Long Lost Brother

by Don Kafrissen

  “And we don’t?”

  The man turned and looked at him. “Did negotiations stop the war? Did negotiations keep the Nazis from killing us?”

  Isaac mulled this over. The man was right. “But perhaps the British are sick of war and will go home and leave us be?”

  The man snorted, “Not likely. Once they own something, they will fight to keep it. I have been in India and saw their foot on the necks of the Indian people.”

  Before Isaac could ask more questions, the speaker continued, “We will meet here once a week. Next week we will begin weapons training for those of you unfamiliar with small arms. If we have to kill every Tommy in Palestine, we will do so!”

  Isaac went back to the boarding house after the meeting and gathered his friends onto the front porch. “This Irgun fellow makes a persuasive argument for independence.” He went on to tell them what he knew of the Haganah and the Irgun and their aims.

  “So you are going to join this Irgun, this military group?” asked Abraham.

  “Yes,” nodded Isaac. “I am committing myself to helping create the state of Israel, and,” he hesitated a moment, “I wish to learn to use weapons. I also wish to find others who will come and hunt down the Nazis who we know are evil. Like Saul said, we will attempt to bring them to justice first.”

  “And after? What if the new German government or the governments of the other countries where they go to hide, refuse?” Abraham was agitated now.

  Isaac stood and pointed a finger at him, “Then I will kill them. While I draw breath I will kill as many of them as I can!”

  Sitting quietly beside him, Yuri said, “And I too, Isaac.”

  Abraham looked at his two friends, knowing that nothing he could say would change their minds, nodded and echoed, “Then so will I.”

  Isaac started, “You? But why, Abraham?” He thumped back onto his chair.

  Abraham quipped, “Well, lads, someone has to keep you two in line. You know, make sure you don’t join the Nazi Party or something.”

  They had a good laugh at that. The next evening, the three went to the meeting place. At the door, his co-worker, Ari, frowned, “Why three of you?”

  Isaac took him aside. “We were in the camps together. They are good men and will be good soldiers. You have my word.”

  Reluctantly, Ari agreed. They joined about ten men standing before a long table. Behind the table, Zvi Sacher was placing weapons on the table, helped by a young boy.

  When he had the weapons lined up to his satisfaction Sacher began, “Men, these are the weapons you will come into contact with. You have to learn to use them without thinking. Your hands must act before your brains. That is the way of the trained soldier.”

  He began at one end, hefting a rifle. “This is the venerable Lee-Enfield .303 caliber.” He held it across his chest. “It weighs nine pounds and holds 10 rounds in its magazine.” He ejected the magazine and passed it around.

  Isaac pushed the top bullet down and felt the spring pressure beneath it. He hefted it in his hand and then passed it to Yuri.

  The next weapon was a Sten sub-machine gun. “This is the most popular machine gun in the British arsenal. This will become our most desired close-in weapon.”

  He went down the line, describing next the Bren heavier machine gun, the Lanchester sub-machine gun and assorted Webley and Scott revolvers. Last was another rifle, this one different from the British weapons. It was a bit sleeker and more modern looking. Zvi picked it up lovingly. “This is a Czech K98K Rifle. It is made in both Czechoslovakia and in Belgium and imported into Palestine.” He grinned under his moustache. “It holds only five rounds, but it is a fine distance rifle.”

  Isaac waved a hand. When he was recognized, he asked, “Why are all these weapons British?” He pointed to the majority of the long and short guns. “Are they going to provide us with them?”

  Zvi laughed and shook his head, “Of course they will. They have armories full of them just begging to be placed in our hands. As for the Czech rifles, they come in, shall we say, via our boats, at night. Sometimes we can get leftover German MP-40 machine guns ̶ of which I wish we had more ̶ Mauser rifles, Walther handguns, and these,” he pulled a cloth wrapped item from a pocket of his coat. “It is a veddy British Millsbomb.” He faked a crusty British accent while cocking an eyebrow.

  The men craned forward and one asked, “Vas is das?”

  Zvi straightened, and his face got hard. “In this room we speak only Hebrew. Hebrew!” He shouted, slamming his hand on the tabletop. “I am not fighting for a German protectorate or a British Mandate. I am fighting for the state of Israel!”

