehicle, 200 meters away. It was a tough shot because the grenade had to be lobbed, not fired directly. Nir, the more expert with the weapon launched a round. It exploded to the right of the halftrack. That simply induced the track commander to move back several more meters, and resume firing. Nir tried again, but his round appeared to fall short. The Israelis could not tell if the halftrack had been damaged, but it withdrew again and stopped firing.

The respite didn’t last. “Look” said Nir, pointing beyond the withdrawing half-track toward the woods behind. As the halftrack moved away the Israelis saw dozens of German infantrymen moving to the north, threatening to envelope not only the forester’s settlement, but the entire ridgeline position.

Mofaz radioed Yatom with the bad news, and asked his commander to deploy Fliegel’s reserve company. Yatom called to Fliegel from the mortar pit, and ordered the Silesian and his men to occupy a small wooded hill just to the east of the forester’s camp. From there he hoped Fliegel’s company could hold the German flanking attack.

Mofaz was not done. “Yatom, you must send us Rafi. We are getting killed by this German tank!”

“He’s on the way” Yatom shouted back into his radio, over the bark of the mortars. Just then Rafi ran into the fortified shack, German bullets clipping at his heels.

Mofaz pointed to the nearer of the two assault guns, barely 100 meters away. “I could hit that with my eyes closed” said Rafi, lifting the B-300.

“Just do it” snapped Mofaz.

Rafi ducked out of the bunker—the backblast from the weapon would kill or injure everybody in the bunker if he fired from that enclosed space. He crawled to the side of the building, exposing himself but easily sighting the Stug.

At that same moment the Stug gunner saw Rafi pointing the strange weapon at him. Though anti-tank rocket launchers were still unknown to German crews in 1942, the gunner knew a target when he saw one and fired just as Rafi sent his last round on the way. The rocket penetrated the Stug and destroyed the vehicle in an instant, killing the gunner and the rest of the crew. But the Stug’s gunner got off his 75mm round just before he died. It struck the side of the fortified shack. protective vest and helmet saved his life, but the concussion from the round knocked him out and damaged his internal organs, while shrapnel lanced his arms and legs. Mofaz and Nir realized immediately that Rafi had taken the worst of the explosion. They ducked out of the postion and pulled the gravely wounded commando back into the bunker.

On the other side of the battlefield Feldhandler, Norit and De Young were blasting away with the MG 42 at groups of German infantry charging bravely toward them on the hillock. Ilan and Bolander, in their nearby bunker were at it too, searching for squad and platoon leaders to kill. Wrapping around the forward slopes of the hill, five other machinegun bunkers fired on the Germans, along with three of the four new Jewish sniper teams. On the reverse slope, more bunkers and another sniper team waited. Yatom had turned the hillock into a little fortress, the strongest of the Jewish positions, capable of defending in all directions. The Germans to realized this too and they relentlessly pounded the hill with their second mortar battery, mixing smoke with high explosive.

Vogel, the commander of the attacking German company, mercilessly ordered his men forward toward the hill, threatening to shoot any man who shirked his duty. Kumm had assumed that 2nd Company would the hill to the south, but Vogel, just out of the Junkerschule, had the bit in his teeth. The inexperienced young officer was determined to show his worth by taking the hill by direct assault. Behind the exploding mortars and the terrifying firepower of their MG 42s the SS infantry clawed their way forward, taking terrible losses but finally reaching the lower slopes of the hill. There they assaulted the first Jewish bunker within reach, taking it in a violent rush of flashing MP-40s and stick grenades. Vogel ordered the lead assault platoon to press on, but they faltered. Bolander, Ilan and their amateur snipers had gunned down every officer and most of the platoon sergeants and corporals during the charge. The young SS survivors sheltered in the fallen bunker and contented themselves with returning the galling Jewish fire.

Vogel came forward himself. He positioned a pair of German marksman with scoped Mausers at the base of the hill, and directed them to counter the enemy snipers. He then gathered his third platoon, still fresh and uncommitted. Putting himself at the platoon’s head, his enthusiasm untamed by the slaughter around him, Vogel deliberately led the force forward, using a flanking movement and seeking hide himself and his men from the enemy marksmen. Attacking now as Kumm had expected, Vogel and his 3d platoon managed to overrun a second Jewish bunker, killing all those inside, while taking only minor losses. Encouraged by the success, Vogel pressed on up the hill, heading straight for Feldhandler’s bunker.

Ilan and Bolander recognized what was happening but were powerless to help. Vogel and his men were defiladed. The Israeli snipers could not easily change their position either, with the hillock still being pounded by mortars, swept by machine guns, and also under German sniper fire. German marksmen had already knocked out one of their recently trained sniper teams and had another pinned down.

“Let’s take out the German snipers” suggested Bolander “then the machinegunners. Then we’ll just take our chances with the mortars.”

“Beseder” said Ilan. “You spot, I’ll shoot.” Using his own rifle as a spotter scope, Bolander identified the one of the German marksmen and called the target to Ilan. They lazed the unsuspecting German and Ilan put a round through his head. The second German recognized the danger and shifted his position, smartly moving into a low patch of ground obscured by smoke. The Israelis activated their thermal imagers and picked the German out. The German sniper, believing himself hidden in the smoke, did not take adequate cover. A second head shot eliminated the German sniper threat. The Israeli snipers now turned to the supporting machineguns and started to whittle away at the crews.

Across the hill Vogel and his men, safe from the Israeli marksmen, pressed their attack. A Bren position still with an angle of fire shot into the SS assault group, knocking down several men but not stopping the advance. Feldhandler and De Young, saw the the danger, and hurriedly tried to load another belt into the MG 42 while Norit shot at the advancing Germans with a Sten gun. Suddenly Feldhandler cried out. He stared down at his hands which looked like a charred meat. Feldhandler had accidently grasped the red hot barrel of the machinegun. The scientist fell back into the bunker against De Jong, leaving the loaded MG42 at the lip of the position.

Led by a veteran sergeant with Vogel but a few steps behind, the attacking Germans closed on Feldhandler’s bunker and tossed grenades. One landed just meters in front of the aperture blowing dirt and dust inside, and shaking the three Jews. Norit rubbed her face to clear the cobwebs, ignored the smoke and dust, and grabbed the loaded MG 42. She pulled the trigger, spraying a dozen bullets from the rapid-fire weapon, killing the SS sergeant just before the overheated gun jammed. Vogel, stepping over his dead sergeant, rushed the defenseless bunker, his MP-40 at the ready. Norit, now helpless, fell back inside with Feldhandler and De Jong, as the grim faced German officer filled the bunker’s aperture.

Adam Chaimowitz, the guard who’d stopped the sayeret outside Biali had been put in charge of the bunkers on the reverse slope of the hill, and chafed as he and his men stood idle through the attack on the front slope. When he heard the nearby cries and yells of the attacking SS he could wait no more. Taking a Bren gun from his bunker he led a group of eight men to the top of the hill. There he watched as Vogel’s group charged the hill, nearly reaching a bunker at the center of the position. Recognizing the crisis, and realizing that if the bunker line fell then all was finished, Chaimowitz charged down the hillock onto the advancing Germans, firing the Bren gun from his hip. His dumbfounded men followed. At the same time Bolander charged in alone from the right, German mortar barrage eased thanks to Podolsky’s counter-battery fire.

Vogel was on the cusp of success when he was hit by a wild burst of fire from Chaimowitz’s Bren. He fell just inches from the bunker entrance, close enough for Norit to smell his blood. Bolander watched the German officer fall, and though exposed on the forward slope, fired bursts from his Tavor at a pair of SS troopers following in Vogel’s wake. The SS men toppled over and rolled back down the hill under the impact of the rounds. Bolander was about to shoot at another squad when Chaimowitz and his men leapt into his line of fire. The Jewish soldiers ran on, shooting wildly in front of them, and tossing grenades as they tumbled down the slope. Bolander knelt and adjusted his aim to support the madly disorganized charge, which resembled a wild grade school game, rather than a death struggle. But the feral attack confused and rattled the already exhausted and traumatized SS men, who leaderless, turned and fled back toward the base of the hill.

Kumm had spent the morning shuttling down the Lubin road, venturing within a kilometer the enemy positions, then returning to his regimental headquarters every few minutes to check for messages. Next to him in the half-track, Lieutenant Braun, Kumm’s signal officer, worked feverishly through the morning to reestablish wireless communication with Captain Stadler. He worked helmetless, his earphones pressed down on his garrison cap, happy that the enemy seemed to lack artillery. Finally, after being out of communication for an hour, Braun managed to work around the jamming and found the battalion commander. Braun waived to Kumm who pushed his way through the cramped halftrack to the radio. The signal was weak but Kumm managed to exchange a few sentences with his subordinate.

The news from Stadler was mixed. Another Stug destroyed, and another half-track damaged. How the partisans were managing this wasn’t clear—they possessed some kind of anti-tank grenades of unusual power and accuracy. The Stadler had only two operational half-tracks, including his own command vehicle. The central ridge remained firmly in enemy hands, but that was okay, it wasn’t the objective. The flank was the objective, and there Stadler had committed the battalion’s last intact company. They had attacked into the forester’s settlement and were moving up a small ridge to the east, referenced on the map as Hoehe 18. Losses were heavy but… And the signal went out.

Kumm stepped out of the halftrack and found Captain Holzer, the operations officer, who sat hunched over a telephone switchboard at the regimental command post.

“Where is Vogel’s company?” demanded Kumm.

“Not clear” stammered Holzer. “I have a report that Vogel is dead.”

“Can you confirm it?”

Holzer paused and spoke into the handset. “Not yet. The report is from his communications sergeant at the base of Hoehe 28. Vogel led a direct assault on the hill and was hit.”

At that moment a mortar shell landed with a crash meters behind Kumm’s track. Kumm had faced plenty of artillery in Russia and didn’t flinch but rather looked at the smoking impact site curiously.

“So they have some artillery after all.” said Kumm as a second shell struck a little further away, very near the second 81mm mortar battery.

Holzer stood up to watch. “They already attacked Battery 1 several minutes ago—I tried to reach you. I ordered them to move.”

Kumm nodded, but said nothing “Should we displace Battery 2 as well—or the headquarters?” Holzer asked nervously.

“No” said Kumm, seemingly undisturbed by the prospect of his headquarters being hit by a few 81mm bombs. “I am going forward to see the situation at Hoehe 28. If Vogel is dead, you may have to take command of that company” he told Holzer. Kumm ran back to his command track and kicked the driver The halftrack lurched forward, toward the hillock.

