Mac wingate 5, p.6
Mac Wingate 5, page 6
“But you believe it.”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you contacted London?”
Gimolka’s smile was very cold. “I have, Captain.”
For a second or two, Wingate wondered if he should believe Gimolka. And then he realized with a profound weariness that there was really no reason for him not to believe that Gimolka had told to London. That London had done nothing to publish this news to the world was not surprising either. The German death camps were simply too much for those in charge of the war effort to deal with now. It was a complication too awesome to contemplate rationally. After all—as Wingate had just admitted to Gimolka—when he had heard the rumors himself, he too had fought against believing them.
“Do the Jews know?”
“Yes. They know now, some of them.”
“And they go willingly?”
“Not any longer. Those that are left—the young ones, I imagine, and those they call the wild ones—are fighting back.”
“My God, how many are left?”
“There couldn’t be more than fifty thousand out of the original four hundred thousand. And most of these are without weapons, though I understand they have been purchasing quite a few rifles and handguns during the past weeks. Of course, they will be no match for the Germans—once the SS reenter the ghetto in force.”
“And all this you have told London?”
“London has not inquired about the plight of Poland’s Jews. Not once, Captain. The only Jew they seem concerned about is this physicist, Aaron Stern. Are you positive your man is in the ghetto?”
“Not positive. But he told those he met in Kutno that that was where he was going. He wanted to be with his people, he told them. He was still somewhat disoriented by the loss of his wife, from all accounts.”
“Yes,” Gimolka said dryly. “I imagine he would be. Too bad. He is going from the frying pan into the fire.”
Wingate nodded wearily. “And just how do you plan to get us in there?”
“Why, through the underground, Captain.” He smiled and took a sip of his whiskey. “I hope you have the stomach for it.”
Gimolka directed the beam of his flashlight ahead of them. The dripping walls gleamed as the beam swept over them and then lost itself in the gloom of the ancient sewer.
“We are almost there,” he told Wingate. “Let Vladimir and Boris move ahead of us now.”
Wingate stepped to one side as the two partisans slogged on past him and soon disappeared ahead of them.
They had left the streets of Warsaw at midnight to descend into this foul netherworld and had been filing through the sewers for close to half an hour. The stench was horrific, and Wingate did not even wish to glance down to see what excrement had long since soaked through his pants legs and made his shoes heavy. He would rather not know. A constant horde of rats squealed and scampered back and forth through the dank, dripping passageway, their trembling feet skittering more than once over Wingate’s shoes.
It was only since the Jews had begun to resist the so-called resettlements that this method of entry into the ghetto was necessary. Until then, as Gimolka explained it, despite the presence of ubiquitous German patrols, the smuggling of food, goods, and people had gone on continuously between those in the so-called Aryan districts of Warsaw and the Jewish inhabitants of the ghetto. The Blue Police—German speaking Poles—had always been more than willing to accept a bribe. But all that had abruptly changed after the SS troops had been sent reeling from the ghetto in January by members of the ZOB—the Jewish Combat Organization.
They came finally to where Vladimir and Boris were waiting for them. Gimolka directed his flashlight at a manhole cover above them. It was close to a wall and Wingate noticed that railroad spikes had been driven into the cracks between the wall’s heavy stone blocks. Using these for support, Boris clambered up the wall and with apparent ease pushed the manhole cover clear, then pulled himself up onto the street above. Vladimir climbed swiftly after him. A moment later Boris’s head and shoulders appeared in the opening above them. He beckoned to Wingate and his men. The coast was clear.
Wingate waved the others past him to the wall.
“Goodbye for now, Captain,” Gimolka said. “And good luck. As I said, you’ll find Kurt Barack’s bunker beneath Jablonski’s bakery. You should have no trouble finding the bakery. Just continue south on this street. It is the only bakery still left standing in this part of the ghetto.”
Wingate started for the wall. “Thank you,” he said.
