The cabinet meeting went on for several more hours and eventually a plan of action was approved.
Chapter 4
May 1942
The duty officer in the radar control center just south of the port city of Bremen relaxed a little. The time was close to two in the morning and a stiff breeze was blowing from the North Sea. It was a clear night and since none of the Freya radars under his supervision detected British bombers it was unlikely that any were coming this night. All the lights on his board were green – all radar stations nominal.
As he was about to get himself another cup of the ersatz coffee one of the lights went red. The major picked up his field phone and spun the handle. “Give me station FSZ 3.”
After a short delay a voice answered, “Sir, the station doesn’t respond. It looks like the line is cut. We are sending someone to repair it.”
This was strange. The major heard of sabotage but not in Germany. Station 3 was just west of him. While he was waiting for the line to be repaired the rest of the board turned red in fast succession. He called the Luftwaffe control center in Hamburg – They were the next higher coordinating authority.
“Yes, Kurt. What’s the problem?” the duty officer responded.
“My board is completely red. You know what’s up?”
“No idea, but you are not alone. We’re taking care of this so sit tight.” The line went dead.
The board didn’t go back to normal. At dawn Kurt finally heard from the line repair people: the four radar stations reporting to him were gone, completely destroyed by direct bomb hits.
Several days later an investigative team of military and civilian experts was sifting through the ruins of station FSZ 3. They found, as usual in such cases, remnants of the bomb’s casing and its tail fin. The fin was in fairly good condition. It was painted pale yellow, somewhat charred but still clearly an RAF color. It also was clear to the team that the bomb was steerable since one of the motors moving the fins partly survived the explosion. This wasn’t a big surprise since the Luftwaffe also used bombs that could be steered by radio. The team’s conclusion was that the Freya chain was destroyed by the RAF using bombs equipped with radar sensors. The conclusion was confirmed several nights later when a number of Wurzburg anti-aircraft artillery control radars were destroyed by bombs with similar tail assemblies.
The specialist from Lorentz argued with the one from Telefunken about the best method of disabling these sensors. Finally they agreed that the only thing to do was to shut down the surviving radars when an attack wasn’t in progress. This was the team’s final recommendation to the Luftwaffe.
When two days later a similar attack destroyed half of the Wurzburg radars the recommendation was the same: keep the radar off until there’s evidence of enemy bombers in the vicinity.
Several days after that the Luftwaffe placed an order for a hundred modified Freya radars and a hundred and fifty Wurzburg units. This was a serious expenditure of resources but Germany could not be left without a bomber warning system.
***
“Your Excellency,” Albert Conforti bowed his head slightly, “I appreciate you meeting with me.” Conforti was a veteran of the Israeli Foreign Service and a past Israeli ambassador to Italy.
The Italian Foreign Minister, Count Gian Galeazzo Ciano, rose from his seat in the opulent office and extended his hand. “Frankly I was curious to meet a representative of the secretive people from Brindisi.
“Il Duce agreed to Herr Hitler’s request and never heard from the people on whose behalf the request was made. I was beginning to suspect that we made a mistake.”
Conforti smiled. “Minister, you may regret it yet but I do hope to assuage any suspicions you may have.
“I am the ambassador to Italy, assuming you will agree to accept my credentials when the time comes, from a state located in what you know as Palestine. We have developed a very strong entity and, as you may have concluded on your own, have the cooperation of both the British Empire and Germany.”
Ciano nodded. “Yes, we know about that, although it’s beyond my understanding how you got those bitter enemies to agree on anything.
“But excuse my rudeness. Please be seated. Would you like something to drink? We have excellent coffee, tea, and of course, wine.”
Conforti sat in the closest armchair. “Thank you. I’ll take a cup of tea, please.”
Ciano also sat and after ringing for a server said, “So how did you persuade the two enemies to cooperate with you?”
“It’s usually simple if you are strong enough to enforce your will and smart enough not to cross some boundaries,” Conforti responded.
“So you are, apparently, strong enough to discourage both powers from interfering with whatever you are doing,” Ciano stated.
Conforti smiled again. “Apparently we are, but we are also careful not to step on toes if it’s not absolutely necessary.
“I was dispatched here because my government has a proposition for you, Minister.”
“Ah, I like the direct approach.” Ciano paused while their drinks were served.
“So, what is your proposition?” he asked when the server had left.
Conforti stirred his tea. “First, your Excellency, let me clarify something: are you aware of the seriousness of the Duce’s condition?”
Ciano was a little startled. “How do you know about that?”
“Oh, we have excellent sources. Since your father-in-law has been ill for some time now we took the liberty to investigate.” Conforti paused, looked at Ciano and decided not to add anything.
The Foreign Minister stirred in his seat. “How does il Duce’s condition matter to you?”
“We are interested in who the next Prime Minister is going to be,” Conforti responded.
“And what is your interest in that? The only thing of mutual interest between us is your base in Brindisi. Are you afraid that the next Prime Minister will cancel your privileges and expel you?”
“No, Minister, we are not concerned about that. We are concerned with widening our. From your response I take it that you are aware of il Duce’s serious condition?”