In his half-track, near the forester’s village, Stadler cursed when he lost communication with Kumm before completing his report. Worse, the regimental commander had said next to nothing, leaving Stadler in the dark as to what was happening elsewhere on the battlefield With no guidance Stadler had no choice but to continue his own attack on the enemy’s right flank. His 1st Company, 120 men strong, was the only intact unit left in the battalion and now he threw it at the partisan’s line. One platoon continued their attack into the blasted forester’s settlement while the rest of the company, with nearly ninety men, assaulted a low ridgeline, Hoehe 19 on the map, which ran perpendicular to the main enemy position. If Stadler’s men could get over that ridge they would fall on the enemy rear and the battle would be over. Stadler had a difficult time believing a battle against Jewish partisans could be so hard, but he’d been surprised by the tenacity of the Russians too. 1st Company would succeed or die trying.

It took Yatom several seconds to realize that beyond the ceaseless hammering of small arms, and the plop of his own mortar, the main ridgeline position had gone rather quiet—at least the German artillery had stopped blasting it. Yatom was crouched outside the mortar pits while Poldolsky and his crews continued to work the American-made weapons. He looked at them and smiled. “Seems you must have hit something!” cried Yatom with rare enthusiasm. “The German mortars have stopped.” Poldolsky wiped the sweat from his brow and told one of his men to fetch another crate of mortar bombs. In the distance, it appeared the bombardment of the hillock was also over. Ten minutes earlier Ilan had described a desperate situation on the hill. But he sent a signal that the hillock remained in Jewish hands—although Feldhandler had been injured, and Bolander nearly got himself killed.

Roi’s position on the ridge was secure, although the machinegunner had also been lightly injured, and only a couple other bunkers remained in action on the forward slope. But the Germans didn’t seem interested in launching a direct assault on the main ridge. Rather, Yatom knew, they were moving to envelope his position from the north, around the forester’s settlement and the low ridge that ran at a right angle behind it. Fliegel’s men were moving onto that ridge now, but Yatom worried that it they wouldn’t be enough. Yatom radioed Jezek in Biali, telling him to strip the town’s last defenses and drive every available fighter to the front. Jezek remained resignedly calm, and told Yatom he’d put Biali’s last forty men on two trucks send them on, along with Perchansky and Sobel. Yatom hoped he wouldn’t need the extra men, but if his position fell, they would do no good in Biali.

Yatom left the mortar position and walked back a few dozen meters to the makeshift aid station. There doctors and nurses continued to work under crowded and difficult conditions on an ever mounting number of wounded. A sad line of uncovered corpses was growing too—blankets could not be spared to cover the dead. Yatom was surprised to see that Ido had rejoined them. Having beaten back the armored attack on the ridge’s left flank, he come back on his own, trusting that a pair of nearby Jewish bunkers could hold any stranded German infantry.

Yatom was about to upbraid the medic for leaving his position without orders when he saw Mofaz and Nir stumbling toward the aid station, the wounded Rafi draped across their shoulders. Yatom stalked over to the three men, meeting Mofaz’s eyes—the Major returned his gaze, knowing exactly what was coming. “Mofaz!” growled Yatom “I did not give you permission to leave your position.”

Mofaz ignored the sayeret leader, and continued to drag Rafi to the aid station, setting him down gently against a tree. “Where is Ido?” asked Mofaz, as if he had not heard Yatom’s reproof.

“Nir” said Yatom “get Ido and bring him to Rafi, then rejoin us in the forester’s settlement.” The sergeant ran off toward to find Ido somewhere among the trees, leaving the two officers alone. Yatom had no words for Mofaz, who had only done what Yatom knew he would. Ignoring Rafi, who groaned beneath the tree, Yatom again locked his eyes on Mofaz. “Acharai” said Yatom, washing that simple and iconic Israeli word—meaning ‘after me’—in wrath and disappointment. Yatom ran off towards the forester’s settlement, hoping it was not too late. Mofaz paused and looked at Rafi, then set off after his commander. “Acharai” was not a request.

They arrived to find an SS platoon attacking the last two surviving bunkers in the settlement with submachineguns and grenades. In the distance Yatom caught sight of a pair of Germans men leading off a group of resigned Jewish prisoners. Through the smoke and dust the Israeli officers managed to sprint unnoticed to the shack where Rafi had been hit. The SS had already been there, leaving behind two dead Jewish fighters. The commandos were now behind two advancing SS assault squads. In the further distance, more SS troops were attacking the low ridge where Fliegel’s men now had established hasty positions. Yatom pressed down on his anger and concentrated on the tactical situation. “How much ammo do you have left?”

“Two mags for the Tavor—one 40mm grenade, three hand grenades” answered Mofaz “and my pistol.” The Major had had the presence of mind to take last magazine, but not to get Nir’s one last 40mm grenade. Yatom also low on ammo and grenades. Outside the Germans were getting ready to assault the last Jewish bunker in the settlement, from which a single Bren gun still spat occasional defiance.

Yatom pointed to a German MG 42 crew shooting at the bunker, and tapped the grenade launcher slung under Mofaz’s Tavor. Mofaz fired the grenade and the machinegun fell silent. “Cover me” said Yatom. He ran out the door toward the Germans, approaching them from behind. Mofaz did not consider for a moment to abandon his commander As the Germans in the nearest assault squad turned toward the unexpected threat at their backs, Mofaz opened fire, hitting two of the surprised men and pinning down the rest. Yatom dived behind a shattered hut and tossed his last grenades at the German squad. The remaining SS men disappeared in the blast, dead or fled.

The other German squad now turned to face the Israelis from a nearby shallow ditch. Yatom pinned them with his Tavor as Mofaz sprinted forward to join him. Together again, the commandos rolled to their left and tossed two of Mofaz’s remaining grenades. A German responded with a grenade, spraying shrapnel that was mostly absorbed by the commandos’ helmets and vests. Mofaz threw his last grenade. The Israeli officers bound forward toward the Germans firing bursts from their last magazines on the way in. An SS sergeant rose from the ditch, firing his MP-40 at the onrushing commandos, hitting both men in the chest. Protected by their vests and mad with adrenaline, the Israelis shrugged off the hits and gunned down the stunned SS man. Yatom jumped into the German position finding three shocked young SS recruits who raised their hands in surrender. Yatom quickly calculated his situation, which was still desperate, and didn’t allow for prisoners. He shot them each with a single round, sparing his last bullets.

Yatom and Mofaz surveyed the blasted settlement from the ditch they shared with the German dead. It was quiet. The Israelis crawled back in the direction of the main ridge and collapsed behind the single surviving Jewish bunker position in the forester’s settlement. The commandos were shaken and dog-tired, the last of the adrenaline rush sending shivers through their bodies, despite the weight of their equipment and the growing heat of the early afternoon. In the distance another SS squad appeared to be assembling. The rear door of the fortified hut ereaked open, and one of the two surviving Jews in the position, a Dutchman named Gert, invited them in.

Mofaz knew Gert from training. He was veteran of the Dutch army and a platoon leader.

“I’m glad you came when you did” said Gert gratefully in English, which he knew Mofaz understood. Mofaz just nodded tiredly, and turned toward Yatom. “Commander, I’ll stay here. You should return to the central position.” Yatom gave Mofaz a curt dip of his chin, and left the bunker, shuffling away to the reverse slope of the main ridge.

As Yatom stumbled away, the bulk of Stadler’s 1st Company launched their final attack on low flanking hill to the east of the forester’s settlement. There the SS ran head on into Fliegel’s company, which had just moved into several small bunkers and slit trenches that a work crew had dug the day before. The two opposing units were roughly equal in number and firepower, and most of the SS troopers had little more training than Fliegel’s Jews.

The Germans had the more difficult task, attacking the dug-in defenders uphill, with no artillery or armored support. Despite the challenge, the leading SS platoon—at great cost—overran the first Jewish trenches, taking a dozen bewildered young men prisoner, Encouraged, the company commander, Untersturmfuhrer Friedhelm, led a fresh platoon into to the assault. If he succeeded, the entire Jewish position would crumble.

Yatom, dimly aware of the critical battle now raging behind his line, returned to the aid station where he found Nir, Ido and a doctor huddled over Rafi, alive but still unconscious. Yatom told Nir to rejoin Mofaz, annoyed that the sergeant had not already returned to the fight, and left Ido with the doctor and Rail.

Suddenly there was rifle fire from the mortar position off to Yatom’s left. Yatom turned nervously toward Poldolsky, worried that his rear positions were now under attack, but the mortarman just shrugged his shoulders. The position seemed secure and there were no Germans in sight. Yatom looked off toward where the mortarmen had shot, somewhere near Ido’s old position, but saw nothing. He figured that the mortar-men, like everybody else, were just shaken and scared, firing at shadows.

Moments later a truck pulled up behind the aide station. Perchensky hopped out, accompanied by twenty reluctant looking from Biali. On the low ridge to the northeast, the fighting continued to rage between Fliegel’s men and the SS. Some of the men and boys noticeably winced at the tumult. Yatom told Perchansky to guide the group to the ridge and reinforce Fliegel, but not to remain there herself. With Feldhandler wounded, they could hardly afford to risk Perchensky, if they were to have any hope of getting home. She agreed, more tired than afraid, and not unhappy to do something vital, even if it meant dodging a few bullets.

Having done what he could to help Fliegel on the right flank, Yatom radioed Ilan on the left. The sniper, who was effectively in command of the hillock across the valley, told Yatom that Sobel had also just arrived with twenty extra men, but Ilan continued, the reinforcements were no longer necessary. The hillock was secure. Then Ilan stopped talking. Fearing he’d lost another man Yatom yelled at the sniper through the handset.

“Sorry commander” answered the sniper distractedly. “There is an enemy halftrack festooned with antennae—just moved into my line of sight, about 600 meters.”

“Beseder. Keep an eye on it. And tell Sobel and his men to come to me.”

Across the valley from Ilan a trio of SS privates from the wrecked German armored attack, also saw the German command halftrack and started toward it. They weaved their way unnoticed across the still smoking valley, past the burning wrecks of the recon platoon, the Stug III and their own blasted halftrack. The highest ranking of the three, a veteran Sturmmann named Siegling, carried a prize—the Galil assault rifle which Ido had abandoned after it had run of bullets and rockets. The Germans had sheltered in the lee of the main ridgeline after their failed attack, but enterprisingly approached Ido’s position once it appeared he had departed. Siegling took the unusual looking weapon. It was Siegling Yatom had seen the mortarmen shoot at. An enterprising soldier, Siegling figured his commanders would want this prize.