  Abraham calmly asked, “And just who are you, sir?”

  Zvi looked back and smiled, “I am Zvi Sacher, formerly a sergeant major in her Majesty the Queen’s own Rifles. I was the armorer in my unit. For those of you who don’t know, I was in charge of weapons and weapon training.” He swept his hand over the assortment and leaned forward, “I know more about these weapons that any of you will ever know.” Then he slammed the bundle down on the tabletop and unpeeled the cloth. Inside sat a dark green object shaped like a small pineapple. Its surface was scored with deep grooves. It had a long spoon-like lever down one side that was attached at the top and a ring alongside the lever.

  “This is called a Millsbomb after its designer, a chap named Mills. In everyday language, it’s a hand grenade.” He picked it up and tossed it up and down. “This ring is connected to a pin which prevents it from detonating. It is similar to the American grenade.” He pulled the pin, allowing the lever to pop out several centimeters. “One-thousand and one, one thousand and two, one-thousand and three, and BANG!” He yelled. “You are all dead! Anyone within one-hundred feet is dead.”

  They nervously moved away from the table. “Go on, move,” he grinned. “Oops, too late.” He squeezed the lever and reinserted the pin. “This one has had the initial detonation material removed, gentlemen. It is a dud. You can relax now.”

  They all breathed a sigh of relief. The next hour was spent practicing loading the magazines, snapping them into the weapons and being able to find and release the safeties blindfolded.

  Soon they were all able to pick up a rifle, pistol or machine gun, find the proper magazine, insert it and be ready to fire, all while blindfolded. This was to simulate having to do it at night.

  Zvi continued, “As soon as we can, and as soon as we gather some more ammunition, we will take you out into the desert and have firing practice. You need to feel the recoil, feel the climb and be able to reload quickly. I will bring the weapons with me. I will let each of you know when and where we are to meet.”

  Later, Isaac and Yuri sat with Abraham, reviewing the day. “Isaac, I have some problems with weapons,” Abraham said.

  Isaac frowned, while Yuri fiddled with a folding pocketknife. “What do you mean, my friend?”

  “I … I don’t think I can shoot anybody,” Abraham blurted out. “Don’t misunderstand me; I think some people deserve to be executed. I just don’t think I can do it.” He brightened, “I can be a weapons loader, or, or a getaway driver or, you understand, in a support position. I think that even the Irgun needs support personnel.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask Zvi.” Isaac turned to Yuri. “Could you kill someone, Yuri?”

  Yuri thought for a minute, still fiddling with the knife, snapping it open and closed. Finally he nodded, “I believe so. If you tell me that a man is a bad man, Isaac, I can kill him.” He seemed disinterested, willing to let Isaac lead him.

  Just as Isaac was about to speak again, Yuri said, “We have no place else to go. If the British or the Arabs or anyone else tries to throw us out of Palestine, if I have to, I will kill them all.” He looked back and forth from Isaac to Abraham, “Wouldn’t you both do the same?” It was all simple to Yuri. He flipped open the blade and started trimming his fingernails.

  Over the next several weeks, they learned how to shoot the weapons. One evening when
they met, Zvi was ecstatic. The night before, a small ship had had slipped through the British blockade and landed on a nearby beach loaded to the gunwales with cases of ammunition and three crates of Czech K98K rifles. Zvi and ten men were waiting and had the boat unloaded in less than fifteen minutes. “We slipped right past a British patrol. However, in the future, I think we may have to cause a diversion in the city.”

  “What sort of diversion?” asked Isaac.

  Zvi shrugged and said, “Perhaps a bombing or we will shoot up a police station.”

  He turned to Isaac and Yuri. “I may have a job for you two. We have heard of a cache of German MP-40 sub-machine guns in a warehouse in Chemnitz.”

  “Chemnitz?” Isaac exclaimed.” That’s in Germany!”

  “South of Frankfurt, yes. Our people there are not equipped to come to the coast with them. We need some enterprising souls to borrow a vehicle and drive the weapons to southern France or Italy where a boat can be hired to bring them in.” He smiled a mirthless smile. “This is a test for you lads. Are you up for it?”

