Finally they landed without cutting the engines: “This is as far as we go,” the pilot said in German, with an adjutant of the Mufti translating. “Here is our position on the map. Walk southeast from here for about eight miles. It will be light soon - Be sure to hide during the day. As soon as it gets dark you can cross the border. You know how to get where you are going.” The adjutant added “Allahu Akbar.”
Chapter 11
Colonel Hirshson was busy. He hadn’t been this busy since he was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed second lieutenant preparing his platoon for an operation in Gaza.
Two weeks ago a small flotilla had entered the Italian port of Brindisi. The flotilla consisted of two large Israeli missile boats, two 3000 ton cargo ships, and two mostly submerged and invisible submarines. Under the watchful eye of the missile boats, submarines, drones and jets patrolling the skies above, the cargo ships were unloaded and returned to Haifa for a second run.
Hirshson was responsible for getting the construction done and setting up the facility. He had at his disposal a battalion of combat engineers with their heavy earthmoving equipment. Two infantry battalions were assigned to guard duty and navy and air force units kept a watch on the area.
The first engineering job was to create an earthen barrier about thirty feet high around the compound. It was built inside a perimeter fence erected by the Germans only a week earlier. The barrier would enclose an area two miles wide by three miles long, with the longer side being parallel to the sea and the port in the northwestern portion. The toughest job for Hirshson had been prepping space for a pre-fabricated concrete wall that was to separate the town of Brindisi from its port. He didn’t like the idea of forcing blameless Italians from the surrounding area.
“Colonel,” the mayor of Brindisi complained at a meeting called by Hirshson, in which a number of prominent citizens participated, “if you cut us off from the port we will lose our livelihood. This town needs fishermen going out to sea every morning.”
“Yes,” agreed the colonel, “and it needs its smugglers to return every morning too.”
“You have to allow us access to the port. We will complain to the Duce,” one of the town elders yelled.
“Please complain,” Hirshson responded. “This arrangement has the Duce’s full agreement. I am truly sorry he forgot about your needs, and I think you should complain to him.”
“Dear colonel, we do not wish to be an obstacle to whatever plans you have for the port,” the mayor added, trying a more friendly approach. “We only wish to help and hope you can at least allow us the use of some piers.”
“How does this sound to you?” the colonel asked with a smile. “You can continue to use the northernmost pier and most of the warehouses as long as everyone in town reports to us information and rumors about military activity, and we will be free to take more land to expand the compound to the South?”
“We are in agreement,” the mayor declared after a short consultation with the rest of the attendees.
****
Work went on uneventfully for a couple of days after the meeting. The concrete wall was almost finished and the earthen barrier extended half way around the compound. The barbed wire erected by the Germans was connected to a computerized alarm system to prevent infiltration. Another week would complete the enclosure. The refurbishing of structures was well on its way with some ready to house evacuees. Then Hirshson was ordered to set up a meeting with Colonel Adolph Eichmann.
The Israeli was too young to have witnessed Eichmann’s 1962 trial, but being interested in history - particularly that of the Holocaust - he had studied the testimony of witnesses in the trial. He was proud and bitter - proud that the Mossad captured this son of a bitch and brought him to trial in Jerusalem, bitter that Eichmann had done his job as the main organizer of the ‘Final Solution’ so well. Most of Hirshson’s family had been killed, thanks to Eichmann. Only his grandfather and a few cousins survived.
Hirshson had one of his soldiers, a German speaker, call Eichmann’s office directly using a phone connected to the Italian system. It took a while to get through all the operators, but eventually a German voice announced: “Colonel Eichmann’s office.”
“This is the office of Colonel Abdul Rakhman of the Caliph’s First Guard Division calling Herr Eichmann,” the soldier said.
“Just a second,” was the response.
Several minutes passed before a voice came on the line: “This is Eichmann. How can I help you?”
“You are to report to our main gate in Brindisi in three days to speak to the Colonel regarding your request for help with the deportation of Jews.”
“I will see what I can do.” Eichmann responded.