Meanwhile, in his command halftrack on the Lubin road, Kumm approached the hillock Hoehe 28. Up to this point he had been careful not to venture too near the enemy position. Now he took the risk, hopeful that he could recover the deteriorating situation. It was one thing to hear fragmented reports from subordinates, and to follow the flow of the fight by the smoke of wrecked machines. It was another to observe the battlefield in detail. As Kumm approached the hillock he got a good view of the larger ridge, Hoehe 31 on his left, and clearly saw the knocked out Stug and halftracks in the saddle between the two hills. This area was now quiet, but the sound of vicious fighting echoed from the little ridge to the northeast, Hoehe 19 where Stadler had thrown in his last reserve. Across the valley he made out three SS men running back toward his line, refugees from the armored attack.

Kumm was brave but not reckless. As his command track neared the enemy position he fastened his helmet and slunk down in the armored bay, keeping only his shoulders and head above the parapet He ordered his driver to steer toward a trail that appeared to enter the wood near the Company 2 command post. From there Kumm could call in artillery on the Hoehe 28, and push the demoralized men of Vogel’s company into a final assault.

The enemy held hill, quiet but menacing, loomed half-a-kilometer away in the distance. Kumm’s driver turned the halftrack and drove for the trail and the cover of a stand of linden trees.

The halftrack’s sudden turn threw off Ilan’s aim, but the sniper quickly reacquired the target in his sight, a figure hunched at the forward end of the open truck’s bay. it was a difficult shot at five hundred meters, against a moving target heading for cover. There was only time for a single shot. Ilan made an automatic calculation of the the target’s motion, his position on the height, and the drop of the bullet. He waited a moment for the halftrack driver carry the German leader into the shot—and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit dead center of the helmeted figure in the halftrack, who collapsed in a spray of blood and rended steel. Ilan watched the halftrack stop, back up and drive away.

On the little ridge that the Germans called Hoehe 19 the murderous fighting raged on desperately and at close range. Fliegel feared that he’d lose the ridge in the first violent German rush, but although a few positions had fallen and a dozen of so of his men gave up, the line stiffened as the Germans clawed their way up the hill, slipping and sliding on the difficult ground. The extra twenty men Perchansky delivered, along with their two Russian machineguns, went straight into the line, and helped to stabilize his shaken force. Now the two sides were merely blasting away at one another, with Fliegel’s men, ensconced in trenches and bunkers, getting the best of it Fliegel reckoned he’d lost thirty or forty men, but the lower slopes were covered with German dead and screaming wounded. His surviving fighters knew that surrendered Jews were as good as dead, and understood that they would have to hold or die.

From his command halftrack Stadler tried to make sense of the savage battle for the Hoehe 19, while his sergeant major tried to assemble scattered and separated SS trooper into an ad hoc group that could retake the forester’s settlement. That place had somehow had swallowed an entire platoon of men, and reverted to a no-man’s land of weeds and corpses. His men had brought prisoners back from both the forester’s settlement and Hoehe 19 which was some good news. Stadler ordered that the captured partisans be treated according to the Geneva Conventions—for the time being—until Mueller could examine them, per Globocnik’s order.

On Stadler’s left his telephone operator gently shook his arm to get his attention: Friedhelm, the commander of 1st Company—attacking Hoehe 19—with a report. The man who had confidently gone up the hill some minutes before now sounded almost hysterical. The first line of enemy positions was in German hands, prisoners taken, but he’d lost almost half his men. His platoon leaders were all dead or wounded. The enemy had been reinforced. Should he press on?

Stadler was about to order the cracking lieutenant to do just that, when on his right his radioman interrupted him. The German signalers had largely managed to work around the enemy jamming, though the transmission was still full of static. It was Holzer. Holzer told Stadler that Kumm was dead. Stadler was now in command. What did he want to do?

Stadler had fought in France and survived six months in Russia, but the death of Kumm crushed him. He’d loved the regimental commander, with the fanatic, fanciful, school-boy kind of crush that wielded so much of the SS officer corps together. Stadler tried to collect himself. Holzer insisted that Stadler come and immediately take command of the Kampfgruppe. The telephone operator nudged Stadler again—the 1st Company commander was screaming into the signalman’s ear.

It didn’t seem to Stadler that he had a choice, either emotionally or professionally. He bit down on his grief. The Kampfgruppe, bereft of its beloved commander, and most of its line officers, could do no more. Stadler picked up the phone to Friedhelm and told the 1st Company commander to withdraw. The lieutenant acknowledged the order like he’d received a death sentence reprieve. Stadler retook the radio handset and told Holzer he was pulling back to take command of the battle-group—and oversee its withdrawal. The battle of Biali was over.

Chapter 40

Yatom joined Roi in the bunker atop the main ridge and watched the Germans retreat. Relief washed over him, like he’d never quite experienced in a long military career. He remembered something from staff college about the Duke of Wellington commenting on the Battle of Waterloo—a close run thing. That had certainly been the case today.

Roi, like almost every member of the sayeret, had been wounded in the fight. He was peppered with bullet fragments and shrapnel and his head ached from repeated mortar blasts. Yatom and Mofaz each had bruised or broken ribs from the shots they’d taken into their protective vests—Bolander too, in his own counter-charge during the SS attack on the hillock. Roskovsky was dead, Rafi dying. Ido had taken a bit of shrapnel during his stint in defense of the ridge, but had yet to treat himself or allow the doctors at the aid station to assist him. body armor was also peppered with shrapnel, as was a good portion of his face. Only Ilan, ensconced in his sniper’s liar throughout the fight had escaped injury.

The other Jewish defenders of Biali had suffered much worse. It would take a long time for Yatom to fully assess the casualties, but the aid station was collapsing under the strain of dozens of seriously wounded men and women. Yatom knew that there were still bunkers still full of dead or the badly wounded. Yet until the Germans were completely gone, there was little he could do. And while it seemed clear that the Germans were indeed retreating, they were taking their time about it, doing what they could to recover their own casualties and equipment.

It wasn’t the German way to leave anything behind if they could help it, a trait they shared with the Israelis. Teams of SS corpsman advanced to collect their wounded. Distaining white flags, they practically dared the Jews to shoot. Yatom held his forces back, so long as the corpsmen didn’t get too close. When a few Germans approached Roskovsky’s body Yatom and Roi drove them off, Yatom shooting an MP-40, Roi an MG-34, their 5.56 mm ammunition almost fully exhausted. Later a working German halftrack moved out from the German line to attempt the retrieval of a damaged machine. This was too much for the surviving Jews, who without orders drove it off with massed machinegun fire.

Finally, late in the afternoon, the Israelis listened to what they hoped was the last rumbling of the retreating German vehicles. Yatom doubted that the Germans would pull out completely, without leaving at least a covering force, and so his little army went about its own cleanup and recovery very carefully, and only after sending out a couple of tired and reluctant patrols. To his surprise, the patrols reported that the area seemed to be completely clear. Doubting them, near to sunset, Yatom led a patrol accompanied by Nir and Han. The scouts had indeed been truthful—for whatever reasons, the German battle group was gone.

The Germans’ complete withdrawal had as much to do with their original orders as the battering they took on the hills near Biali. Neither Stadler nor Kumm had been ordered to occupy the area around the town, or to seize it. Their orders had been to engage and destroy a partisan force in the area. Having done that, after a fashion, Stadler decided to terminate the fight, and withdraw. It wasn’t the job of the SS to pull security duty. Globocnik may have ordered one battalion to camp guard duty at Belzec, but Stadler would be damned if his men were going to stand guard over the blasted forest and hills around Biali. His men had managed to repair one Stug III and two of the damaged halftracks sufficiently to drive away, while a recovery vehicle pulled out the Stug III knocked out by Roskovsky’s EFP. Leaving behind two destroyed assault guns and several halftracks looked bad, but the fighting had been hard, and his men had killed many partisans for the price. Anyway, he didn’t have the support or reinforcements to do otherwise.

Stadler had no intention of characterizing the battle as anything other than a victory. Anything else would dishonor the memory of Colonel Kumm and endanger his own career. His battalion had suffered, but Stadler convinced himself, had dealt out as much punishment as it had taken. Like Kumm, Stadler had been shocked that the partisans stood and fought, rather than fleeing after some initial skirmishing. That decision, reckoned Stadler almost certainly had led to catastrophic losses among the partisan force, even if a few bunkers held out at the end. He’d taken twenty-three prisoners to boot. And although the worthless police sergeant Mueller could not identify any of them as British commandos, Stadler decided to keep them alive as proof of his victory. Anyway, Mueller might change his mind.

Stadler’s men had seized many enemy weapons as well, which always was good for display after a partisan operation. Especially telling, he believed, was the capture of a British commando weapon unlike any he’d seen before, and which alone, might justify the price of the battle The machinegun-like rifle was far more impressive than the little Ootzi submachinegun. If the German army copied it, it would make a marvelous assault weapon.

By the accounts of his combat soldiers and his own observations, and considering the effects of the artillery bombardment, Stadler guessed that his men had killed or wounded at least 200 partisans besides his captives. Stadler reasoned, as he guessed Globocnik would as well, that it was unlikely a partisan force larger than that could even support itself in eastern Poland for very long. Therefore, concluded Stadler, the enemy force must have been virtually wiped out—nevermind that they were still shooting a few machineguns at the end. Stadler drove back into Lubin like a conquering hero, and sent on the body of his regimental commander for burial with full honors, along with the other truckloads of lesser dead.

The next day when the people of Biali counted up their losses, Stadler’s estimate of the cost didn’t prove to be too far off the mark. By dawn on the June 29th Sobel, who was keeping the statistics, had counted 63 Jewish dead, 92 wounded and 25 missing—not counting the sayeret’s casualties. And many of the wounded, in the absence of medical facilities, supplies and antibiotics, would die. It was a devastating blow to the little community, and it wasn’t long before some of Jezek’s people, who had been rescued before reaching Sobibor, were questioning whether the terrible battle had been worth the cost. An irate crowd gathered around the overflowing clinic within the town, where dozens of wounded lay inside and out.

Sobel addressed them, his face red with anger. “You would all be dead, every last one of you if we had not fought” he spat at the weeping wives, mothers and fathers, without compassion. “And you’ll die still, you and your loved ones, if you don’t remember that.”

His words didn’t calm the traumatized citizenry, but silenced them. De Jong, who returned from the battlefield bloodied but intact, reinforced Sobel’s words, surprised and grateful that the Polish Macher had stepped forward. Four wounded SS troopers ended up in the Biali clinic as well, the focus of much hate and scorn. Sobel and his men wanted to execute the soldiers immediately, but De Jong and Jezek convinced former Sobibor prisoner to keep the men alive, at least for the time being.

The sayeret remained on the shattered ridgeline with Fliegel and his men, holding the ground, and collecting what weapons and ammunition they could find off the German dead, and their own. Norit emerged from the fight little worse for wear, but Feldhandler was in biting pain from his badly burned hands. Yatom and the other Israelis were just glad he was alive, lest they be permanently stranded. But it was unlikely Feldhandler would be able to work the upside-down computer in the capsule any time soon.