  Yuri waited for Isaac to answer. “Will your people let us take the weapons?”

  “I’ll give you a letter and an address. You understand that if you are caught, we never heard of you. You will have to figure your route, your identity, everything yourself.” Again he asked, “Are you up for it?”

  “Of course,” answered Isaac. “How will you get us back to Germany?”

  “We have a plane that will take you to Cyprus. From there, a boat will take you to Split in Yugoslavia. Some of Tito’s boys will run you up into Austria. We have people there who will see you into Germany. Then you are on your own.” He shook his shaggy head. “The Russians control most of that area, so I would advise you to go in and out as quickly as possible. We are moving our Irgun people west, out of the Russian zone. The Americans, British, and French have divided up Germany, and we feel there may be more sympathy for us in the West.”

  Over the next week, they went over the plans, passwords, encrypted codes, and forged papers. They were expected to be back within forty-five days – not a lot of time.

  The night before they were to leave, Isaac and Yuri went to a small café with Abraham. “I do not like this, my friends. What will I do if you do not return?” asked Abraham plaintively.

  Isaac laughed and clapped the big man on his shoulder, “Why, you will have to come rescue us, then.” Being German Jews, they ordered beer. Isaac felt quite free sitting in a Jewish café on a Jewish street in a Jewish city. Of course, the hated British soldiers were a constant presence and many Arabs also passed by, but Isaac had no doubt that Jews would soon control this city. And he was still anxious to go to the fabled city of Jerusalem.

  Abraham sputtered, “Come get you? Return to Germany?” He swigged his beer. “You’d just better not get caught!”

  The rest of the evening was spent talking, drinking and listening to a Greek refugee play one mournful tune after another on a battered guitar. The three mused on their present state, alone in the world, no surviving family, just the three of them who had been through so much together. Isaac looked at his closest friends.

  Yuri had finally regained some weight, and though he was still thin, his hair had grown out and he affected a short beard.

  Abraham, a bear of a man with a ready smile, redheaded and also bearded, was brawny with thick arms and a pleasant round face. His friends. He felt blessed even though, in reflection, he missed his family very much. His mother and sister, now dead, he was sure, and his brother, Herschel, just as certainly a pile of ashes in some oven somewhere. He felt like weeping, though from sadness or joy or a combination of both he was not sure. All he know for sure was that he, Isaac Rothberg, a camp survivor, would go on. He would seek out and punish those responsible for what was now being referred to as the Holocaust.

  Chapter 21

  Zvi gave them a ride to the airport in an ancient Ford Sedan. On the tarmac stood a medium-sized, twin-engine airplane. Its once-shiny exterior was dull and dented. Zvi proudly swept his arm at it. “That, lads, is the first aircraft in the Israeli Airlines. It is a Douglas DC-3, one of the finest aeroplanes ever constructed. It was kindly donated to us by an American Jewish philanthropist. It is owned by the Israel Defense Forces, though we borrow it occasionally. Today it is going to Cyprus to retrieve fruit tree seedlings and several Jewish farmers approved by our British brothers.”

  He shook Isaac’s and Yuri’s hands and wished them happy hunting. “Remember, lads, these weapons are crucial to our fight for freedom here. Soon this sniping and minor attacking is going to spill over into a real war - a war we must win.”

  As they climbed aboard, Isaac couldn’t help but notice the line of bullet holes stitched along one side of the aluminum fuselage.

  Once inside, a young woman pointed them to one of two rows of passenger seats. “Sit there and buckle in,” she said in heavily accented Hebrew. “The flight will take no more than one hour.” Isaac thought she must have been Romanian or Bulgarian.

  “I have never been on an aeroplane,” said Yuri nervously, gripping the armrests.

  “I have not either,” responded Isaac, “but what could possibly go wrong?” Isaac grinned nervously at Yuri.

  They each had a small bag, which they jammed under the seat. Their passports said Palestine and had gold seals on the front of a maroon leather-like cover. Isaac didn’t know if these were real or bogus. In their bags they had German and Swiss passports sewn into the false bottoms along with several stacks of French and Swiss francs and American dollars. He didn’t know whether these were real either. He assumed they were, hoped they were.

