Long Lost Brother

by Don Kafrissen

  Zvi shook his head and said, "I wouldn't do that, sir."

  The officer rapidly pulled his pistol, and the man standing in the rear cocked his machine gun, a Bren, Isaac noted, remembering his earlier training.

  "Oh, and why is that?" asked the perplexed officer, preparing to step down from his vehicle.

  Zvi knocked his hand twice on the outside of the door. The canvas on the driver's side of the lorry flew up revealing six men with MP40 machine pistols aimed at the British soldiers. "Because then I would have to ask my men to shoot you." Zvi opened the lorry door and stepped down. "Now, be good lads and give me your weapons."

  The officer tried to raise his revolver, and one of Zvi's men shot him with a pistol in the shoulder. The officer flew backward against the vehicle’s fender, and groaned, gripping his shoulder. The soldier in the rear raised his hands, as did the driver.

  "Please don't shoot," exclaimed the driver, stepping out when Zvi beckoned.

  "That's good, lads. Now disrobe." Zvi leaned against the front fender of the lorry and lit a cigarette.

  "What?" asked the driver, another youngster, perhaps even younger than the officer. The machine gunner was an older man, obviously a veteran of the war. He knew overwhelming odds when he saw them and wasn't about to give his life for God and King in this craphole of a land.

  They both started undressing in the road. "Underwear too?" asked the driver nervously?

  Zvi chuckled, "No, you may keep your underthings." He called over his shoulder in Hebrew, "One of you gather up the weapons and clothing, please." As a man hopped down, Zvi whispered something to him. After he'd loaded the goods into the lorry, he slipped a knife from a sheath on his belt and walked toward the two soldiers now standing in white underclothes. The driver started whimpering.

  The man just walked past him and punctured all four of the Austin's tires. Then he lifted the Bren gun off its mount and gave it to one of the men in the lorry.

  Zvi pointed to the wounded officer, "Him too. Strip him."

  The two soldiers started removing the officer's clothes. He was nearly in shock when they did but managed to groan, "I'll find you and kill you for this, you bastards."

  Zvi walked to the man and made a pistol motion with his hand at the officer, "Come, come now. We could just shoot you, you know." His accent was noticeably less pronounced. He crouched and touched the officer's chest. "Look at it this way. You have a very nice going-home wound. If you tell the story right, you'll be a hero." He stood and said, "Well, gentlemen, I'm afraid we must be going. Tra-la." Zvi remounted the lorry, slammed the door and drove on, flipping his cigarette butt out the window.

  Through the rear view mirror, Isaac could see the two soldiers crouched over the officer. "Why did you make them disrobe?" he asked.

  Zvi considered, "Two reasons. First to humiliate them, and second, I have an operation planned and we may need British uniforms." That was all he said for the rest of the drive. He drove south for about three hours and then turned east.

  "Where are we going?" asked Isaac.

  "Beersheba. We have a place to hide the guns after they are cleaned and made ready."

  Isaac decided to ask Zvi if he'd heard of Seymour Levintall. "Of course," Zvi replied. “Who here in Israel hasn't?" Zvi spoke proudly of one of the men who was helping convict Nazi war criminals. "He is coming to Israel to interview more survivors of the camps."

  Isaac's heart leaped. "When is he coming? I have to see him, help him."

  Zvi looked at the young man, "You? How can you help him?" He was skeptical of Isaac's eagerness. He knew that the lad had been in the camps, but how could he help Seymour Levintall?

  "I am an artist, and I have an excellent memory. I can draw pictures of some of the worst of the guards that I saw in Auschwitz and Buchenwald. I can draw a very good picture of the Witch of Buchenwald, Ilse Koch. I saw what she did. I was there."

  Zvi considered, then spoke, "He is coming to Jerusalem at the end of June, but you are going to be busy with us. We have a country to build. First we have to drive the British out and then the Palestinians. This is our country now."

  "I realize that, but the Arabs have been here for many generations. This is their home too." Zvi’s attitude troubled Isaac. It seemed more like Germany, wanting to first drive the Jews out and then kill them all.

  "Isaac, my friend, if not here, where? We Jews have no place else to go. No one will allow us in. Not the British, not the Americans. Even the Cubans turned a refugee ship away. We must stand and fight in our traditional homeland to the last man." Again he said, sadly, "We have no place else to go."

  Chapter 30

  Beersheba sits in a valley on the edge of the Negev desert, with the Hebron Hills to the northeast. Though several British military patrols passed them as they drove through the early morning hours, they were not stopped again. Isaac noted many Arabs along the way and asked, "Where are all the Jews?"

  "In Beersheba? Not many. This is the headquarters for the Palestinian sector, called the West Bank, meaning, of course, the West Bank of the Jordan River."

  "But aren't we taking a chance that the Arabs will discover us? Our weapons?"