Rafi was the most pressing issue for the sayeret. Ido assured them that without access to modern medical treatment the commando would die. This made returning to modern Israel an acute issue—Feldhandler had to get the device operational, regardless of his own injuries. Mofaz pressed the issue most aggessively, and Yatom allowed his unruly subordinate some room.

Feldhandler, tired and weak, but fearing Mofaz’s rages as much as his own painful injuries, reluctantly agreed to return to the capsule with Perchansky on the evening after the fight. Yatom, speaking with the scientist in as kindly a way as he could manage, told Feldhandler that as soon as the sayeret heard from Shapira, if they heard from him, they would the capsule was operational. And if they did not hear from the Lieutenant in two days, Rafi needed to go anyway. Somehow, Feldhandler and Perchansky had to make it work.

Chapter 41

Shapira and Chaim, with their demolition men, drove south for Belzec for two tormenting days, dodging patrols and aircraft the whole way. The Germans, it seemed, were intent on protecting their most productive death factory. Shapira and his men finally made camp in a forest several kilometers from the death camp. The redoubtable Sandler found the encampment early on the morning of June 28, at which time Shapira sent Yatom a brief signal—about all the platoon radio could handle at the range Sandler had thirty-one men still with him. Of the prisoners freed from Treblinka, many had already been killed or captured. The survivors had split themselves into a dozen smaller groups, some intent on attacking the Germans, others on hiding. Sandler’s unit consisted of his remaining Bulls, and twenty of Treblinka’s youngest, fittest and most vengeful men. Mostly, like Sandler, they were baleful former Sonderkommandos. Sandler had given them the best of the captured weaponry from Treblinka, supplemented occasionally by loot taken from unfortunate German units that crossed his path. All of Sandler’s men carried MP-40s or MG-34s—there wasn’t a Mauser to be seen Their belts were festooned with pistols, knives and grenades. They looked like outlandishly armed buccaneers, and acted that way too. But they were death’s men, and they knew it.

Sandler had been operating around Belzec for several days before Shapira arrived and was familiar with the lay of the land. Shapira’s camp was six kilometers from the death camp, not far from Sandler’s own hideout, about a kilometer further away. The news he brought the Israeli lieutenant was not pleasant.

Belzec, said Sandler, was not in operation—which was good—but the pause was only temporary. The Germans were working night and day to expand the facility, using Jewish slave labor gangs, who were worked until collapse, at which point they were massacred and replaced. The labor gangs toiled to spread the camp northward, and within the enlarged area they had built ten new gas chambers, each guessed Sandler, with a former Sonderkommando’s expertise, capable of killing 300 people at a time. Next to the huge gassing complex were several large pits, criss-crossed with railroad ties—structures that resembled nothing so much as giant grills. The intended use of the structures was easily surmised.

That wasn’t the worst of it though, explained Sandler. The camp had been reinforced not only with the usual polyglot of SS guards and Ukranians, but with hundreds of elite combat troops of the dreaded SS. These troops had established their own camp outside of Belzec. But unlike the pathetic Ukranian guard camp that the Bears and Bulls had overrun at Treblinka, this encampment was wired in and fortified, and guarded by bright eyed young SS troopers. Around the main camp the SS battalion had constructed dozens of firing pits linked by trenches, manned by at least a company of men at all times. Inside the camp were more SS troopers, plus the usual collection of Ukranians and regular SS guards. Nor were the SS lazy. They didn’t stay put around the camp but patrolled aggressively, as far as five kilometers from the Belzec’s perimeter. Sandler had chanced one clash with a patrol, and lost two men for it—though the SS had left two dead of their own.

“Just approaching the camp will be risky, taking it impossible, and merely penetrating it very difficult” concluded the tough young partisan leader.

“I’m not planning to take the place, just get in, plant explosives and leave” said Shapira. “Anyway, is there any good news?”

“Just this” answered Sandler. “The northern perimeter fence is gone due to the construction. The area is only partly wired in—with SS patrols and gun pits protecting the approaches If you can get your men past the patrols and gun pits, you’ll have a run at the gassing complex.”

“That sounds encouraging” said the Israeli lieutenant, with a glance over to Chaim, who was trying his best to decipher the mix of Yiddish and German they were speaking. “If we attack on a very narrow front, you and your gunners can blast us in, yes?”

“Maybe,” said Sandler in a whisper. “But even if you make it in you’ll never get out. Not one of you.”

Hans Opificius envied his fellow Der Fuehrer battalion commanders, Stadler and Horn, whose missions did not include guard duty over a reeking death camp. Opificius wondered if perhaps Kumm did not like him. Certainly the regimental commander favored him less than the handsome Stadler—though the 2nd Battalion commander was only handsome if he didn’t smile—Stadler’s teeth were awful. He shouldn’t have gotten into the SS in the first instance with such corrupted dentation, thought the cavity-free Opificius. Probably connections and pure attitude—Stadler was a fanatic. Horn had a fine SS resume too, especially his stint as an instructor at the Junkerschule. And Opificius was Norweigian, not an Austrian like most of the regiment’s officers. He felt like an adopted middle child.

Opificius knew that there would be no chance of a medal at Belzec, but he was a professional officer and would do his duty. He would defend the place and its disagreeable commander, Wirth. Opificius was indifferent about about snaggletoothed Stadler, but in a few days he’d already developed a healthy dislike for Wirth. So far as Opificius could tell, the man had advanced in the SS based entirely on his expertise at gassing people. Not that Opificius had a problem with that the victims were Untermenschen—it was just dirty, inglorious work. Not a soldier’s vocation. On top of that, Wirth had been promoted from lieutenant to major, skipping Opificius’ own rank of Hauptsturmfuhrer. Evidently this was in order to give him unquestioned authority at Belzee—over Opificius.

But what bothered Opificius most was that Wirth was a pantywaist. Opificius had all five of his companies at Belzec. Such a force, he argued, should be used to actively patrol, and destroy any partisans before they could attack the camp. But Wirth would have none of it. The camp commander was terrified of the phantom British commandos who had supposedly ravaged Sobibor and Treblinka. Wirth insisted that Opificius build a fortified battalion camp just outside the Belzec fence, always manned by a full company. Another company had to be stationed within the camp itself—even though the camp already had Ukranian and regular SS guards—while yet a third manned trenches around the perimeter of the camp. Since his companies had to rest occasionally, that left Opificius with few troops for active patrolling in the countryside.

His meager patrols had managed one contact the day before, and Opificius had to admit it was a disturbing one. An SS squad had come upon a group of partisans about several kilometers from Belzec and lost two men killed and one wounded in a sharp firefight. The patrol leader, Russian front veteran, reported that the bandits were better armed than his own men, entirely with automatic weapons, including a couple of MG-34s. He’d charged the partisans, assuming that they would flee, but instead they poured bullets into his men. The SS patrol was forced to withdraw under fire, leaving behind their dead.

Wirth was entirely unnerved by the news, and insisted that the encounter proved that the menacing British were nearby. But rather than permitting Opificius to seek them out, Wirth insisted on further limiting the patrols and reinforcing the perimeter. Opificius had not choice but to comply.

Chapter 42

On June 28, while the rest of the sayeret was fighting for its life near Biali, Shapira and Chaim did their own reconnaissance of Belzec. There were no German patrols to dodge, which was contrary to Sandler’s grim warnings, although hardly unwelcome Otherwise Sandler’s assessment of the situation was quite accurate.

The best access into the camp was through the unfenced north perimeter. The approach was protected by a line of SS entrenchments and thin coils of barbed wire, but little else, not even lights or watchtowers. Behind the SS positions lay the newly constructed gas chamber complex. This was Shapira’s only target. Shapira knew that the SS troopers guarding the approach would not be pushovers, and that he would probably face a rapid counter-attack once his men penetrated the camp They would have to be fast and lucky.

The gas chamber complex itself was more elaborate than at Sobibor or Treblinka. Ten thick wooden chambers were aligned in a neat row on a broad concrete platform. Behind the chambers were five huge diesel tank engines. These were linked up to the chambers, one engine for every two buildings. The gas chambers faced south into the camp so that once through the SS entrenchments Shapira’s men would have direct access to the engines, where they could place their main charges. Shapira intended to use most of Roskovsky’s powerful bombs on the engines. For the chambers themselves he hoped the remaining bombs, grenade bundles and Molotov cocktails would be sufficient to set the buildings alight, or at least severely damage them.

Back at their camp in the forest Shapira devised a straightforward plan to attack Belzec early the next morning, two hours before dawn. Sandler’s platoon would use their heavy firepower—six MG-34s and a couple dozen MP put down a base of fire against the SS entrenchments, and also cover the flanks. Chaim would stay back and use his four remaining 40mm grenades and night-sighted Tavor to help with the suppression effort. Shapira would snipe for a bit too, then lead his demolition teams into the camp and go straight for the gassing complex. Any survivors would withdraw into the forest with Sandler’s men. In no case was Chaim to enter the camp, and after much disputation, Shapira won from Chaim a promise to leave him behind if necessary.

The planning done the two commandos sat under a tree and chewed on their last Powerbars. Shapira grimly thought what a tasteless and prosaic final meal it was, for a warrior likely to meet his end. “This isn’t at all like it was in ancient times” said Shapira, choking down a dry piece of vaguely peanut-butter flavored gloop. Chaim looked at him dully—he was devoted to his lieutenant, but not always interested in Shapira’s intellectual musings—Chaim liked to chat about soccer or basketball. “Then a warrior would have a fine feast, and drink himself into a stupor—by the time the battle started he probably hardly cared anymore if he lived or died.”

“If you say so” said Chaim, who was a teetotaler anyway.

“Did you ever read the Iliad in school?” pressed Shapira.

“The what…”

“A story about the ancient Greeks—written by Homer.”

“You mean the Odyssey? answered Chaim, whose mediocre high school education had taught him little of interest. “I saw a cartoon about that once.”

“No, the Iliad. It’s the story before the Odyssey. ”

“Beseder” yawned Chaim.

“What about the movie—Troy—did you ever see that?”

“The one about the Spartans?”

“No. With Brad Pitt.”

“I hate that guy.”

“Me too—but did you see it?”

“Yeah, I think so” said Chaim, tossing away a last inedible bite of his raspberry flavored bar. “It was long. Wasn’t the guy from Lord of the Rings in that one too?”

“I don’t know. The point is that movie is sort of like what’s happened to us.”

“What? Fighting with swords and shields—running around in sandals? Sorry lieutenant, I don’t get it.”

“The soldiers of the Iliad are on a quest—to rescue Helen—but the quest is false, created through the malevolence of the gods. They’re tossed into a war for the gods’ entertainment, but that war takes on its own meanings for them anyway Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“Not really. If I had to choose, this is more like the cartoon” said Chaim dubiously.