“One thing more, Captain. Barack is a sullen, uncooperative man. But as one of ZOB’s commandants, he should be able to help you—or know someone who can.”
Wingate shook Gimolka’s hand, then pulled himself up the makeshift ladder. Aldini was waiting and helped Wingate through the opening. This was not an easy task, since—like the others—he was heavily laden with spare ammunition clips he had wrapped around his waist.
As Boris replaced the manhole cover, Wingate glanced around. They had come out alongside a vacant lot, most of which had been swallowed by an enormous crater. The high, gaunt shell of an apartment building reared starkly beyond it, the moon peeking through its stony ribs. Alongside this ruin, another four-story brick apartment building seemed to have lost only its upper floors, while across from that a third building appeared completely unscathed.
Boris pointed down the street. “This way,” he said. “A block further, no more, I think.”
Wingate nodded. “Assemble your weapons,” he told his men.
For a moment the only sound was that of metal scraping and clicking as the barrels of their Stens were fitted to the stocks and fresh clips were slammed home.
“Ready?”
The three men nodded. Wingate turned to Boris and Vladimir. “Lead the way.”
They had proceeded a full block when Wingate pulled up suddenly, his head cocked. “Quiet,” he told the others, as he continued to listen carefully.
Then he heard it again. From around the corner, the sound of running footsteps.
“Take cover,” he told the others, as he went down on one knee behind the broken pieces of a shattered piano which completely blocked the sidewalk ahead of him.
Closer now, he heard a high, muffled scream and then the sound of a scuffle. The sound was coming from around the corner of the next building. Wingate heard a sharp, guttural bark of surprise from a German soldier, as whoever it was broke free. Again there came the slap of running feet, growing closer now as the fleeing man brought the Germans toward them.
From around the corner burst a single running figure. The man turned in their direction. Behind him came a squad of Germans.
“Halten!” one of the Germans called. “Halten!”
The harsh pounding of many jackboots began to drown out the running footsteps. The running figure turned. A shot rang out. From the sound of it, Wingate realized it could have come from nothing more lethal than a small handgun. Almost at once this single, futile shot was answered by a shattering volley of automatic fire. Stray bullets crunched into the piano and dug out portions of the brick wall beside it. Aldini cursed and flattened himself on the sidewalk beside him. Wingate caught a glimpse of Regnais pushing himself still closer to the wall.
The running figure, stumbling awkwardly now, loomed closer. At the same time Wingate caught the gleam of moonlight on the helmets of five, possibly six, pursuing SS. They were closing on the man fast. The staggering figure turned around a second time and got off another wild shot. Once again he was answered by the stutter of machine pistols and automatic fire. This time the fleeing Jew spun like a dervish and collapsed.
But he was not yet dead. As the Germans rushed up, he opened fire on them at point-blank range. Two Germans went down as their companions pulled up hastily and directed a fusillade at the figure sprawled before them. It was over in an instant.
This David, at least, had been no match for the German Goliath and his overwhelming firepower.
Huddling beside Wingate, Aldini cursed softly.
The remaining four Germans cautiously approached the man they had just riddled and then, in a wild fury, began kicking at the torn body.
“Jude!” they cried. “Jude!”
Wingate had seen enough.
He stood up and stepped away from the wall. Then he cocked his Sten.
He had wanted the Germans to hear the sound of that bolt being drawn back. Now he stood there, seething, waiting for them to see him. The SS turned in his direction. Wingate saw the astonishment on the nearest Nazi’s face and squeezed the Sten’s trigger. As the submachine gun pulsed quietly in his hands, he stepped still closer to the Germans, hosing them with an intent, vicious thoroughness.
By this time, Regnais and the others had jumped up as well and added their firepower to Wingate’s. In a matter of seconds, the slaughter was complete.
“That was not wise,” said Regnais, as he walked over to Wingate. “You could have got your head blown off.”
“Perhaps. But I feel a lot better now.”
Bemused, Regnais shook his head. “You Americans. Truly, you are the children of this world.”