Looking at Hirshson, who nodded, the soldier said: “Herr Eichmann, you will either do exactly as you are ordered by the Caliph’s guard or somebody else will answer your phone next time. We expect you here next Thursday at four in the afternoon.” The soldier hung up.
“Very good,” Hirshson was smiling. “You seem to have a natural talent for this.”
“No, sir. I just hate them.”
***
By the time of the meeting Hirshson had an office in one of the warehouse buildings of the port. Inside the entry door was a large waiting area equipped with food and thermoses with fruit juices, coffee and tea. The walls and floor were covered in expensive oriental rugs. The halogen lighting was adjustable.
A secretary’s desk occupied a space in front of an ornate carved door leading to the Colonel’s office. A lamp and a sophisticated telephone were the only items on its highly polished surface. There were two more doors in the side walls of the room.
Eichmann’s car arrived at four in the afternoon sharp and stopped in front of the heavy solid truck gate in the concrete wall surrounding the port. A door in the gate opened and a soldier wearing a khaki uniform with a swords and rifle patch on his sleeve approached the vehicle, weapon ready.
“Colonel Eichmann is here to see Colonel Abdul Rakhman,” the driver said.
“He may enter,” the guard responded. “You and the car wait here.”
Two men exited: Eichmann and his assistant.
“Only the colonel,” the guard said.
“Surely my aide can accompany me?”
“You may bring in whomever you like,” the guard replied with a cold smile, “but only you will come out alive. It’s your choice.”
Eichmann hesitated. He wasn’t used to this kind of direct and brutal treatment except by superiors. But these people were barbarians and he had better be careful. They destroyed Wolfsburg so it stood to reason that killing Alois would be nothing to them. He went in alone.
Beyond the door was a large square enclosed by a concrete wall tall enough to conceal everything behind it. Only one building was partly inside the enclosure. There was a door in its stone wall with a big flag of the Caliph over it.
“Herr Eichmann, please hand over your side arm and the dagger,” demanded the guard. “They will be returned to you when you are done here.” Eichmann hesitated. They were on Italian territory after all.
“You have a choice,” the guard said coolly. “You can proceed armed and be executed as an infidel bearing arms in the presence of an officer of the Caliph, you can leave now or you can follow our orders.” He smiled and extended a hand.
Eichmann handed over his pistol, ceremonial SS dagger and, just to be safe, a pen knife he carried in his trouser pocket. It dawned on him that this was not Italian territory anymore.
The inner door opened and an armed guard in a bulky uniform beckoned, leading the Nazi officer through twisting corridors into the bowels of the building. He stopped in front of a heavy door, which opened silently.
“Herr Eichmann,” the sergeant behind the desk said in good German, “welcome to our modest domain. The Colonel is busy and will call you in as soon as he is ready. Have a seat. If you need to refresh yourself, the facilities are there,” he said pointing. “Please feel free to enjoy the food
and drinks.”
Eichmann sat in one of the comfortable chairs. He was annoyed – the secretary, who was only a sergeant, had not bothered to rise from his seat when he greeted a senior SS officer. The entrance door opened again and a man in an immaculate uniform entered. The sergeant jumped to attention: “Captain, Sir, the Colonel knows you are here.” There were other people in the room, all ignoring him. Two were civilians. Another two were in uniform. Officers he thought, but could not be sure. Two were having a lively discussion in Arabic, about Italian women. His Arabic was not as good as his Hebrew and too limited to understand the details.
After waiting for more than thirty minutes Eichmann decided to use the bathroom. It was a complete surprise. There were polished marble mosaic floors, granite counter tops and gilded or maybe solid gold, fixtures - a room worthy of Goering set up for men of his own rank and below, and on a temporary base yet. Incredible. He used the toilet, which flushed by itself when he was done. The faucet, he discovered after some exploration, dispensed warm water when he held his hands under it. By the time he was invited into the inner office an hour later, the waiting room was empty and his mood was subdued. He had to report on his experience here in detail and he did his best to commit everything to memory, especially the self flushing toilet and smart faucet. He still hadn’t decided how to interpret the opulent and luxurious amenities. He would have liked to tell himself that these were clear signs of decadence, like the Ottomans or the Colonial British. There was something that wouldn’t let him accept this interpretation. He decided to reserve his opinion until after the meeting with Colonel Rakhman.
