by Peter Albano
“All right,” the ZOB leader agreed grudgingly. But there was a hard glint in his eyes—a glint that told Josef the argument was not finished.
Mordechai drummed the table uneasily and said, “We have word Karl Brandt (chief of the Gestapo’s Jewish department in Warsaw) has been ordered to plan special actions. That’s why ZOB was formed.”
Jan and Josef exchanged a confused look. “Round up Jews for resettlement,” the ZOB leader explained. He gestured to the strangers. “This is Yitzhak Schneidmil,” he said, gesturing to the first and then to the second, “and Abraham Zuckerman.’’ Both men nodded at Jan and Josef. Josef looked at the lined faces. Both men could have been very young. It was hard to tell, anymore. Starvation and disease made old people of everyone. There seemed to be a mask of terrible pain that had been fitted to every inhabitant of the ghetto—every Jew in Poland, for that matter. And the torn and threadbare clothes looked the same. Yitzhak Schneidmil was very fair with blue eyes. As un-Jewish in appearance as Jan Tyranowski.
Before Mordechai could continue, there was a knock and an old rabbi entered. Josef recognized Rabbi Yochanan Rosenfeld, a prominent member of the Judenrat. He was a bent old man so devastated by time and suffering he seemed crushed into a shape so singular Josef was reminded of a lame monkey he saw once in the Bronx Zoo heaving with difficulty across the sand of his cage. But the black eyes sunken in dark hollows were hard as steel and showed strength despite the frail body. Limping across the room, he sagged into a chair next to Mordechai. He wore the drab black of the orthodox. Josef did not trust the rabbi and wondered why he would be attending a meeting of a group of men pledged to fight the Germans.
Mordechai introduced the rabbi and explained, “Rabbi Rosenfeld is my uncle and has been aware of our activities since the beginning. He requested to be here. You can give him your trust. He has mine.”
The rabbi’s rock-hard eyes ran over every man in the room. “You’re still determined to fight?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Mordechai said. “He gestured to the strangers. “You must hear from Abraham and Yitzhak.”
Abraham Zuckerman stood. He spoke with Yiddish distinctly flavored with the rolling Russian spoken in the Ukraine. “I am from Kiev—that’s where I was born.” Irony twisted the young-old face into a frightening leer. “I want to tell you of the Germans’ beautification efforts.” The men shifted uneasily. “There’s a ravine outside Kiev, it’s called Babi Yar. The Germans decided to fill it—fill it with the corpses of every Jew in Kiev.”
“But how do you know?”
The man snickered and drooled and there was a touch of madness in his eyes and in the squealing timbre of his voice like a stuck pig. “As you can plainly see, I am a coward. I hid in the forest just to the west of Babi Yar. In just two days all the Jews of Kiev, over thirty thousand, were marched there, forced to disrobe, lined up at the edge of the ravine, and shot.” The dark eyes moistened and looked down at his clenched fists resting on the table. “Including my mother, father, two brothers, and my sister.” He slumped down into his chair, drooling and sobbing into his fists. He began to gasp over and over, “I’m afraid—so afraid. . .” No one reacted, no one tried to console the broken man. Everyone had seen too much horror, too many tears, too much agony. They would let Abraham sob himself out.
Mordechai turned to his uncle. “Now do you believe? We’ve had reports that Einsatzgruppen A alone has killed over two hundred thousand Jews in Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia. And it’s been reported Jews have been rounded up and shot at Smolensk, Kharkov, Minsk.”
“Reports! Reports!” Rabbi Rosenfeld said. “You young bulls want to believe all the worst. Find some reason to fight.’’
To Josef the old Rabbi Yochanan Rosenfeld represented all of the obstinate, blind members of the ghetto who refused to believe they were marked for destruction even when it was before their eyes. Angered by Rosenfeld’s intransigence, Josef asked with irony and feigned naiveté, “Do you believe the corpses you see on the sidewalks every morning. Rabbi? Do you believe the starving children? Do you believe the mass graves?”
“Enough!” Rosenfeld shouted, flaring like a struck match to the insult. He pointed a bent finger at Josef. “Of course I believe. Thousands have died. But to suggest organized exterminations is another matter. It is absurd—irrational.”