  Zvi replied, "We have friends here. They want the British out as much as we do. If we have to fight them, it will be after we send the British home. That won't happen tomorrow, so for now we are safe." He drove toward the hills. After motoring uphill for several miles, they came to a large house made of adobe. It was typically Arab in design, with a wall surrounding it, broken glass embedded in its top. He honked the horn twice, then once. The massive wooden gate slowly swung open.

  Two Arab men closed the gate behind them. They had British Sten guns slung over their shoulders. The lorry backed up to a loading dock at the far right hand end of the rambling structure. "Well, here we are at our Irgun hideout." As the men swung down from the enclosed bed, Zvi said, "Who would think to look for us here?"

  Isaac went back to meet Yuri, Martin and the other men who helped retrieved the guns. One of them, he discovered, was Ari, the young fellow who had introduced him to the Irgun. They clasped hands and grinned. "You too here?"

  Ari shrugged and said, "Where else?"

  Before Isaac could say anything he was grabbed from behind in a great bear hug, and a voice he recognized brayed, "Isaac, mein kin, so good to see you safe." It was Abraham, now larger than ever.

  Isaac spun and hugged the older man, tears in his eyes. "I hoped we would meet again, my friend." They gripped each other's upper arms and just smiled. He and Yuri were Isaac's oldest and dearest friends. They had been through much together, and it was good to have the three together again. Yuri hugged the big man also.

  They all spent the next hour unloading the MP40 Maschinenpistoles and magazines. Abraham muttered, "Mein Gott, what a hoard." He turned his sweaty face to Isaac and asked, "Did you have to kill many Russians to get these out?"

  Isaac lowered his eyes and said, "Only two, and Martin, here, did the deed." He introduced the two tall men. Martin was a few centimeters taller. Abraham and Martin shook hands, appraising each other. They both smiled and nodded in comraderie.

  Later that night, after sharing a meal in a community dining room, Isaac recounted their adventures. Yuri was his usual quiet self, just sitting, smiling and humming to himself. Martin, being new, was also mostly silent, though he embellished Isaac's account with forgotten details. Then Isaac said, "A man, Seymour Levintall, is coming to Jerusalem in a couple of weeks. I have to go and meet him."

  "Why, what does he do?" asked Abraham.

  "He finds Nazi war criminals and hands them over to the war crimes tribunals. I want to give him my drawings with names. Maybe they will be brought to justice."

  Abraham nodded, sipping some schnapps in a small cup. He was wearing billowy trousers and a military type shirt. He reached into a pocket and brought out a tin of British cigarettes. The label read Neptune, Navy Cut.

  Isaac teased, "Oh, ho, since when have you started smoking?
"

  Abraham looked sheepish and said, "I smoked a long time ago, before the war. I gave it up when we were in the camps." At this he gave a great belly laugh, then offered one to Isaac.

  Isaac waved him away. "No thank you. I can't stand the taste."

  Over the next week, the four, since Martin was now included in their little group, helped the entire crew of eighteen, disassemble, clean, oil and reassemble the lovely little German machine guns. From a storeroom, Zvi and other men carried large metal boxes of ammunition with British markings on them. They fell to, loading the massive pile of magazines, thirty-two rounds to each. By nightfall, Isaac’s thumbs were blistered and his nails chipped and split. The others compared similar wounds.

  Zvi came in and just nodded, surveying row upon row of gleaming weapons. Each one had a magazine inserted and two more lying at its side. "Gentlemen, please give me your attention." He sat on an upturned ammo box as the men gathered around. "This week we are going out into the desert and practice firing these weapons. Next week we are going to attack a British air base and destroy some aircraft. This attack will be co-coordinated with a Palmach attack on a base near them and an attack by Haganah. This, I think, should push the British a little further over the edge."

  "How do you know this?" asked Isaac.

  Zvi looked at him and carefully weighed his words, "Do you know what cells are?"

  Isaac frowned and said, "Like jail cells?"

  "No, my friend, when an organization operates in small groups, many small groups, those are called cells. You do not know the members of the other cells so if you are captured, you can't lead our enemies to the next cell. I just know they exist and where we leave messages. Even if I am captured, I do not know the people in any other cell. In Irgun we have many cells but only one senior leader that I know of, Yaakov Meridor. I think there are others. They do the planning, we do the work."

  Yuri leaned over and whispered, "As it is in all armies."

  Out in the desert, each man was taught how to load the MP40, how to quickly switch magazines, and finally, how to squeeze the trigger to only shoot one or two cartridges. The weapon was a fully automatic sub-machine gun, though with its low rate of fire, users could feather their fingers to shoot selectively. They practiced this over and over.

  Finally, after trekking out into the Negev at four in the morning for four days, Zvi was satisfied. "Next week, we will attack."

  They spent two days making bombs to blow up the airplanes. The bombs were made from old howitzer and anti-aircraft shells. Isaac, Yuri and Abraham spent their days foraging for scraps of metal, glass and spent cartridges to pack around the explosives. This would create shrapnel and increase the damage.