Finally the sergeant told him that the colonel was ready for him and led him into the inner sanctum. This room was big and matched the bathroom in its opulence. A stocky man in his late thirties sat behind an intricately carved desk.
“Hail Hitler.” Eichmann clicked his heels in the Nazi salute.
“Herr Eichmann, I am very pleased to see you”. Hirshson shook the Nazi’s hand ignoring the salute. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable,” he said, gesturing at the leather sofa and armchairs arranged around a low table. Without apologizing for the wait, he politely inquired about Eichmann’s trip to Brindisi. Eichmann was neither surprised nor annoyed. This was behavior he expected from superiors.
After a few minutes of polite chitchat, Hirshson got down to business. “Please describe to me the problems you claim you are having with our Jews.”
“Well, Colonel, we are doing our best to round them up for transport to Brindisi. Since you limit the amount of force we can use, it is difficult to persuade them to come. You will either have to allow us to use somewhat more effective means of persuasion” - Eichmann smiled thinking of what he would do to the Jews if the colonel agreed - “or be prepared for a very slow trickle coming in for treatment. I also have to warn you that the Fuehrer’s patience is running out. If the Jews are not gone soon, he may decide to restart our own treatment program.”
“Dear Adolph - may I call you Adolph? There's really no need to get all worked up about the slow progress. As you can see, we are just getting ready to receive the Jews. If the Fuehrer decides to take care of them himself or use what you call ‘more effective means of persuasion’, I will destroy Munich. It'll be the Fuehrer’s decision. Please remind him of our determination when you have an opportunity.
“On the other hand, I do understand your frustration. We are also impatient to finish this business. How about we send a large group of our agents, pretending to be Palestinian Jews, to persuade their leadership that this idea of moving to Palestine is the best thing that happened to them since Moses.” Hirshson was waiting with a wolfish smile for the Nazi to swallow the bait – It would be great if he thought that the whole idea was his to begin with. It would be enough if Eichmann just thought that he improved it and made it workable – in either case, he would promote it enthusiastically with his superiors.
“Dear Colonel Rakhman, the basic idea is good, but its success will depend on your agents being fluent in the local Jewish languages, mostly Yiddish, fluent in Hebrew, and able to tell the Jews a believable story.”
“Ah, I knew you were the man to ask!” The Colonel was beaming at Eichmann. “Your advice is invaluable! Assuming we can find people with the necessary skills, what kind of a story do you think would work?”
Eichmann was thinking as fast as he knew how: “As you know, every good lie has to have bases in truth to be believable. Also, as our friend Goebbels says, the bigger the lie and the more often it's repeated the larger numbers of people believe it. I would tell the Jews the truth, but turn it on its head: tell them that the Caliphate is an invention of the Palestinians who, with the support of the Brits, fooled the Reich into giving up the Jews.”
“I am somewhat dubious about that.” The Colonel sipped some orange juice “The Caliphate story is difficult to believe, unless, of course, you had personal experience like you did. It is even more difficult to believe that the Third Reich would be deceived by such a story.”
Eichmann felt confident enough to now pour himself some juice as well. “You are probably right. We can dilute the story somewhat to make it more believable.”
They discussed the details for a while, finally arriving at a mutually agreed cover story.
“We'll be sending our agents to as many Jewish communities as possible. They will leave as soon as I get word from you that they have safe passage. All of them will carry documents issued by the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine. To enable your people to identify them as agents and citizens of the Caliphate the documents will look like this one,” the Colonel showed Eichmann a plastic card with his name and photograph. “The number on the Palestinian ID will be the same as the citizen’s real ID number – just in case you need to cross check with us.
“These agents will have free travel rights between this port and every Jewish community.”
