The Remnant - Stories of the Jewish Resistance in WWII (Boomer Book Series)

by Othniel J. Seiden

  The device lobbed dynamite nearly a hundred meters. The first charges dropped on the warehouse roofs blowing gaping holes. The next payloads soared inside where they destroyed the entire compound and stored supplies.

  Secondary explosions and wind driven flames were destroying the whole warehouse complex. The guerrillas withdrew. The entire operation took fifteen minutes. It was not yet midnight when the guerrillas raced out of Rozvazhev. They had not yet counted their casualties but few were missing from any of the vehicles.

  The group at the rear, led by Moshe Pinsker, fled, having done their job perfectly and without loss of a man. They crossed a clearing and unknowingly entered a minefield. A sudden blast tossed the truck onto its side, igniting its fuel. Before the stunned passengers could crawl free the extra dynamite they carried exploded. When the smoke cleared no one survived of Moshe and his group.

  54

  Major Oberman's Problems...

  Major Hans Oberman was livid with rage, but only because his superiors were livid with rage. That created unpleasantness for Oberman. As his superiors did, so did he pass the unpleasantness down to his subordinates. "I want a complete report on Rozvazhev!" he roared as he stomped through the outer office. "I want facts and figures-and quickly!"

  The lieutenant cowered and nodded.

  All day long bits and pieces of information filtered into Oberman's office. "Total destruction of the warehouses..."

  "Destruction of the communications center..."

  "Destruction of Ukrainian police facility..."

  "Two hundred seven German military personnel known dead, seventy nine injured, most serious to critical, ninety six unaccounted for..."

  The figures changed as the day drew on; the injured joining the dead, the unaccounted uncovered in the rubble. The one figure that remained the same all day was, "Eleven enemy dead, none captured or known wounded."

  The next day Oberman reported to his superiors, "Gentlemen, it appears our troops were the victims of a very well planned raid. They obviously knew our entire routine and layout at the Rozvazhev complex. How they came by this information is not yet discovered."

  "And just who are they?" one of his superiors demanded.

  "Partisans," Oberman stalled. "An army of partisans; our estimates indicate a minimum of five hundred!"

  "An army of five-hundred partisans?" he sputtered. "How can that be? Where would they operate from?"

  "Perhaps this force was made up of several groups joined for this specific action. We know that many groups operate throughout the Ukraine. We would be na ve to think they could not work together on major projects. Until now, they've carried out only minor raids on trains, convoys, isolated patrols and small storage depots. Never before have they ventured a major military action." He paused. "We think this was directed and organized out of unoccupied Russia."

  "Out of Russia?" the Colonel barked in surprise.

  "Yes. We have monitored almost daily broadcasts into occupied territories from the Russians. They encourage resistance. They could have sent leadership, even troops, to participate in the action."

  "You have evidence to support these ideas?" one officer asked.

  Major Oberman looked down at his hands, "We have no hard evidence yet. It is evident, however, that this raid two days ago was a superb military effort-not what we expect from loosely disciplined guerrilla gangsters."

  "Well, let us hear some facts now," the Colonel insisted, pointing impatiently at Oberman's papers. "Continue with what is black and white."

  "Very well," the Major said with a shrug. "Our latest figures and these are still not final, indicate that of our total military force of three hundred eighty two men assigned to Rozvazhev that night, three hundred forty eight have died, twenty three are on the injured list, eleven are still unaccounted for."

  "And what price did the enemy pay?" inquired one of the officers.

  Oberman's eyes lowered. His voice weakened. "Only eleven of their dead have been found. But we do not know how many of their dead or wounded they took with them."

  "I have heard enough!" the Colonel exploded. "I want no more speculation! I want no more excuses! Oberman," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "I want action. I want the forests of the Ukraine purged of partisans. I want every guerrilla rotting in Babi Yar!" He sprang to his feet and stomped from the room.

  During the silence that followed, while each officer digested his commander's orders, one by one each gaze turned to Oberman.

  55

  The Missing...

  It looked as though the entire town of Rozvazhev went up in flames as the group looked back, waiting for the truck with Moshe and his men to come. When it did not appear as scheduled, they grew concerned.

  "They should be here by now." Sol said anxiously. "Even the extra time it would take them to come from the back of the depot..."

  "I'm afraid they've had trouble," Uri interrupted, "maybe we should send someone back..."

  "No one goes back!" Solomon insisted. "We can't risk more lives to their unknown fate. We agreed to that from the very beginning."

  "But its Moshe-his whole group, Uri protested as more and more of the concerned group gathered, awaiting a decision.

  "I know it's Moshe's group. No one loves Moshe more than I, unless it's you, Uri." He paused. How has this come to fall on my shoulders, he thought? Why doesn't Yorgi speak up? He just watches me struggle with the problem. Then without thinking further, spontaneously Sol said, "It's not my decision that we not go back. It's Moshe's. He made the rule long ago-and wisely. We all agreed long ago! And each of us knew we might one day be the ones left behind."

  "How much longer can we wait?" Uri asked.

  "Not long," Yorgi finally answered, stepping before the group. "Sol's right! We have no choice but to go on," he looked at his watch, "and right now."