Shapira smiled and left the commando sergeant to doze under the tree. He met Sandler resting a few dozen meters away. Together they roused Sandler’s motley looking crew and with Shapira’s men and detailed the plan of attack. It was simple enough said one man—shoot then run.

Two hours later Shapira woke Chaim. It was close to midnight and moonless as they set off for Belzec. They moved through blackened forest with the practiced steps of woodland creatures, ready to dodge an SS patrol or ambush—but the Germans were not about. At two in the morning they saw the lights of Belzec burning ahead of them. For another hour the force infiltrated to positions in the treeline less than a hundred meters from the nearest German trenches.

There was nothing subtle about the attack. Shapira had read enough about World War II combat to know that the Germans frequently used massed machineguns as a kind of light artillery to beat down enemy positions. Now he turned the tactic on them, Four of Sandler’s MG-34s opened up at on the German trenches, knocking down patrolling guards and pinning the SS in their positions, while two others covered the flanks. When a German machinegun responded, Chaim put a 40mm grenade on it, and repeated the process, until he’d used all four, and took up sniping at the Germans with his Tavor. Shapira spent a couple of minutes in the treeline sniping as well, shooting at men he suspected were officers or squad leaders.

Three minutes after the first rounds were fired Shapira led his teams forward. They tossed grenades at the thin German wire and then attacked through it. Here and there a man got hung up, and one of Shapira’s sappers was shot down, but the rest made it through the beat-up German positions. Shapira ran ahead of his teams into the camp. Without pausing to return German fire, the demolition teams followed Shapira as he headed straight for the gas chambers beyond the German forward trench line. Two more men were hit along the way. One fell to the ground, the other blew up when bullets struck his Molotov, briefly setting him before the flames detonated his grenade bundle.

Shapira and most of his sappers reached the engines, huddling behind the machines as bullets richocetted around them. They began to unload their charges, when, as Shapira expected, the SS counter-attacked, The assault was swift and violent, but Sandler’s hammering machineguns made it difficult for the Germans reach around to the back of the gas complex. Shapira’s worked breathlessly to attach their charges as tracers arched around them and men on both sides shouted and screamed. Shapira kept his own charges packed, and moved among the sapper teams in the lee of the gas buildingsl He urged the men to stay calm and focused, lest they fail to set the charges properly, either blowing themselves up, or rendering the explosives inert. Sapper teams set the main charges under the engines, and tossed their grenade bundles and Molotovs at the buildings, as they had practiced. Then they ran back for the treeline, unspoiling detonating cord along the way. Once the guessed they were twenty meters away, the sappers hit the ground and detonated the charges.

As Shapira moved down the line from east to west he heard the welcome grinding roar of the first two tank engines being torn apart. In the no-man’s land between the gas complex and the treeline, sappers, including the dead and wounded, lay prone. Some were still leading out detonating cordi Some detonated the charges with their last breath. Shapira reached the team by the third engine. The pair of sappers planted the charge, then tossed their grenades and Molotovs. Shapira told them to run for the treeline with the detonating cord, while he moved off, crawling along in the slight defilade of the concret platform. The sapper stringing the cord fell fifteen meters from the engine. The second man grabbed the detonator from his dead comrade and ignited the charge, before a German bullet struck his neck, flinging him down upon the body of his friend. The charge detonated, wrecking the engine, while a chamber caught fire and began to burn.

Shapira felt the the conflageration on his back as he crawled toward the next team, working frantically at the fourth engine. As Shapira approached, their sachel exploded, blowing the two men up along with the engine. Shapira, protected by the platform, was partly deafened, but otherwise uninjured. Shapira looked about as best he could. It seemed that four engines and six gas chambers were wrecked, damaged or burning.

The fifth engine and the connected chambers remained intact. The teams assigned lay scattered near the platform, where SS bullets had found them. Shapira gritted his teeth and pressed on toward the last engine, moving on through the muffled sounds of machinegun fire and grenade explosions. He hardly registered the fact that the SS had begun to shell Sandler’s positions with the battalion mortars and were laying down smoke for a deliberate assault. Around the flanks of the chamber complex, SS teams were already overlapping the surviving demolition men, threatening to cut off their escape. Shapira wiped sweat and grime from his face and tried to shake free of the clogged and congested feeling in his head. He reached the last engine and hoisted himself up onto the concrete. The fires engulfing the nearby death chambers signed Shapira’s uniform and exposed skin. Shapira found a shadowed behind of the undamaged gas chambers and keyed his radio three times, signaling Chaim and Sandler to withdraw. Shapira repeated the order and then tossed the small personal radio into one of the fires raging nearby. He followed that with his NVGs and the ceramic plates from his protective vest. He crawled back several meters toward the last engine, pausing to fire off the last rounds from his Tavor at an advancing German squad. Shapira placed his own bomb under the engine. It was especially powerful, as Roskovsky had goosed it with extra C-4. He placed the empty Tavor next to the bomb, and played out his detonation cord, crawling back into into the camp, finding cover in the space between the two chambers that the engine fed. He pressed himself fiat between the sturdy buildings and ignited the charge.

The engine blew apart, showering debris over dozens of meters, and blowing in the back wall of one of the attached chambers Though dazed by the explosion, Shapira tossed his last Israeli grenade at another approaching team of SS and followed that with a pair of German stick grenades.

Shapira crawled between the gas chambers, toward the camp, as German soldiers started to flood the no-mans land behind him, chasing after a few surviving sappers, as mortars exploded along the treeline. He was hidden by the thick smoke belching from the destroyed buildings, and the drifting fog of the German barrages. Cries of triumph told Shapira that the SS had reached Sandler’s former positions in the woods Shapira moved to the front of the platform, where he could see into the death camp. In the plaza that would have served as the final assembly area for Belzec’s intended victims, Shapira watched as German squads forced a bucket brigade of Jewish prisoners forward in a desperate attempt to douse the flaming complex. When a Jew stumbled spilling his water the frightened and agitated SS guards shot him.

The Israeli lieutenant crawled toward the front of the intact gas chamber, which was the building on his left. Shapira was still hidden in the building’s shadow and the heavy low hanging smoke. He slowly rose to his feet. Germans were thickly about the front of the complex, but safe from enemy fire, they talked among themselves, or directed their attention to the fighting in the woods, or to the reluctant Jewish firemen. Nobody noticed him. Shapira stepped to the front of the building and ran three steps to the door. It was locked from the outside with a simple bar. He removed the bar and dashed inside the chamber, just before German bullets struck the swinging door and its frame.

The door banged shut, but didn’t lock. The only locking mechanism was the bar on the outside—after all, who would voluntarily lock themselves inside a gas chamber? Shapira sat back against the chamber wall, catching his breath. The sudden movement had cleared his head, and his hearing. But while his ears worked again, he felt blinded. The room was almost pitch black. A small thick window in the door reflected a tiny morsel of light from the burining buildings outside, but not enough to illuminate the chamber. Shapira turned on his red-filter flashlight and looked around

The chamber was not particularly big, about the size of a large living room. The floor was concrete. Drains, for human blood, piss and excrements were liberally scattered about. The walls were made thick wooden planking covered with plaster. Judging by the sounds of bullets smacking off of them, they were bullet proof. At the rear of the chamber was an opening for the pipe that pumped in the deadly exhaust gas from the engine outside. Next to it was an exhaust fan and a vent to evacuate fumes. A large door to the right rear was for emptying the chamber. The only ways in and out of the chamber were the front or rear doors, but Shapira assumed both were now guarded. Absent a suicidal attack out either door, he was stuck.

Shapira assessed his equipment. He had used up or thrown away everything except the flashlight, a combat knife, his Kevlar vest, and his pistol. He pulled the Sig from its holster and charged the weapon. He had thirteen rounds in the magazine and two spares.

Shapira was about to crawl to the rear of the chamber to check the back door, just for the hell of it, when somebody pulled open the front door and tossed a stick grenade into the building. The grenade skittered along the smooth empty floor to the back of the room. Shapira dived into the left front corner of the chamber and huddled in a fetal position awaiting the explosion. German stick grenades were blast weapons without much shrapnel, but the concussion could kill, especially in an enclosed space. The blast wave struck the wall above Shapira, with much of its force dispersed through the fans and ducts in the back. Though partially deafened again, and badly shaken, Shapira was otherwise uninjured. His training kicked in, and he forced himself to turn about in the ink dark room to face what he knew was coming next—an assault.

Wan morning light and the glow of the nearby burning buildings lit the opposite wall. A second later the macabre shadow of a hunched SS man with a bayoneted rifle fell onto the floor. The doomed trooper followed his shadow into the room. From his position pressed back against the front wall Shapira raised the Sig and put two rounds into the soldier. A second man entered quickly and turned toward Shapira, but the Israeli lieutenant easily shot him down too. Shapira shot at a third man who poked his head his head forward, the bullet tearing off the top of his cranium. The German and his brains tumbled back from the entrance onto another man man who blindly emptied an MP-40 magazine into the room, missing Shapira entirely. Shapira shifted his position a meter into the room and from the darkness pumped two rounds into the MP-40 gunner, then pressed himself back against the wall. A shouting German officer pushed on the door and slammed it shut.

Shapira took a deep breath and tried to shake out the cobwebs. He removed the half-emptied magazine and replaced it with a fresh one from muscle memory—the half-magazine went into a pocket. Shapira knew that he didn’t have much time He had to decide whether to live or die.

Wirth had noticed the assault on Shapira’s chamber from the corner of his eye, as he directed one of the Jewish fire gangs towa an SS man toss a grenade and heard the explosion. Before he could stop them, a team of three riflemen, pushed on by a sergeant, rushed at the chamber. Wirth saw the flash of pistol shots reflect off the white plaster interior wall and two men disappear inside. Wirth ran toward the gas chamber as another SS man fell at the threshold. The SS sergeant fired his submachinegun wildly into the doorway, and then fell back dead. Wirth reached the chamber and slammed the heavy door shut, pushing through the big iron bold behind it, locking it in place.

Opificius, who had been standing next to Wirth, watched all this in stunned amazement. Had the cowardly camp commander really run forward—rashly and bravely—to protect his men? That didn’t seem like Wirth. Opificius pulled out his Walther PPK, and strode over to the gas chamber. He stepped unconcernedly over the two dead SS troopers sprawled at the entrance, to where Wirth leaned against the front wall of the building, breathing heavily.

“What was that about” demanded the baffled Opificius.