  Their cover story was that they were going to Europe to purchase food for Israeli immigrants.

  The plane rose shakily into the calm air, engines groaning. The pilot, they learned, was a former American bomber pilot from Brooklyn, New York, a Jew who decided that he wanted to help the homeland achieve independence. He lustily sang popular American songs: Marezy Doats and Shoo Shoo Baby and some other baffling songs. Isaac had never heard any of them, but he liked the beat.

  The airport in Cyprus was busy with military aircraft and they had to circle for almost fifteen minutes before being allowed to land. A bored man in a frumpy British military uniform stamped their passports, and then they were outside.

  Before Isaac and Yuri could decide what to do next, they were waved into a cab by a smiling man with a huge, curling mustache. He spoke broken Hebrew and Yiddish.

  “Yes, yes, I take you to boat. You are boys from Palestine, yes?”

  Yes, they agreed and sat back in the dusty old cab. It hummed along a road out of Nicosia. They finally saw a sign propped on the ground pointing to a place called Larnaca. When asked, the driver gestured, “Yes, yes, Larnaca. Port.” He shook his finger and said, “Not us. We go Limassol. One, maybe two-hour drive. We eat there.”

  Yuri and Isaac looked at each other and shrugged. They were at the mercy of the Irgun operatives who had been in place, some for years. Almost four hours later, as the day was growing short, they rumbled into the town of Limassol. It sat on the southern coast in the crook of a bay, surrounded by palm trees. Neat houses in the Greek style, all whitewashed stone, started out quite a distance from the waterfront. Olive groves and small gardens populated the gentle hills, and people walking or working in the warm air waved at the driver’s honking horn.

  Isaac and Yuri returned waves from these friendly people, who were mostly dark skinned with black hair. The cab screeched to a stop at a small taverna along the waterfront.

  “Come,” the driver beckoned, hand pointed down in the Greek manner. “My cousin, Sokrates, very good souvlakis. You eat, then go boat tonight.”

  Inside the dim café, they were introduced to Sokrates, a short, rotund man wearing a loose white collarless pullover shirt, with some interesting stains on the bulge of his stomach. He wore a white knitted cap on his round head. His curling mustache turned up at the ends. He smiled
and kissed each of them on both cheeks.

  “Kalimera, my friends!” he nearly shouted. Then he clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Kostas, Come, eat. Welcome, welcome!”

  He showed them to a table and brought plates of food. When they finished eating, it was nearly dark. Kostas walked them down to a large older fishing boat. It was dirty and shabby and its motor smoked. Isaac wrinkled his nose at the smell. They threw their bags aboard and leaped from the dock down to the low deck. A wiry deckhand was there to grasp their arms as they landed.

  “Efaristo,” Kostas thanked the deckhand.

  “Parakalo,” the deckhand muttered. “Come.” When they were below, he said, “Put your gear in the crew’s quarters,” in Hebrew.

  Isaac started. “You are a Jew?”

  The deckhand stopped and looked Isaac in the eye. He was about forty years old, thin, yet wiry, his dark hair cut short. “I am when I need to be.”

  After the gear was stowed and bunks pointed out, Isaac and Yuri came back on deck just as the motors churned the brown dockside seawater to froth and pushed off, heading into the open Mediterranean. Though the twenty-five or thirty-meter boat looked like a barely floating wreck on the exterior, below deck it was clean, painted and kept in excellent condition. The diesel engines ran smoothly, and the fishing gear was old, but serviceable.

  The captain turned the wheel over to the mate and came down and introduced himself in Hebrew. “I am Teo. Welcome aboard. We sail under a Greek flag this trip so, I will teach you some Greek language on this trip in case we are stopped, yes?”

  They nodded. Captain Teo went on, “You will be expected to work on this trip. We fish for food as well as cover.” He shrugged and smiled. “We also make a few shekels to pay for fuel and ouzo.” After surveying the two and rubbing his chin, the captain stuck a forefinger into Isaac’s chest and said, “You will be Achilles,” and to Yuri he said, “and you, Adonis.” He laughed as he made his way back to the wheelhouse.