  He looked back down the road toward Rozvazhev.

  They could all see the sky brilliantly lit where the town had been.

  "I'm afraid the illumination can be seen clear to Zhitomir. Even with communications down-especially with communications down, that glow will bring Germans. They must be on their way already."

  Yorgi looked at his watch again, a fine German timepiece captured several weeks earlier on another mission. He thought a moment. He, too, was fond of Moshe and the others, but as a soldier and commander he could not let emotion cloud correct judgment.

  "If they are well, they'll make it back. If not, we'll not be able to help. Let's go home! Now!"

  Yorgi gave his next command, "Set off two dynamite charges in those vehicles!"

  They set long fuses and plunged into the forest with their wounded. The journey by foot to their base was expected to take them two days. They carried seven seriously wounded comrades. Twelve others had minor injuries and could travel without help. Before the night was over four of the seriously wounded had died. Their friends could not stop to bury them. That was understood before the operation began. "It is difficult to leave friends alone, even in death. Final farewells are not meant to be so abrupt and unceremonious," Sol commented.

  Father Peter and Rachel were in charge of the wounded. The council would not let me go to the rendezvous point because they were not willing to risk the only physician the camp had. I could not change their minds to let me go. The best I was allowed was to wait for the wounded at camp two. Not even would they allow me to go to camp one. Father Peter and Rachel weren't allowed to accompany the combatants into the town during the raid but waited the long minutes for the fighters on the road at the meeting point. Each explosion they heard conjured up fears for their friends. Father Peter and Rachel had become close companions since Dovka's death. Along with Sol, the young priest had helped Rachel regain her strength and objectivity. In turn, Rachel understood better than anyone else the torment and personal anguish that plagued Father Peter. When he wasn't busy with the radios and she not occupied with the hospital or alone with Solomon, she and the priest spent many hours together, tr
ying to fathom this ungodly world.

  As each vehicle came to the meeting point, Rachel and Father Peter assigned people to help with the wounded. Makeshift bandages were checked and changed, but little more could be done for the seriously wounded. They continued to bleed and writhe in delirium. There was nothing to reduce their pain. They knew their efforts with the most critically injured were futile and that carrying them was a tremendous expenditure of energy, but it was difficult enough to leave their dead behind-impossible to leave their wounded.

  By noon the next day, the last of the critically wounded had died. The group had traveled many kilometers but could not stop long to rest. They knew the Germans would start out with dogs from the point where the trucks had been destroyed. At best they had a five-hour lead. Hampered by their wounded, that lead would be reduced to three hours. The first six hours did not lead them toward home. Instead they headed west past Zhitomir, about five kilometers south of that city. By dawn, they had passed by the city and then they continued twenty kilometers due west, until noon when they came to the Teterev River.

  The river flowed northeast at that point. There, they entered the river and doubled back, walking in the water to confuse the dogs. They waded for three or four kilometers, a slow and dangerous route because the Germans were searching by air also. Every so often a plane would drone in the distance and the party would scatter for cover along the bank until the aircraft passed, almost skimming the water. While the others waded, backtracking in the river, two of the group stayed on land, going the opposite direction. Alone, they could move fast and it was hoped they would lay a false scent for the dogs, giving the main party more time.

  When the raiders finally left the river, they headed north toward home. They plodded in silence, each person weighing in his mind the successes and losses. Eleven were missing. Seven had died since the raid. The remaining injuries fortunately were minor. Moshe was among the missing-all probably dead. Except for those missing with Moshe, their comrades had been felled and injured by small arms fire. What targets they'd made, silhouetted against the flames! They'd probably been shot by Germans roused from the beds protected by their mistresses when the dynamite blasts shook them.

  When they reached camp one, the two decoys waited for them. They waited two days at camp two. Their lookouts saw no sign of either their friends or the Germans.

  Finally, the survivors started back to the family camp.

  56

  Oberman's Secret...

  When Major Hans Oberman was asked by his superiors who the attackers had been, he'd kept one bit of information, a startling fact, to himself. He knew it would have only added to their rage. He himself didn't want to believe it. The seven dead found in the woods the day after the raid proved it though-beyond a doubt-all circumcised.

  Do I dare tell them, he wondered? A band of Jewish partisans operating under our noses! More insulting is the fact that these Jews have probably been operating in the area for more than a year-have been responsible, in fact, for most of the resistance activity in and around Kiev. To be outwitted by these sub-human Jews!

  Oberman did not want the responsibility of suppressing this new information, but he decided against making the facts known at that first meeting. Better to tell only his Colonel who would share the brunt of the wrath if the facts came to common knowledge.

  "What do you mean, Jews?" the Colonel exclaimed. "Jews are not capable of bravery. Are you mad? We will be committed as lunatics if we expound such a theory!"

  "It's not a theory," Oberman said. "I have substantial proof."

  "Proof, what proof?"

  "Their dead, my proof is their dead. Whenever dead partisans have been left behind they are examined lest they carry hidden information. It is at once clear if they are Jews."

  The Colonel had a blank expression on his face.

  "They are circumcised, Colonel. Only the Jews mutilate their penises!"