Mordechai gestured at Yitzhak Schneidmil. Yitzhak stood. His diction was just as distinct as Abraham Zuckennan’s, but was spoken with guttural German inflection instead of Russian. “I am from Berlin. For most of my adult life I passed for Aryan under the name of Heinrich Wacht. I worked as a clerk in the War Ministry. One of my superiors became suspicious. I had to flee.” He stared at the rabbi. “We are all doomed. It has been decided. There was a meeting at a place called Wannsee in January. The butchers were all there—Adolph Eichmann, Reinhard Heydrich, Heinrich Muller. They decided on a ‘Final Solution.’ They’re going to murder every one of us. That’s their Final Solution for us, their Jewish problem. I saw the notes.”
“And just how will this be done? Just how will they murder three and a half million people,” Rosenfeld asked, voice edged with sarcasm.
“It’s already being done. With gas—they’ve decided on prussic acid that they call Zyklon B and the bodies are incinerated.”
“There’s a rumor people are being killed at Chelmno,” Jan said.
Yitzhak nodded agreement. “It’s an extermination center. And the biggest is being completed at Auschwitz-Birkenau and there are others at Belzac, Sobibor, and Treblinka.”
“Treblinka!” Josef shouted. “My family is there.”
Yitzhak set his jaw in a hard line. “I’m sorry, comrade. They are probably dead. The gas chambers are finished and test groups have been run through. Most of the Jews of Warsaw are destined for Treblinka. That’s why it was built.”
Josef felt Jan’s hand on his shoulder and he dropped his head so that the other men could not see the tears pooling in his eyes. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. Jan said to Yitzhak, “When will the exterminations begin?”
“They’re behind schedule. Much of the work was sabotaged by Jews, Poles, Russians, and other untermenschen.” He drummed his temple. “I would say by June—July at the latest.”
Rabbi Yochanan Rosenfeld came to his feet as fast as his infirm legs would permit. “I won’t listen to this madness,” he said. “The next thing you’ll discuss is your revolution! Have you forgotten the Law of Moses? The Pentateuch. Does the commandment ‘Thou shall not kill’ mean nothing to you? May God in his infinite mercy forgive your folly.” He hobbled across the room and left, slamming the door behind him.
“He’s blind! Blind!” Josef cried, looking up with wet eyes.
“And so are most of them,” Jan agreed.
Mordechai sighed deeply and sank back. “We must fight, but we have practically nothing—perhaps two hundred fighters and a few weapons. We can’t take on the Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe.” For the first time he showed despair. The cloak of confidence sloughed away. Dropping his head on his clenched fists, he spoke to the table with a voice as soft as a wailed psalm, “And there will be no help from the Russians, British, Americans. The Americans, British, and Dutch can’t even handle the Japanese in the Pacific and the British can’t drive Rommel out of North Africa. No. There will be no help. We are on our own and we have nothing.” He looked up, the brown of his eyes heightened by a film of moisture.
Jan came erect, eyes as hard as the rock of Zion. “Don’t say that. We’ll buy, steal more arms. Dig bunkers. Plan a line of defense. We won’t be ready to fight this summer, but we’ll recruit, build our forces, and strike out at them even if it’s with our fingernails. We have two advantages. We can choose how and where we die and we’ll be fighting on our own ground.” He circled a finger overhead in an encompassing gesture. “We live in a labyrinth—our own catacombs. We’ll knock down walls in the attics, between cellars. We’ll be able to
shift positions, retreat, attack at our choosing, bring up supplies through our maze without the Germans seeing anything.” He slammed his fist down hard on the table. “They won’t exterminate us all with impunity—without cost.”
Josef stared at Jan with awe. He saw in him the tortured yet ultimately triumphant Jewish spirit—the spirit that had kept the “Chosen” alive through two thousand years of oppression and dispersion.
Mordechai’s eyes were on Jan, too, face alight with new resolve. Josef could see the young man’s confidence flowing back, hear it in his voice. “Yes. You’re right, Jan. We’ll build for that day. Fight them in the streets, gutters, buildings. Kill some of them.”
“We’re not sheep,’’ Jan said. “We’ll build interconnecting bunkers with air vents and stock them with food and water. We’ll plant mines, make Molotov cocktails, steal more grenades, and rain them on the Germans. The British stopped them at the Channel. We’ll build a channel of our own.”
Josef spoke, “And if we only had our own RAF.”