Wirth looked at his fellow SS officer with evident dislike. “I’m the commander here, Hauptsturmfuhrer. Do not demand answers of me.” Opificius choked back his own disaffection, allowing indoctrination and training to hold. “Excuse me Major! I was only concerned about your safety” he lied. Having verbally prostrated himself, Opificius pressed on. “May I ask why you stopped my troopers’ assault?”

“This assault?” Wirth smirked as he pointed to the dead soldiers at his feet. “I seem to be more solicitous of your men than you are.”

“They are combat soldiers” said Opificius angrily, ignoring again the nineties of rank and determined to have his say. “Their duty is to die. Perhaps you don’t appreciate that.”

“You were dispatched to protect this camp” said Wirth. “Now the critical part of the installation, its raison d’etre, is wrecked and Wirth gestured dramatically about him, as the gas chambers blazed amid the efforts of the bucket brigades to douse them.

“You prevented me…” stammered Opificius before Wirth cut him off.

“Shut up!” rasped Wirth, as if Opificius were an unruly child. “This is your fault, and you’ll pay for it. The only good that can come of this disaster is what is inside this gas chamber, and I want him alive.”

“Who?” asked Opificius, still unable to guess Wirth’s motive. “A partisan?”

“That’s no partisan He just killed four of your men. It is a British commando—likely the leader. And I intend to have him. Alive.”

Opificius stood by dumbly. Wirth was obsessed with his silly commandos, but the Waffen SS commander was in no position to argue. Then, incredibly, Wirth knocked on the chamber door, like he was the milkman.

Shapira couldn’t hear the discussion between the German officers from inside the darkened chamber, but sensed something was up, since the attack was suddenly aborted. If they just tossed another grenade or two Shapira knew he’d be done—he had no control of the doorway. He moved the two dead Germans across the threshold anyway, as a lame obstacle, and pulled away one of the Mausers which might be useful as a club.

Shapira considered shooting himself—but he wasn’t suicidal. If he fought on he’d be killed anyway, but it was not exactly the same thing as suicide. And the truth was, Shapira didn’t want to die. He knew when he set off, and left Norit behind, that his chances were not good. But duty and the abstract risks of a pending mission were different than deliberately seeking death.

Plus, Shapira had other concerns, most importantly, how to protect Norit and the rest of the Jews of Biali. If he could lead the Germans away from Biali by giving them false information, through the inevitable torture, he would do Norit greater good than dying a glorious death. Indeed, if he told the Germans the real truth, he would only confound them more. But beyond all that he was simply curious. He was in war torn Europe in 1942! He wanted to experience more of it, explore it, live it, even if that meant capture, interrogation and torture.

And so, sitting on the floor, in the grim darkness of the death chamber, the blood of German soldiers soaking his trousers, Shapira decided to parlay if he could. He barely heard the incongruous but welcome knock on the door. Shapira almost laughed. What was he to say? Who is it? Come in? He decided not to be wasn’t in a movie, and he was dealing with the SS.

“I am Major Ronald Shapira of His Majesty’s Palestinian Brigade!” he shouted, in English, hoping that sounded right. He waited. “Raus! Waffen ab!” said a harsh German voice. Then in halting English “You will be treated goodly.”

“Ich spreche Deutsch!” shouted Shapira. Continuing in German he said “I demand to be treated in accord with the Geneva Conventions, as an enemy officer, properly surrendered.”

Outside the chamber, in the growing light of dawn, and the flickering glow of the dying fires around him Wirth smiled and looked over at Opificius in triumph “Sicher Herr Major” said Wirth. “You have my word.”

Several hundred meters from the burning gas chambers, high in a leafy oak, Chaim watched as Shapira was led away. The sergeant had ignored his team leader’s orders. Instead of withdrawing as he’d promised, Chaim shed his heavy vest and helmet—hiding them in the lower branches—and climbed high into the tree. Ignoring the ache in his damaged shoulder he found a comfortable spot from which he could clearly see into Belzac and into the woods behind him, where Sandler’s men and the few survivors of Shapira’s demolition platoon, had fled pell mell into the woods.

Ten of Sandler’s men lay dead or badly wounded outside the Belzac wire, and of those that escaped, many carried small bits of shrapnel, including Sandler himself. Only four men from Shapira’s demolition platoon had made it out alive. The SS came through shortly afterward, shooting the wounded and piling into the forest in a jaunty chase of the survivors. Having received no fire from high up in the trees, they didn’t bother to scan where Chaim looked on.

Shapira’s surrender didn’t much surprise Chaim. The Israeli platoon leader had accomplished his mission—the gas chambers were destroyed—so why sacrifice himself unnecessarily? Imprisonment by the Nazis would no doubt be terrible, but all the members of the sayeret had long ago come to grips with the possibility they could be taken by Arab forces—Chaim figured there was little to choose between Hezbollah and the Nazis. Shapira would likely survive German mistreatment, unless they deliberately killed him. As Shapira was led away Chaim watched without thought of attempting a rescue. He had only ten rounds left in the Tavor, plus his Sig—but that was it. And Shapira was surrounded by hundreds of Germans.

Chaim stayed in the tree until well after sunrise, when the German patrols returned from their chase of Sandler’s men. They were partly successful, he figured, based on their animated discussions and sign language—young soldiers were similar everywhere. Whoever they found, Chaim decided, they must have killed, because although they carried a few extra weapons there were no prisoners. The Germans settled in for breakfast near their old entrenchments and the woods fell silent. Off in the distance, a small German convoy departed the camp. Chaim didn’t know if Shapira was in it, but guessed that was likely. Unless the Germans were fools, they would realize Shapira’s potential value and spirit him away quickly.

The Israeli sergeant slipped out of the tree, recovered his vest and helmet, and set off into the forest. The truck and staff car they’d taken from Biali were five kilometers to the north, hidden in the bush. He found the car a little before noon after a nervous search, interrupted once by a nearby German patrol. In the car were a platoon radio, food, water, and a pair of MP-40s.

Although Chaim didn’t know the fate or status of the rest of the sayeret, he wanted to advise Yatom of Shapira’s fate and his own situation as soon as possible. He knew that the sayeret leader could only wait so long. Chaim extended the antenna of the radio and attempted to transmit a message. The radio was at the limit of its range, and while Chaim had managed to send a brief signal to Yatom the day before, the radio battery weakened, and weather conditions were worse. He could not get through and would have to get closer to Biali before trying again. With German patrols still about, Chaim couldn’t risk driving away in the middle of the day. He took the radio, an MP-40 and some supplies and moved off several hundred yards to wait for darkness.

Chapter 43

Feldhandler and Perchansky, with Bolander there for security, had been back at the capsule for a full day. Feldhandler’s injuries strangely focused him. While concentrating on the problems of effecting a faster than light transmission the pain in his hands took leave. Under Feldhandler’s instruction, working under the aggravating upside-down computer terminals, Perchansky had ground through the last algorithms and lines of code. Feldhandler felt like it was old times at Dimona, except for the incredible working conditions, the pain, and that Andrea’s grim lover hovered by the capsule door with a slung Tavor. The moment of truth came some hours before sunrise on June 29 when Perchansky believed she ushered through a brief tachyon transmission to Dimona. Feldhandler’s protocols dictated that the transmission, if successful, should result in a return communication from Mina, acknowledging receipt. After that, Feldhandler would submit an encrypted message, which, assuming everything else was right, would theoretically allow Mina to return the Device and its passengers.

Several hours later, Yatom was in the town administration building with Fliegel and Jezek when Feldhandler, looking something like a vagrant in a mishmash of IDF uniform and civilian clothes, waving his heavily bandaged hands, burst breathlessly into the main room. Yatom stepped from the building with the scientist. Feldhandler described his progress as they walked down the front steps of the hall. Feldhandler now seemed as anxious to get the sayeret on their way back home as he had been to frustrate their return a month before. Yatom guessed the scientist’s own need to succeed was driving him.

“We need to bring in Mofaz and the rest of the sayeret” said Yatom, outwardly calm, but excited at the news.

“Bolander is already fetching them” said Feldhandler. “Let’s meet at your quarters.”

Yatom’s kept his quarters on the first floor of a small house across from the administration building, which contained a kitchen, table and a few chairs in a single room, and an outhouse in the back yard. A small flight of stairs led to a single upstairs bedroom. It was typical of many of the town’s simple but livable structures. It had housed a whole family before the massacre by the Ordmmgs Polizei. The sayeret gathered around the table in the first floor room—it was a small group: Yatom, Mofaz, Ilan, Nir, Ido and Roi. Roi was heavily bandaged around the head and shoulders, and they all moved gingerly thanks to their multiple cuts, cracks and bruises.

“Where are Bolander and Perchansky?” asked Mofaz.

“She is still working on the Device” said Feldhandler, assuming it was understood that Bolander was with her. “That is what we are here to talk about”

“How is Rafi?” asked Yatom, looking at Ido, not really changing the topic, for the commando’s evacuation was their most critical problem.

“The same—he won’t make it unless we get out of here soon. Is that the reason for the meeting? Because if not, I should get back to him” said the medic anxiously.

“Yes” answered Yatom. “According to Dr. Feldhandler…” The battered soldiers looked over at the scientist.

“To put it simply” said Feldhandler “we’ve managed to send a transmission through the Device.”

“And this you could not do for the past month?” grunted Mofaz.

“Haven’t we been through all this already?“ said Yatom, casting an annoyed glance at Mofaz.

“This doesn’t mean we are in the clear” continued Feldhandler. “We need a return transmission, we need to confirm it is authentic, and send one more encrypted message. Even then, it remains to be seen whether the capsule is transportable.”

“So why are we wasting our time now?” said Ido impatiently.

“We are not wasting time” said Yatom curtly. “If it works, things will go quickly—we could go this evening or tomorrow. Everybody has to be ready to move.

“All this has to go through Mina correct?” said Mofaz. Feldhandler nodded. “Isn’t she likely in jail by now?” concluded the Major.

“Not at all” said Feldhandler. “The transmission I sent should reach her just seconds after our departure. As far as Dimona knows, none of this happened.”

“They’ll know when we get back” spat Mofaz.

“That’s probably true.”

“What about the paradox issue—have you resolved that?” asked Yatom.

“No. There either is a paradox issue or there is not. We’ll know when the Device arrives back at Dimona.” Feldhandler paused and looked around at the sayeret. He’d been cruel to them, but now he felt a certain kindness and appreciation. He tried to convey his feeling. “But truthfully, I don’t think—have never thought—there is a paradox problem. As soon as we arrived in the past, so far in the past, anyway, a new timeline began. A new timeline is like a new place. It doesn’t mean the old place is gone, it doesn’t mean the new place was already there. We are in a new time, created out of our own past. It entirely possible, even probable, theoretically. I think that anybody who wants to go home can go home. We’ll know for sure in a few hours.”

“Which bring us to those who are not here” said Mofaz. “What about Shapira and Chaim? Have we heard from them?”