“Never mind that shit with me, Regnais,” Wingate snapped, turning on the Frenchman. “It’s you damned European playboys that have brought us to this! These Nazis are your creation!”
Regnais was astonished. “But, Captain ...” he protested.
“Just spare me your cheap condescension, if you don’t mind,” Wingate said, cutting him off angrily.
Regnais stepped back, and simply let his raised eyebrows indicate how intemperate he thought Wingate’s remarks were.
“Come!” called Boris, hurrying up to Wingate. The man was lugging at least three German weapons. “This way. Now we must hurry.”
As Wingate and his men followed Boris and Vladimir down the street, Wingate glanced up at the dark apartment buildings that loomed about him. Not a light had come on when the shooting began, not a single window had been flung up, not one voice had called down. Yet men, women, and children were still living in these buildings, thousands of them, and Wingate had the uncanny sense that he could feel their hushed forms huddling fearfully in the darkness as the shots rang out in the streets below them.
During their ride through the darkened streets of Warsaw, Gimolka had recounted to Wingate further grisly details concerning Treblinka and the other Nazi death camps. Gimolka’s words had disturbed Wingate profoundly. He was, he realized now, about to gaze long and deeply into the vacant, brute eyes that peered out of the Neanderthal face of Nazi Germany—a Germany that had turned its back not only on the shining legacy granted it by such giants as Beethoven, Goethe, Kant, but on every decent, civilized impulse as well.
The truth was too dark. A part of Wingate still did not wish to believe it. Yet Wingate knew with a deep ache that it must be true, that he and his men were walking into a nightmare. Somehow they would have to look beyond the horror of what the Germans were doing if they were to function effectively. His own display of temper a moment before had been a mistake, as Regnais had not hesitated to point out.
They were soldiers and had a mission to accomplish.
It was only now, however, that Wingate truly understood the awesome nature of what they had come to do. From out of the brute grasp of the Nazi murder squads, from this mass of doomed, huddled souls—he and his men must pluck but one single Jew.
Chapter Five
They had to pass through three other bunkers before they reached Barack’s command post behind the bakery. Cellar walls had been broken through. One tunnel ran beneath a huge furnace that still remained operational. In one case a sub cellar had been laboriously dug out beneath the true cellar. The bunker created thereby held at least one dozen, possibly more men, women, and children.
The huddled souls crammed into the bunkers had obviously been unable to wash or change into fresh clothing for weeks. The stench of unwashed bodies, human waste, and a visceral, almost palpable fear struck Wingate with the force of a blow as—head bent and eyes averted—he hurried after Boris and Vladimir through the crammed bunkers and twisting passageways.
The faces of the men they passed were unshaven, their eyes hollow from hunger and lack of sleep. The children were ragged and listless, and seemed able to sleep only fitfully. Hunger had etched precocious lines on their pinched, frightened faces. The women were wasted, haggard, their large, haunted eyes wide with fear and bafflement. The world had gone bad for them and for their children; and their men were helpless to repair the madness. They seemed bereft of all hope. Yet, lying within easy reach of a majority of the women—as well as most of the men—Wingate saw an astonishing variety of handguns.
When Wingate finally reached Barack’s bunker, he found Barack waiting alone for him. His bunker, in sharp contrast with the others they had passed through, was a surprisingly spacious and well-appointed command post. Indeed, the moment Wingate looked about and saw that it appeared to be serving only a single, well-fed occupant, he felt a quick surge of dislike for the ZOB leader. Dislike and suspicion.
The ceiling was shored with timbers and beams, the floor actually covered with planks, and over those a thick carpet had been placed. Cans and sacks of rice, sugar, flour, and salt were sitting on shelves in a recessed closet hollowed out of a portion of the wall. Beside the shelves was a bin of dried vegetables. Barack was sitting in an easy chair. About him in the spacious room were a couch, chairs, and a bed. Overhead an electric line had been strung with light bulbs hanging from it. The line disappeared into what appeared to be another, equally spacious room. Most astonishing was the toilet and a small, adjacent bucket-sink that had been connected crudely but effectively to a water line and a sewer line, the latter’s humped outline barely visible as it extended out through the doorway.