Ciano nodded. “Yes, I am aware of it. His doctor gives him mere weeks to live, unless a miracle happens, of course.”
“Your Excellency, purely hypothetically, if Il Duce dies do you have a good chance of becoming Prime Minister? That is, do you think the king is likely to appoint you and is the Fascist High Council likely to accept you?”
“Purely hypothetically, of course,” Ciano responded, “the council will accept the king’s decision as long as the appointee is not someone outrageously unfit. They will accept me.
“There is some chance that the king will appoint me, but I will have to persuade him. I had no plans of doing so as I have no desire to become Prime Minister. Not under current conditions.”
“Yes, I see,” Conforti said. “I am assuming, and please correct me if I am wrong, that you do not particularly approve of Italy’s partnership with Germany?”
“That and some other things,” responded the Foreign Minister.
Conforti put aside his almost full cup of tea. “With your permission I would like to describe a hypothetical scenario.
“What if you were offered the opportunity to join us and the British in a coalition against Germany? This is, of course, purely hypothetical.”
Ciano put his cup, very carefully, on the table between them. “What would Italy gain from such an alliance? I have my doubts about Britain’s ability to effectively fight Germany, and I know nothing about your abilities.”
“Minister, we are not offering that you join an alliance against Germany. A coalition is a less demanding and violent arrangement. But to answer your question: If Italy agrees to join such a coalition, all Italian prisoners of war now held by Britain will be immediately repatriated. From them you will learn how much stronger than Germany we really are. Please recall that the Africa Corps and your own armed forces were thoroughly defeated
within six months by the British Eighth Army, which was numerically much smaller than your combined forces. If this doesn’t convince you, we will welcome your visit to Brindisi.”
Ciano thought for a moment. “What do you expect from Italy if, hypothetically, we agree to become members of your coalition?”
“It is fairly simple,” Conforti responded. “We want Italy’s permission and assistance to move our combined forces to Northern Italy in order to attack the Germans. We realize that this will anger Herr Hitler, who will, likely, order the extermination of Italian troops anywhere he can catch them.
“We will therefore not announce the agreement immediately giving Italy some time to extract troops from Greece, Albania and, most importantly, Russia.”
Ciano shrugged. “I’m sure this is not all you want.”
“After we start our operations against the Germans, Italy may decide to join us and become a full-fledged member of the winning alliance.” Conforti paused. “We think that Germany has already lost the war and it is only a matter of time before it becomes self-evident. They failed to conquer Britain and are now stuck in a war they can’t win in Russia.”
Ciano got up, signaling the end of the interview. “If I were, purely hypothetically, to become Prime Minister, I would support this policy.”
***
“You idiots. You call yourselves generals? My dog could plan these operations better!” Hitler was furious and expressed himself forcefully and loudly.
Members of the OKW (Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the German High Command) stood in front of the map table looking down at it, not daring to look at their furious Fuehrer.
The operational maps showed the current positions of German and Soviet troops. In the south, along the Don River, they were approximately where they had been a month ago before the German push towards Stalingrad. In the north, opposite Moscow, the Soviet salient in the Demyansk/Rzhev area wasn’t a salient anymore. The Soviets were approaching Voronezh, had taken Demyansk, and were close to Novgorod.
After a long pause General Wilhelm Keitel finally said, “Mein Fuehrer, I’m not saying that the OKW are geniuses but something strange happened. The Russians seemed to anticipate our moves and every attempt to cross the Don was blocked. They are disorganized but given the amount of artillery and tanks they managed to concentrate, not to mention infantry, the Wehrmacht had a serious problem. We estimate that the Russians lost close to one hundred thousand troops and hundreds of tanks in this battle. Our losses were much smaller, but we will need time to reorganize for a repeat attack.
“On the Moscow front we planned a two-pronged attack from Rzhev. Two SS divisions were to attack in the direction of Demyansk while the rest - an armored corps and a mechanized division - were to attack in the direction of Mozhaisk and Moscow. The SS were supposed to meet up with our forces in Demyansk, thus liquidating the pocket. We expected to take Mozhaisk in forty-eight hours and be on our way to Moscow.
“The Russians brought up an army-sized force to Rzhev and attacked our forces a full day before we were ready to move. They also apparently reinforced their forces in the salient. The attack on Rzhev was repulsed but we suffered losses and will need time to replenish and reorganize. Their reinforcements attacked Demyansk, which, as you know, was held by a small infantry force. The Russians took Demyansk and kept advancing.”
Keitel pointed at the map: “This is the result.”
Hitler returned to his seat and said in a quiet, menacing voice, “These are my orders: Army Group South will attack immediately in two directions, east in the direction of Stalingrad and south towards Maikop and the oil fields.
“Army Group Center will attack in the direction of Moscow and Army Group North will stop the Russian advance on Novgorod.”
The Fuehrer got up and marched out of the conference room.
General Jodl, the Chief of Operations of the OKW, looked at Keitel and shrugged. “I’m going to prepare the orders. Will you get them to the Fuhrer for approval and signature or shall I do it?”
“I will have them signed,” Keitel responded.