Eichmann smiled: “You should also issue these ID cards, in German, to some of the real Jews, and send them back to their communities. They will be the most effective means of luring the rest of them.”
“Herr Eichmann,” Hirshson smiled an almost genuine smile, “You are a genius. We will definitely follow your advice.”
Eichmann hesitated and decided this was a good time to obtain the information Himmler wanted “Your facilities here are very comfortable and look quite permanent. I wish I could have an office like this.”
Hirshson smiled: “Yes, I like comfort and see no reason to deny it to myself or my subordinates even in a temporary base like this one. We believe that a well-rested, well-fed and healthy soldier can be a formidable fighter. He has to be well-trained, dedicated and armed – and you can trust me that we take care of all these aspects of a good army.”
“So you don’t think that all this makes you soft?”
Hirshson smiled a wolfish smile: “I would advise you to ask our enemies about how soft we are. But they are all dead, so you will have to take my word for it.”
Eichmann was at the point in this conversation where he could ask his question without it sounding strange. “You must have had some fierce battles. Only a short time ago Palestine was under British rule with a sizable garrison and hundreds of thousands of Jews to help them against you. I am curious how you could manage against such odds”
Hirshson did not answer immediately. He kept looking at Eichmann until the German lowered his eyes. Only then did Hirshson recite the answer he was instructed to give: “Dear Colonel, if the Great Mufti of Jerusalem thought that you need this information he would have already given it to you. It is not my place to override the Caliph’s cousin’s decisions.”
Hirshson got up, signaling the end of the interview. As the Colonel was opening the door for his guest to leave the sergeant at the secretary’s desk jumped up to salute: “Sir,” he started in Arabic.
“Please speak German. It is polite to do so in the presence of our esteemed guest,” the Colonel was smiling.
“Yes Sir.
Captain Gamal reports that he just caught an Italian trying to infiltrate the compound to steal whatever he could. Shall we administer the regular punishment?”
“Did the Italian know what the punishment was going to be before he infiltrated?”
“Sir, there are clear signs in several languages outside the fence.”
“Good. Please ask Gamal to make certain the man is not a spy. If he is just a thief, Gamal should round up his family and any friends he can find and administer the punishment in front of them. Then let everybody go. If he is a spy, tell Gamal to wait for me. We shall do the usual.”
“What is the punishment?” inquired Eichmann.
“Oh, it’s prescribed by Sharia: We cut of his left hand for a first offense. It is done in public with a sharp ax. His friends and family will be there to comfort him and treat him afterward. The Caliph’s law is merciful. Of course, if he is a spy, we will interrogate him and then cut out his tongue and eyes as is prescribed by law. We are merciful and very infrequently kill our prisoners.”
After returning to his car Eichmann gave orders to drive as fast as possible to Rome where a Lufthansa plane was waiting to take him to Berlin. He needed to report to Himmler on this first face to face encounter with the Caliph’s military. He also had to warn his superiors that Munich would be in danger if the Caliph was displeased. It was depressing, on the other hand he will probably get to see Hitler again – to report about the Grand Mufti – and that might lead to a promotion. He had to think for a while. It was of paramount importance to present the information about the Mufti as being the result of his great interrogation and diplomatic skills.
***
The weather was nice and hot, not unusual for mid-July in Vilnius. Jacob and Zalman worked side by side at the cabinetmaking shop. Their supervisor, a middle aged German sergeant, was sitting outside smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. The sergeant demanded they do a good job of the repairs they were working on but otherwise treated them well. The workshop was busy restoring furniture brought by German officers from conquered Soviet territories. Most were high quality antiques from czarist times needing restoration after years of abuse as office furnishing. Both Jacob and, to a lesser extent, Zalman, were good with their hands. Both were trained cabinetmakers, though Zalman never used his training and Jacob used it only during the short time he ran his late father’s business before it was taken over by the Germans. They found this job and were doing well enough to be made foremen – each with a small crew - by the sergeant.
The Shield: a novel Page 15