For the first time tiny smiles were seen on the faces of the men. Abraham Zuckerman had stopped crying. Looking up, he stared at the other men over his clenched fists. His eyes-shone with the hate and fear of an animal trapped by predators that finally turns and lashes back at its killers. “Kill them!” he shrieked, spraying spittle and coming erect. “That’s the only way. Kill them all!” Then, shouting unintelligible oaths, he bolted through the door. The men could hear his maniacal laughter echoing through the building.
XIII
England February, 1942
January and early February had been frustrating for Number 54 Squadron and the entire RAF. Randolph led patrols daily, scanning the sky hungrily for the orange-and-green-striped ME 109 of Major Erich Kochling. However, Jagdstaffel Vierter had not been seen since the first week of December and as the early days of February slipped past, Randolph began to suspect Kochling had been transferred to the Russian front where most of the Luftwaffe had been concentrated. Fighter Command, too, had been weakened with a dozen squadrons transferred to the Middle and Far East. There were a few nuisance raids, but, in general, the air war had become a deadly bore. Massed dogfights seemed to have become a thing of the past.
On January 17, Flight Lieutenant Cedric Hart bagged a mine-laying Junkers JU 88 over the Thames estuary, but Randolph, flying cover, did not have a hand in the kill. It was the squadron’s first victory in five weeks.
The next afternoon while making an instrument check, Randolph flew at treetop height over the farmland in eastern Kent. Throttling back just above stall speed, he roared over a small cottage like a gem in an elysian setting; a brook and forest on one side, verdant fields on the other. She was there. Elisa Blue, standing in front of her house, waving a wide-brimmed hat and scarf. Looking down, his entire being ached for her and he realized he had not had her in his arms for almost a month. He circled twice, waving, then turned for home. Flying back to Detling, he maintained a low altitude. The weakening rays of the sun intensified the colors beneath him. England had never looked so beautiful, so peaceful.
Then came the foolish raid of January 19. The German battle cruisers Scharnhorst and Gnelsenau and cruiser Prim Eugen had been based in the French port of Brest for repairs and refitting. Prim Eugen had helped dispatch the mighty battle cruiser Hood; the Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau had sunk the carrier Glorious and sent 115,000 tons of merchant shipping to the bottom. Here on the Bay of Biscay they posed a constant threat to break out into the Atlantic. Surrounded by the continent’s heaviest concentration of flak batteries and nests of fighter squadrons, the flotilla posed a difficult target. Bomber Command mounted a series of night attacks—nineteen hundred sorties that dropped nearly two thousand tons of bombs. Dropping their bombs out of the darkness that was ripped by hundreds of flak guns and staring into the glare of a belt of searchlights, the bomb aimers had little success. In fact, most bombs did not land within five miles of the target. Forty-three bombers had been lost in the raids. But fear and the hunger for revenge drove the War Office to brash, ill-advised decisions.
Bomber Command’s AOC-in-C (Air Officer Commanding in Chief), Air Marshal Sir Richard Peirse, decided to mount a giant daylight raid with 102 Whitley, Hampden, and Wellington bombers from Number Two Group and Number Three Group. This was one fourth of the RAF’s entire bomber force. Every available fighter in southeast England was to escort the bombers. When Randolph opened the envelope with the bright red seal marked, “Top Secret, Immediate Action,” he was astonished. The plan was stupid. With only a range of 395 miles, his Spitfires would be pushed to the limit to reach the target. In fact, a strong headwind would eliminate his squadron. At best, he would only have a few minutes over the target if he ever did reach Brest. Adequate fighter protection would be impossible.
The raid was a disaster. Desperately, Number 54 Squadron and ten other squadrons of Fighter Command Group Eleven tried to fight off the swarms of German fighters that suddenly materialized. Randolph shot down one ME and Fifty-four Squadron accounted for three more. Randolph lost one of his new chaps before low fuel tanks forced Number 54 Squadron to turn for home. Ack-ack and the Luftwaffe had a field day, shooting down thirty-two of the slow bombers. There were reports of bomb hits on the enemy ships, but the major doubted the veracity of the claims. “A bloody muck-up,” he told his adjutant, Captain Edwin Smith.
Randolph felt frustration compounded upon frustration. Apparently, the German ships had escaped serious damage and he had caught a glimpse of Kochling’s green-and-orange Messerschmitt while fighting for his life in the midst of a dogfight. He had had no chance to engage the killer. Coop Hansen was still unavenged and on German radio Axis Sally and Lord Haw Haw gloated over the heavy British losses. “Thanks for the target practice,” Axis Sally had said, closing her broadcast.