“No” said Yatom. “Not since they arrived at Belzec.”

“Are we to depart without them?”

“You go with the men. I will stay” said Yatom.

Mofaz shook his head, unmoved by Yatom’s gesture. “Honestly Colonel, I don’t care if you stay or not. Either way, it doesn’t get Shapira or Chaim back.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Doctor Feldhandler—what about you?” asked Yatom.

“I’m staying here.”

“I’m staying too,” said Nir.

“What?” exclaimed Mofaz. Yatom gave Nir a quizzical glance, but was surprised and pleased that his tough team sergeant would stay behind with him.

Nir sat back and addressed his comrades. “I like it here. It’s challenging, different, exciting—and I like being able to fight—really fight—without politicians telling me what to do. No bullshit.”

“You’re crazy” said Mofaz “but you do have a point about the Roi… (ROE???)”

“Nir has a girlfriend” said Ilan, interrupting Mofaz. “That explains it better. Any other mishugas?” asked Mofaz.

The rest of the sayeret shook their heads. “I have a girl at home” smiled Ilan. “Though I’ve been tempted.”

“Humping anything that moves isn’t really temptation” scolded Mofaz.

“So” said Yatom, anxious to end the meeting “the device may be ready for transport as early as tonight.” Feldhandler nodded. “Rafi needs to go immediately If Shapira and Chaim have not returned—Major Mofaz, Mike, Ilan, Ido and Roi will go. Dr. Perchansky?

“Certainly” said Feldhandler coldly.

“Beseder. Doctor—should the men proceed to the capsule? Should we bring Rafi out there now?”

“Not just yet, but everyone needs to be ready—say within an hour of my signal.”

Chapter 44

Globocnik and Wirth accompanied with their prisoner, Major Shapira, to Prague. Heydrich provided an aircraft, demonstrating his strong interest in the captive. It was not as clear to Globocnik why Heydrich had summoned the two German officers.

Globocnik hated to fly. He tried to calm stay calm perusing Schwarze Korps, the official SS newspaper. Inside, he read an article about the heroic and successful anti-partisan operations conducted by Regiment Der Fuehrer in Poland. The unit had returned triumphantly to France to complete training with the rest of the division, readying itself for another deployment to Russia. Globocnik smiled at that. Stadler had skillfully woven the sow’s ear of defeat into a silken victory. He had to hand it to the man, if he survived the war he’d be a successful politician. But Globocnik had interrogated enough men to know a tall tale when he heard one. Der Fuehrer’s astonishing losses—including its commander—as against a hundred or so dead partisans, hardly sounded like a real success. But since it was not in Globo’s own interest to contest the account, Stadler’s “victory” was also his.

Wirth had likewise stitched a tale of success from the disaster that befell him at Belzec. But Wirth’s redemptive prize was the commando officer, who evidently was the redoubtable unit’s leader. And Shapira was a real Jew to boot, based on his own admissions, and confirmed by an examination of his penis.

Genuinely happy to touch down alive, Globocnik was further encouraged to be met at the airport by a driver and a general’s staff car. A truck and a squad of SS guards awaited the prisoner, who was roughly tossed in the back after the obligatory exchange of paperwork.

The little convoy set off for Heydrich’s headquarters in Prague’s city center. Heydrich’s offices were in a striking baroque building near the famous castle. An immaculately uniformed guard led Globocnik and Wirth though the glass entry door and up a flight of marble stairs. Atop the stairs the guard directed them into an ornately furnished anteroom were where they waited hungrily through the lunch hour. Neither man was offered anything to eat by Heydrich’s aides though their stomachs rumbled noticeably. Perhaps a good sign reasoned Globo hopefully—Heydrich wouldn’t shoot an SS General without offering a final meal would he? Globo discarded the thought—of course he would. Finally, an SS Captain led them down the short hallway into Heydrich’s office, which offered a spectacular view of the castle.

Heydrich sat behind his empty polished desk, dressed impeccably as usual, his blouse full of decorations. The bland and taciturn Colonel Eichman stood nearby. Globe and Wirth clicked their heels and offered stiff Nazi salutes. Heydrich returned the salute and offered Globocnik the single chair in front of the desk. Wirth remained nervously at parade rest.

“Well gentlemen” said Heydrich swarmily “when last we met Sturmbannfuhrer Wirth was put in charge of Belzec camp and you, Obergruppenfuhrer were given a security division and a Waffen SS Regiment to hunt down a British commando detachment and their partisan gangs.” Heydrich smiled thinly. “How did we do?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Globocnik summoned his full authority—he was an SS General after all and spoke commandingly. “The enemy commando force was destroyed. Its leader captured and in your hands. Regiment Der Fuehrer killed or wounded hundreds of enemy bandits and ran the rest off. Major Wirth successfully defended Belzec camp, killing at least two dozen more enemy commandos and partisans. We’ve captured two new British weapons of great value, the Oozi submachinegun, and a remarkable automatic don’t know what it’s called but.”

“According to the Hebrew lettering, it’s called the Galil” said Eichmann from his perch.

“Unfortunately” continued Globocnik, uninterested in Eichmann’s minutiae, “the gassing complex at Belzec was damaged in the battle.”

“Colonel Eichman tells me that seven of ten gas chambers and all the gassing engines were destroyed—is that correct, Major Wirth?”

“Ja, Mein Herr” answered Wirth. “But otherwise the camp is intact.”

“The whole point of the camp was the gassing complex” interrupted Heydrich. “It was rebuilt and expanded at great effort and expense, and now it is effectively destroyed, yes?”

“Ja, Mein Herr”

“Like Sobibor and Treblinka” sniffed Heydrich. “Of the three camps created to implement the final solution ordered by the Fuehrer, none are operational. And I have in my charge a two million Jews overflowing their rancid ghettos throughout the eastern Reich.” Heydrich said all this evenly, without raising his voice an octave, which made it all the more menacing. Globocnik and Wirth stayed silent, terrified by Heydrich’s repressed rage. Globo felt certain that a firing squad awaited them in the courtyard.

“The final solution of the Jewish question is temporarily suspended in Europe, though Einsatzgruppen will continue to operate in Russia” said Eichman sedately, as if they were discussing sales proposals at a board meeting “None of the three destroyed extermination camps will be rebuilt. Instead the facility at Auschwitz will be modernized and expanded, and the operation centralized. It will actually ease some of the rail transport issues.”

Globocnik and Wirth stole a glance at each other. Heydrich and Eichmann would not be bothering with this now if a firing squad was waiting.

“So you see gentlemen” said Heydrich “your incompetence may yet lead us to new efficiencies. Wirth, you are useless as a commander, but Eichmann assures me you are one of our best gas-men, and the complex a Belzec was a marvel before its untimely end.”

“Thank you sir” mumbled Wirth.

“Wirth” said Eichman “you are familiar with the Zyklon B experiments?”

“Yes sir!” said Wirth enthusiastically.

“You will go to Auschwitz where your technical expertise will be put to use” said Eichmann. “Come with me.”

Wirth felt like singing. Auschwitz—it was his reprieve. He snapped his heels again, saluted, suppressed a smile and followed Eichmann from the room. Globocnik remained seated in front of Heydrich, awaiting his own fate. He doubted it would be anything as good as being sent to Auschwitz.

“General” said Heydrich “you are a loyal Nazi with a distinguished police career, and long time party member. You faced difficulties in Lubin, and did not handle them with aplomb, but in your defense, they were unusual.”

Globo nodded.

“You know Lubin” Heydrich continued “and it seems the problem of the foreign infiltrators is resolved. I certainly will extract from the prisoner whatever useful information remains.” Globocnik looked at Heydrich. He could hardly believe his ears—he was going to keep Lubin! “You will remain in Lubin, which henceforth will house a Jewish ghetto. You will take into Lubin, and house, all the Jews that should have been eliminated at my camps over the last six weeks—do you understand.”

“Ja, Main Herr.”

“I will take several months, at least, and you will have many difficulties, but you will have to handle them” Heydrich said dispassionately, eager now to be rid of Globocnik and begin interrogating the captive enemy commander. “Then when the time comes you will ship the ghetto to Auschwitz.”

“Jawohl, Mein Herr,” shouted Globocnik, relieved and already thinking about replacing his missed lunch.

Chapter 45

Shortly after midnight on June 30, thirty-five days after they landed, Feldhandler radioed Yatom that he had received a confirmatory signal from Dimona. Ido and three other men carefully loaded Rafi onto a truck, as one of his local doctors looked on nervously. The doctor, an Austrian called Neustadt, grabbed Ido’s sleeve. “Where are you taking him?” asked Neustadt in halting English.

“We are evacuating him,” answered Ido, offering nothing else.

“He is my case,” insisted Neustadt.

“No doctor, he is mine. But thank you.” Ido gently pushed Neustadt away and climbed onto the truck with the other commandos. All the Israelis were riding out to the capsule, even the three men who were not going home. Mofaz drove—Yatom next to him. As Mofaz pulled the truck out, De Jong suddenly ran into the street, also begging to know what was happening. Yatom motioned the Dutchman to the passenger window. “We’ll be back” said Yatom. “I promise.”

“Can you at least tell me…”

“No,” interrupted Yatom. The truck drove off into the darkness.

Thirty minutes later they reached the crash site, which was illuminated with lanterns and the sayeret’s last few glow sticks. Perchansky and Feldhandler still worked inside on the inverted computer terminals, while Bolander rigged an area to hold Rafi stable during the return. With the capsule upside-down, it was going to be impossible for anybody to strap in properly. Bolandler was anxious to get home, but feared that they would all be killed on the journey, tossed about like pellets in a child’s rattle.

“What’s the story Doctor?” said Yatom stepping into the cramped space.

“Once the interior is usable, the men should climb in,” said Feldhandler. “I’ll transmit a coded signal. If things work properly, the Device will egress the capsule like any ordinary mission.”

“But you’re staying.”

“Yes. Dr. Perchansky will transmit the signal from inside the capsule—once I give it to her.”

“You haven’t given her the code yet?” asked Yatom in disbelief.

“No he hasn’t” said Perchansky with a touch of exasperation, but no real anger. It seemed to Yatom that she had enjoyed working again with Feldhandler, despite their difficulties and differences.

“Beseder,” said Feldhandler, “no harm now.” Perchansky took out a notepad, but Feldhandler waved her off. “You won’t need it. It’s simple, and it’s in English. U-P-F-A-L-L-2-4-9-1.”

“Cute” said Perchansky.

“I don’t get it. I understand the year backwards—that’s stupid—but the word is just nonsense,” said Yatom.