  "You mean to tell me all those dead were cut?"

  "Every last one and in certain actions all the dead have been-as you say, 'cut.,' in others, none. To me that means there are non-Jewish and Jewish groups out there. Rozvazhev was all Jews. And many of the other operations of the past year have been all Jews. There is at least one very active Jewish resistance group out there. I've suspected it since the Goering Squadron event, but waited to make sure. This raid left no doubt in my mind."

  The Colonel was silent a moment, his face scarlet. "Who have you told of this, Oberman?"

  "I've only mentioned it to you and no one else, sir."

  The Colonel took a long, deep, shaky breath. "For the time being, keep it that way." He pondered a long moment, then continued, "Have any ideas of how to wipe them out, these Jews?" He looked at Major Oberman with a stern expression and wrinkled brow and almost whispering added, "Before the information gets out?"

  "I have some ideas. If you will come to my apartment tonight, I will show you what I've gathered."

  "Your apartment?"

  "Yes, Colonel. I want no one around here to see what data I've brought together."

  "I see your point, Major. I'll be there."

  "At nine."

  "Nine."

  The Colonel had never been to the Major's apartment. The Major greeted him at the door dressed in a smoking jacket. The Colonel was disturbed. He owned no civilian clothes. The military was his life. He had no room for anything else.

  "Come in, sir," Oberman said graciously.

  "Thank you," the Colonel replied uncomfortably. In the Colonel's office, Oberman was a subordinate to be belittled at whim. Here, the Colonel felt ill at ease, off balance.

  "May I offer you a drink, sir?" Oberman asked with a smile. He'd registered the Colonel's discomfort and knew he would be listened to with greater respect.

  "Schnapps, thank you."

  "Excellent! I'll have the same." He poured the drinks slowly, giving the Colonel plenty of time to take in the opulence of the room. The apartment reflected both Oberman's flamboyant private life and his family's wealth. In one corner of the living room was a large credenza, which served as Oberman's bar. Other fine furnishings-those he had not confiscated from previous owners-he had bought at a fraction of their value or traded for favors. Several fine oils hung about the room. There was a beautiful floor to ceiling window that overlooked a park across the street below. The parquet floors were covered with fine oriental rugs. Nowhere in the Ukraine, under the Bolsheviks, could rugs such as those have been found.

  The Colonel noticed a woman's coat hanging up in the corner on a large brass coat stand. He wondered whether it had been forgotten there or whether the owner was behind the closed door at the far end of the room. Ordinarily, it would have bothered the Colonel that his subordinate lived so much more luxuriously than himself, but he was too overwhelmed to brood about it now.

  Bringing the drinks, Oberman asked, "Cigar? They are fine Dutch imports. In my opinion, no one makes better cigars than the Dutch."

  The Colonel helped himself. He rolled the cigar between his fingers and sniffed its fragrance. He was impressed with the freshness and scent, but not nearly as impressed as when he looked at the black and gold cigar ring which displayed a family crest and the words, "Major Hans Oberman."

  Oberman grinned with satisfaction, struck a match and held it to the Colonel's cigar. "I think you will enjoy it. I have them specially selected, wrapped and sent directly from Holland. If you like it, I will take the liberty of ordering some for you-with your name on them."

  The expression of 'pleased surprise' on the Colonel's face was not lost on the Major. The Colonel nodded his approval as he drew in the first mild wisps of smoke.

  "Well, shall we get down to work?" Oberman asked.

  "Yes. What do you have to show me?"

  Oberman brought a map over and rolled it out on the coffee table in front of the Colonel. Taking a seat on the sofa next to his superior, something he could never have done in the office, Oberman began.

  "This is a ma
p of Kiev and the countryside surrounding it within a hundred kilometer radius. I have made three separate markings on this overlay, you will notice. The 'X' marks represent acts of hostility against the occupation. Where there is a circle about the 'X' mark-like this one-circumcised dead were found. Now that information was not reported in the accounts of guerrilla actions. I had to go to the individual medical reports for that information. Those two groups of information were never filed together. But when I brought them together, these facts appeared." He pointed to a cluster of circled "Xs" on the map overlay.

  "And what do these circles without the 'X's mean?" the Colonel asked.

  "Those are points we have been fortunate enough to triangulate in on radio transmissions. Oh, they're smart, Colonel! They seldom broadcast for long, leaving us no time to fix on a location. But in a few instances we have been able to pinpoint them. Of course, they're never there when we search the area. They're too smart to transmit from their camps.

  "Still, we have collected some information-and now it will tell us part of what we want to know!"

  The Colonel leaned closer, studied the markings on the cellophane overlay in silence and finally said, "This is quite impressive, Oberman. Now just what do you conclude from this information?"

  Major Hans Oberman smiled and raised one index finger. "First of all, if we take into account the dates of the actions represented by the circled 'X's, then we must conclude that these Jews have been active against us from almost the beginning of our occupation. I have to admit, I find it difficult to believe the Jews are capable of such actions, but I cannot come to any other conclusion. I fear we have become victims of our own propaganda. We underestimate what 'sub-humans' are capable of. We must change our attitude of them a bit."