Barack was a big, bluff, heavyset fellow in his late forties. Despite his heft, he did not appear to be at all sluggish. He got to his feet the moment Wingate and his party filed into his bunker. His handshake was solid and uncompromising. His eyes were clear, his stare piercing, but there seemed to be a perpetual sneer on his face—as if it had been stamped there since birth and had grown more apparent every year since.
“Sit down, sit down,” Barack told them. He spoke with a strong Polish accent. “I understand, Captain, that you are looking for a Jew in the ghetto.” His voice was filled with mockery. “Are you sure you have come to the right place?”
“I am sure,” Wingate said. Then he sat down in one of the chairs and introduced his three men, after which he told Barack as succinctly as possible the purpose of their mission. When he had finished, Barack’s shoulders shrugged with massive indifference. “I do not know of this Stern. He was a collaborator, was he not? Why do you come to me? Is he a member of the PPR?”
“I do not know,” Wingate replied.
“He is a Zionist, perhaps. Go there. Find one of their command posts. They will know of this man, I am sure.”
“But you have heard nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“But you think the Zionists might know where he is?”
“Why not? They know everything. Ask them and they will tell you. There is nothing beyond their ken. They are the only ones who know how to fight the Nazis.” He smiled, bitterly. “So they would know where to find this Stern, I am sure.”
Wingate took a deep breath. He was once again ensnared in the internal politics of a mission. “Barack, Gimolka assured me that I can count on you to keep in touch with the underground. When we do find Stern we’ll need you and the underground’s help to get him out of here.”
“Yes,” said Barack, leaning back in his chair and regarding Wingate coldly. “You will.” He smiled suddenly. “We should be able to come to an equitable agreement on that.”
Wingate smiled in return. “I am sure we can. Just so long as you realize I am not about to pay for any help you or the underground provide.”
Barack was still smiling. “Not in zlotys, perhaps. But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
Barack turned away from Wingate and gave his full attention to Boris and Vladimir. “Wait in the next room,” he told them. “I have something for you to take back to Gimolka.” The two men left the room.
Barack got to his feet and addressed Wingate. “I think I will send you to Lisa Goldman. Her bunker is under the synagogue on Tlomaczec Street. She runs an orphanage sponsored by the Hashomer Hatzair. But do not let that fool you. She is a fierce fighter and is always well armed, and has already surprised a few SS with her grenades.” He smiled. “She keeps them under her skirt. Lisa is a brave and resourceful woman. Her only problem is she hates Communists. She does not understand. Capitalism is dead. But do not let her politics bother you. She should be able to help you. Any new arrivals in the ghetto would be more likely to come within her jurisdiction than mine.”
Wingate nodded. “I’ll leave two of my men here until I get back.”
Barack frowned. “We do not have much room,” he protested.
“You’ve got plenty,” Wingate snapped.
Barack sighed. “I will be glad to extend my hospitality to your men, Captain.”
Wingate turned to Aldini. “Let’s go. Corporal. We’re going to visit an orphanage.”
Regnais and Martens stirred restlessly. It was obvious they did not like the idea of staying cooped up in Barack’s bunker, no matter how luxuriously it was appointed.
Barack called out sharply, “Felix!”
A small, incredibly thin boy with great dark eyes darted soundlessly into the room. He was wearing ragged knickers, a golf cap, and a ratty-looking cloth coat. His shoes were wrapped in rags.
“Take these two to the orphanage on Tlomaczec Street.”
The boy nodded alertly, then glanced up at Wingate and asked him something in Polish.
“I’m ready, Felix,” Wingate said, smiling down at the boy. “Let’s go.”
The boy nodded and led the way back out through the bunker.