***
Ze’ev Hirshson arrived home early. Consolidated Industries always closed Friday afternoon so he and his employees had time to prepare for the Sabbath. Usually these days the family was limited to himself and his wife Linda. Their kids were married and had families of their own, except for the youngest that was spending more and more time with his girlfriend. Ze’ev hoped they’d be married soon.
Today there were a number of cars parked in front of the house. They were expecting their daughter Shoshanna, with her husband, and their son Chaim, with his family. The names were a little confusing. According to Ashkenazi Jewish custom children were named after deceased relatives. Ze’ev’s son Chaim had been named after Ze’ev’s great uncle, murdered in the Holocaust. In this timeline the great uncle was well and alive and coming to dinner, as were Ze’ev’s maternal grandparents, Nachman and Tzila Frumin. Both perished in the Holocaust but were now alive and well here and younger than Ze’ev.
“Hi, everyone,” Ze’ev announced from the door.
A chorus of greetings responded. A bit later he was seated at the head of the table. Linda, his wife, lit the Sabbath candles, joined by three women, each with her own set of two candles. The meal was served when they were done.
“So what’s new with you guys?” Ze’ev asked his son-in-law.
Noam was an architect and a partner in the firm with a large government order to design a new city. It was doing well and growing fast.
“Nothing much,” Noam responded. “As usual, I’m going to abandon Shosh for my six weeks of reserve service, which is annoying with the new baby and all.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage just fine,” his wife responded. “Sara is going to move in with me for the duration.” Sara was Ze’ev’s paternal grandmother, rescued from Europe with her son - Ze’ev’s father - and daughter.
“Ah, that’s good,” Ze’ev smiled. “Jacob will not be back from his service for several months yet.”
He turned to Nachman Frumin. “I hear that your business is doing well. I also get news from time to time from Wolf.”
“Yes, we really appreciate the ability to communicate with him daily by phone.” Nachman smiled. “Who could have imagined that we’d use all this modern stuff.”
“How is Wolf doing? I get only secondhand news and even that not frequently. Ephraim is a bit busy these days.” Ze’ev was referring to his second son: General Ephraim Hirshson, commander of the Brindisi base.
“Wolf is happy, although he sounds a little frustrated.” Nachman looked at his wife, who nodded. “He seems to be eager to go into action, which to tell you the truth we’re not so eager to see.
“He’s also completely taken by Sheina. They exchange several emails every day, including pictures. I doubt that he has enough time to do his military duties.”
“Don’t worry,” Noam smiled. “He’s in the Seventh Armored and they don’t have slackers.”
“Speaking of slackers, where are you going to do your reserve service this year?” Ze’ev wanted to know.
“Hey, I’m not a slacker. You think they would promote a slacker to Captain and Company Commander in the 927th?” Noam responded. “To answer your question, we’re going to be deployed in the area between the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea. Apparently there are Bedouin tribes moving around the area who are either not aware or don’t believe that we’re here. It will be my job to make them believe.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Congratulations on your promotion.” Linda said.
“Thank you.”
Everybody else joined in the congratulations and Ze’ev called for a toast.
“Oh, I completely forgot,” Ze’ev turned to Nachman. “I was making inquiries about Esther.” Esther was Nachman’s and Tzila’s daughter, and Ze’ev’s mother in the other timeline.
“There are indications that she’s indeed in Samarkand, at a nursing or medical school. The m
ore important thing is that Israel has established relations with the Soviets and very soon we will have emissaries going there to repatriate as many Jews as possible.
“I’m doing my best to have her at the top of the list. You know how it is, personal connections count for something and people owe me. I hope that we will have her back here soon.”
***
The two ambassadors were drinking tea, a beverage preferred by both. Soviet Ambassador Maisky was curiously looking around the cozy room of the Israeli embassy in London he was visiting for the first time, but there was nothing unusual about it.
Mizrahi said, “I understand that congratulations are in order. The Red Army gave the Germans a nice flogging.”
“Yes, yes indeed,” Maisky agreed. “We owe you some thanks for the intelligence. It was very helpful, although to tell the truth we have our own sources that gave us the same information.”
Mizrahi smiled. “Yes, the Red Orchestra is very good at what it does. But it can’t provide you with the details we gave you.”
Maisky looked slightly surprised. “Red Orchestra? What’s that?”
“If you really don’t know, any inquiries may not be very healthy.”
Mizrahi nodded at the papers he was spreading on the table. “I will give you these photographs as well as the relevant German operational orders. The rest is up to the Red Army. But perhaps this is the time to discuss the quid pro quo?”
“Yes, I suspected that the information was not going to be free.”
“The cliché is that nothing in life is. On the other hand, some things are more expensive than others. Unlike the Americans and the British, we’re not asking for gold. Our request is much more modest and I’m sure that you personally will support it.
“Let me start from the beginning. We are well aware that you are a scion of a Polish-Jewish family, an assimilated one, but Jewish none the less.”
Maisky sat upright, making pushing motions with his hands. “This is untrue. I have heard it many times but I’m not Jewish.”
Beyond the Shield Page 4