“Not really” said Perchansky in English, slipping into a school-marmish tone, not unlike Feldhandler’s. “You know in Hebrew we say el al, to ‘go up’ or ‘ascend’. An immigrant makes alliya, like Sergeant Bolander over there—ascending by moving to Israel.” She smiled at Bolander and he grinned in return, like a puppy thought Yatom—a killer puppy.

“Okay, I get it now” grunted the sayeret leader. “We go up and fall at the same time. A righteous mission—at least as you see it—fallen into the past. Is that it Benny?”

“Close enough” said Feldhandler. “There’s also some connection to concepts like negative energy and such—but it would bore you. Let’s get the rest of the chemo in here.”

Yatom climbed outside, and bid Bolander to come with him. Rafi lay on his stretcher at the foot of the capsule conscious but in pain. The rest of the sayeret survivors, minus Chaim and Shapira, stood behind him.

“Let’s say our goodbyes quickly” said Yatom. “We likely will not see each other again Remember our fallen comrades. Pray for our missing men. Hope that our sacrifices—their sacrifices—have not been in vain.”

The departing men hugged those staying. Yatom grabbed Mofaz and embraced the wiry Major.

“What shall I tell them Colonel—back home?”

“I don’t know—the truth I think.”

Mofaz turned away, and Yatom embraced the rest of his men, except for Rafi, who he patted gently on the cheek. He gave Perchansky a hug too.

When the men had secured Rafi, and finally themselves as best they could within the inverted capsule, Perchansky closed and sealed the door. Yatom, Feldhandler and Nir moved away several dozen meters, and lay down behind a large fallen oak. Inside the capsule Perchansky delivered the coded signal and a second later, with a rush of wind and a sonic boom, the capsule disappeared.

Chaim reached Biali three days later, having tried unsuccessfully to deliver a signal from the weakened radio. He looked like an escapee from a jungle prison, his face drawn, bearded, and scratched, his uniform torn, weapons dangling from his chest. Yatom greeted the exhausted commando on the outskirts, and hustled him away into his quarters. Yatom summoned Nir and Feldhandler. Over a hot meal and a glass of brandy, Chaim told them about his journey.

Twenty kilometers north of Belzec he’d run into a German patrol, and after a brief shootout, that used up the last of the Tavor’s ammo, abandoned the staff car and set off into the woods on foot. Carrying one of the MP-40s, his Sig and a little food and water, he’d navigated his way back to Biali.

Then Chaim described the attack on Belzec, the bravery of the demolition platoon, and how well Roskovsky’s jury-rigged charges worked He also told them of the terrible losses and the effective destruction of Sandler’s unit. Chaim did not see the intrepid Sonderkommando after the final SS attack, and did not know if he survived. Finally he told them what he knew of Shapira. He knew that Shapira had likely left Belzec in the hands of the SS, battered but alive.

After Chaim finished, Yatom told him about the Battle of Biali, and the loss of Roskovsky. Then reluctantly, Yatom explained why the rest of the sayeret was not around to greet him.

“For God’s sake Colonel, I figured that out two minutes after I got here,” groaned Chaim. “Don’t feel bad. I wouldn’t have gone back anyway—not with Lieutenant Shapira in a German prison.”

“How is your arm?” asked Nir.

“Sore but fine. Do you know if the rest of the sayeret made it back?”

Yatom shrugged. “How could we?” He looked over at Feldhandler who just opened his charred but healing palms.

“Chaim, you look half dead,” said Yatom. “We should leave you to sleep.”

“To tell you the truth, I’d rather we took walk, to where Roskovsky died, if that’s okay.”

“All of us?” asked Feldhandler.

“Why not?”

It was just after sunset when they set out, and the heat of the day had dissipated into a cool if humid evening. As they walked through the town Chaim caught sight of Norit, sitting alone under a linden tree, with Shapira’s iPod in her ears. He turned away so that she couldn’t see him. He would deliver his news to her personally, later.

They took a farm path to the battle ridge. As they walked, the surrounding countryside echoed with tranquility, the only sound the shuffle of their boots and the hum of a thousand insects. It was completely dark by the time they reached the ridge, but under a new moon Yatom pointed to the place where Roskovsky fell. From the ridge they looked back at Biali, nestled into its little valley, the shapes of its buildings barely visible against the distant forested hills.

“Have we really accomplished anything?” asked Nir. “I still have a hard time believing any of this is real”

“We won’t know really unless we see the future of this place ourselves,” said Yatom.

“Shapira believed it was worth it—he gave himself up for it,” said Chaim.

Nir pointed at something in the far eastern sky above the village, a white smudge in the sky just above the treeline. “What is that?”

Yatom raised his binoculars and trained them on the spot. “It looks like a comet” he said disbelievingly. “A small comet with a short tail—shaped like a triangle. It appears to be oriented vertically moving away from the horizon.”

“Let me see,” said Feldhandler, grabbing the glasses.

“Is there any record of a comet in appearing in northern Europe during World War II?” asked Yatom.

“I don’t know; I’m not an astronomer,” said Feldhandler. “But I suppose it’s possible.“

They were silent after that, watching the pale white comet falling upward toward its distant star.

Historical Note

While the transport of an Israeli commando sayeret into the past is entirely fanciful, much of this story contains historical truths.

As to the possibility of time travel, associated paradoxes, wormholes and the rest, there is plentiful scientific speculation on these topics, of which only the most optimistic suggest that a device such as the one described in the novel could ever be practically constructed The power requirements would be immense, and the problems associated with travel into the past extensive. For the purposes of this novel I have taken the tack that such travel, if possible, would not necessarily create a temporal paradox, based on the creation of a new “time line.” But that is just fictional convenience.

Beyond the science fictional plot device, much of this novel is based on fact.

Sayeret is the Hebrew word for scouts, or reconnaissance troops. As in the US. Marines, where a unit like First Reconnaissance Battalion is synonymous with commando troops, so it is with a sayeret in the IDF. The IDF has a great multiplicity of sayerets of which the most famous is Sayeret Matkal, the General Staff Reconnaissance Unit. While Sayeret Yatom is fictional, it’s organization and equipment is similar to that of existing Israeli commando units.

Israeli planes did strike a secret Syrian nuclear reactor in 2007 and reliable sources report that a twelve man Israeli commando sayeret preceded the attack jets, to collect evidence and mark the target. Their insertion by conventional means would have been highly difficult and risky.

Eastern Poland in 1942 was an empire of death, thanks to the establishment of the three death camps that are the focus of the novel: Sobibor, Treblinka, and Belzec. These camps were established in the wake of the Wannsee Conference, where the Nazi bureaucracy, under the authority of Reinhard Heydrich, formalized the contours of the final solution. The establishment of these camps is dubbed Operation Reinhardt in the novel, but in fact, this sobriquet was attached to the operation only after Heydrich’s death in June 1942, to “honor” him. The depiction of the ambush of Heydrich’s car is based on the actual attack on Heydrich in 1942, except that in the novel the victim is different.

The descriptions of the death camps, their layout, organization and operation are accurate. The three camps were isolated and sparsely staffed, generally with a platoon of SS men and a company of Ukranian guards. The death camps didn’t require large garrisons, since almost all the people who entered these camps were immediately killed. In this, the death camps were different from the popular conception of “concentration camps” where Jews and other victims of the Nazis were often worked to death over months or years. The vast majority of the people who entered a death camp were killed within hours. Only a few hundred Jews were kept alive for tasks within the camp, and even these were periodically executed and replaced—especially the Sonderkommandos who had the grim job of emptying the gas chambers and disposing of the bodies—sometimes of their own family and friends.

More is known about Sobibor and Treblinka than Belzec. At the two former camps there were partially successful revolts in 1943, and thus hundreds immediate survivors, and several score by the end of the war. Belzac was the deadliest of the camps, from which only two Jews are known to have survived.

As in the novel, the original commander of Sobibor was Franz Stangl, who ran that camp until the summer of 1942, assisted by Der Spiess Gustav Wagner. Stangl then took over for Dr. Erbel at Treblinka, who had made a macabre hash of things there. Christian Wirth was the commandant of Belzac, the most formidable and lethal of the camps. In the novel he is given different duties before taking over at Belzec. Wirth was a psychopathic, cold-hearted gassing expert, who was one of history’s greatest mass murderers. Upwards of 800,000 people were slaughtered at Belzac alone.

The account of the massacre at Biali, in which the fictional Sergeant Mueller participates, is based on the historical destruction of the Jews of Jozefow. The brutal method of execution described in the book is historically accurate. This massacre and many similar ones were carried out by Ordnungs Polizei units during the war, which were essentially ordinary military police units attached to the SS. The men who committed these despicable acts were, in general, ordinary policemen.

General Globocnik was indeed the commander of the Lubin district of Poland and presided over this empire of death A policeman himself, he went by the nickname of Globo. Heydrich, a much younger and more dashing man, was his superior.

Heydrich died in June 1942 near Prague after an attack by Czech commandos who had been infiltrated by the British. In the novel Heydrich escapes assassination, but the description of the attack on his car is essentially accurate. There has been other historical speculation as to what would have happened had Heydrich lived. A clever, popular and ruthless Nazi leader he might have challenged Himmler for power within the Reich. In reprisal for Heydrich’s death, the SS liquidated the Czech town of Lidice, murdering hundreds of innocent people.

The organization, commanders and initial deployment of the Der Fuehrer Regiment of the 2d SS Panzergrenadier Division are as they were in the spring of 1942. 2d SS Panzergrenadier Division (later just 2d SS Panzer) is perhaps the most notorious of the major SS formations that fought in the war. This is not because this division was necessarily more fanatic and brutal than other Waffen SS units, but because its most famous atrocities occurred in France in 1944. All SS units—despite the frequent protestations of veterans that they were just combat soldiers—happily participated in countless atrocities the East.

Colonel Otto Kumm commanded Der Fuehrer in the spring of 1942 and had participated in anti-partisan actions in Russia, where he indeed described his tactics as akin to crushing anthills. Unlike his fate in the book, he survived the war and lived to old age. Kumm’s subordinates, Stadler, Opificius, Horn, and Holzer were generally as described in the novel including Norwegian origins and Stadler’s bad teeth.

The German rail system operated as described, and the approach to the Sobibor death camp, including the changing of crews and the laborious backing up and switching are generally accurate. The transport of millions of innocent men, women and children to their deaths in the most horrendous conditions imaginable has been amply chronicled, and the descriptions of the conditions within the death train heading to Sobibor taken from these.

In May and June of 1942 the death camps at Sobibor, Treblinka and Belzac had only been in operation for a few months. Over the next year they would murder nearly two million people between them.

Copyright

Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan F. Keiler

Publish Green

212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290

Minneapolis, MN 55401

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-938564-49-9

Content

Jonathan F. Keiler
UPFALL

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Historical Note

Copyright