For almost four weeks, Randolph flew three patrols a day, but the Channel was peaceful and calm. The storm had passed. Again he heard rumors that Jagdstaffel Vierter had been transferred. But now he did not believe them. Kochling was still there. He felt it in his guts. Sensed the man like a hungry animal sniffing the breeze for his enemy—his prey, his killer. He was there. He knew it. Somehow he would flush him out. Hunt him down.
By the end of the month, the constant patrols had exhausted Randolph and the squadron doctor threatened to ground him if he did not take a leave. “Get some rest, old boy,” the surgeon had said. The adjutant. Captain Edwin Smith, had joined in, “We can jolly well run the war without you, sir. Take a few days. I’ll instruct the lads not to chop Kochling. We’ll save him for you.”
Randolph knew they were right. His alertness had slipped and his reactions were slowing. He had fatigued himself to the point of being a menace to himself and his men. He had done it before. He knew the signs. He was worn to the bone and he yearned for Elisa Blue and Fenwyck. Lloyd was still home recovering, but Randolph knew his brother would soon be gone. And things were very slow. He took a three-day leave at the end of the month.
When Randolph arrived at Fenwyck, he found Lloyd’s three broken ribs had healed faster than his reputation. The flyer was well aware of the vicious report the enraged Brigadier Gilbert Fraser had submitted to General Archer—a scathing account of his interview with Brigadier Higgins concerning the killing of the five POWs at Bir Fuad Ridge. Fraser described Brigadier Lloyd Higgins as “. . . callous, belligerent, and unrepentant with no viable explanation for his actions at Bir Fuad Ridge.”
General Archer had convened a board of inquiry and three witnesses were brought from Libya to testify: Captain Courtney Hall of the East Sussex Rifles who reported the incident, a corporal from his company, and Sergeant Colby Powell, Lloyd’s driver. It was not until January that Chief of Staff Viscount Alanbrooke intervened—just as Randolph predicted—declaring Brigadier Higgins “not culpable in any respect.” Randolph suspected there had even been some gentle prodding from 10 Downing Street. However, the taint
on Lloyd’s reputation remained like an ugly stain on one’s finest shirt. As Randolph had expected, a letter written by General Archer was inserted in Lloyd’s record describing the incident, absolving him as “acting under extreme duress,” but falling short of justifying his actions. There was no mention of his bravery, clever tactics, and dogged, tenacious conduct on the field against overwhelming odds. In effect, it was a reprimand. Randolph had not seen Lloyd’s copy of the letter.
Lloyd read the letter to Randolph in the study while seated in his usual place behind the serpentine desk. The brothers laughed and toasted each other while Bernice sat quietly on the sofa sipping her Bordeaux. “You were right, brother,” Lloyd said, holding his glass high.
“Quite right. Let them write their bloody letters,” Randolph said. “It’s a lot of rot. I remember in ‘sixteen when I chopped that septic butcher August von Landenberg. He had seventeen kills, over twenty good English lads dead. There was a blizzard of letters and endless twaddle from the “dugout queens’ just because I scragged him at altitude zero. It wasn’t sporting to dispatch the Hun on the ground. Swiss Red Cross and all that. The letters are still in my file. ‘Not cricket,’ they said.”
Lloyd nodded with the memory. “I’ll never forget. You bagged the sod over the Somme. Two stretcher bearers were carrying him. You sent the whole lot ‘west.’“ He held up his glass. “Good show!”
“Just one long burst,” Randolph said proudly, warming with the memory. He answered his brother’s salute and they both drank.
Bernice drained her glass and stared at her brother-in-law, her delicate jaw in an unusually hard line. She had heard the story many times and disliked it more every time she heard it. Reaching for a cut-glass decanter on a Regency table next to the sofa, she refilled her glass and took a large drink.
The mood sobered as the conversation inevitably swung to the conduct of the war. In hushed tones the brothers discussed the events of the past three months. Although the Russians had stopped the Wehrmacht outside Moscow and actually pushed the enemy back, the Japanese were running wild in the Pacific. Reports from Washington were guarded and obviously heavily censored, but the Americans had apparently suffered an appalling defeat at Pearl Harbor. It was rumored the entire battle line had been sunk or damaged and terrible casualties sustained. But Rodney was safe. Letters from Brenda had assured them he was home and well with “. . . just a bump on his head.”