  Finally the day came. At five in the morning the men awoke and quietly dressed. This was not the first raid for some of them, but even the veterans felt the tension. The first-timers were understandably nervous. Some wrote letters to loved ones, some cleaned their weapons, some just sat and talked quietly.

  Zvi entered the dining room dressed in the recently washed and repaired British officer's uniform. Two other men were dressed in the enlisted men's uniforms and carried Sten guns. He came to a halt, nearly clicking his heels, and gave the open palm British salute. "All right, mates, on yer feet!" he commanded in his best Cockney accent.

  The men grinned and jumped in line, returning the salute. "Oy, sah!" shouted one. You might think they were going to an opera or salon, thought Isaac.

  "Now, listen up mates. You're to lie on the floor of the lorry, and we'll cover you with a tarpaulin. Keep all the weapons and explosives with you. We're going to build a wall with empty ammo boxes at the end. We should be able to get through the gate without much trouble. When you hear me pound on the lorry door twice, that's your cue to move. Three smacks means trouble, so come out firing. Your job will be to take out the bombers first, then provide covering fire." He looked about and nodded at his crew.

  Soon Isaac lay in the rear of the truck with the rest of the men. Zvi and the two ersatz enlisted men covered them with the tarpaulin. Each man carried a machine pistol, and two double magazines that were taped end to end for rapid change.

  The airfield was more than an hour away. They motored in the military-style lorry, now painted in British colors with an RAF seal neatly painted on the door sides. It was actually a Bedford GS that had been liberated from a base north of Haifa several months ago. The canvas sides came down to the bed and were secured with straps. Altogether, it was a very neat vehicle.

  Chapter 31

  Zvi looked quite proper in his British officer’s uniform. He sat beside the driver and another soldier, riding crop in hand and aviator sunglasses covering a good portion of his face.

  Soon they came to the road leading to the gate, and Zvi shouted, "Two minutes, men. Stay alert!"

  The sign outside the airbase said “Royal Air Force,” Petah Tiqva. Opposite the sign stood a sandbagged guardhouse. A mobile barrier blocked the road. An officer stepped out and held up a hand. Two men with Sten guns stood on either side of him.

  "Oh, shit," muttered Zvi. He recognized the young officer as the one he'd ordered stripped less than three weeks ago. His right arm was in a sling. He also wore aviator sunglasses. Zvi leaned out the window and handed over a piece of paper. It was a very good forgery stating that they were delivering a shipment of ammunitions for the Spitfire planes quartered there. In his best British voice, he asked, "Which direction to the ammo bunker, Major?"

  The officer looked at the paper and handed it back. Before they could move on, the major motioned one of his men to look in the rear. Zvi kept his hand on the door, ready to give the signal.

  In a minute the corporal was back and said, "Big shipment of ammo, sir. Solid to the top." As an aside, he declared, "I'd hate to shoot into that lorry, sir. She'd go up like a bomb."

  Still the Major hesitated, looking at his counterpart sitting in the lorry. Finally he said to one of his men, "Peterson, hop up there on the board and show these men where to take this load."

  "Yes, sir," said the squat veteran. He swung his gun to his back on its sling and hopped up beside Zvi, motioning the driver forward.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at a building half-buried in the sand, away from the other buildings. It was mid-morning and hot. By now everyone was sweating. Peterson hopped down and waved the lorry to turn and reverse. The driver looked at Zvi.

  Zvi waved an arm at the corporal behind the lorry. Peterson came forward and looked up at Zvi, curious. "Yessir? Something wrong?"

  "No, no, Corporal Peterson. It's just that my orders were to deliver this to the flight line. It seems that they have some sorties planned for this evening."

  He frowned, "News to me, sir. Maybe I'd better call the base commander." He turned to the blue painted box beside the door to the bunker. Zvi shot him in the back, and Peterson fell forward, not moving. A pool of blood formed beneath him. Zvi and the other soldier jumped out. They dragged him into the bunker, leaving two gouges in the dirt. Inside, they were amazed at the amount of ammunition, bombs, explosive triggers and plastic explosive stored there.

  He thought that if they could steal all this, they could win the coming war. He sighed, couldn't do it. He rapped on the tailgate of the truck. "Gabi. Come out here."

  A skinny man with a prominent nose and Adam's apple jumped down. Zvi propelled him toward the bunker. "Can you blow this place?"

  Gabi looked inside, mouth hanging open. He was awed by the size of the building and the amount of the contents.

  "Well? Yes or no?"

  He reluctantly nodded. Slowly he turned to Zvi, "We had better not be anywhere near here when it blows. It's going to leave a big hole in the desert."

  "Get a move on. You have five minutes."

  Gabi nodded and scuttled into the building. Zvi knew he was a survivor from the Warsaw Ghetto, and was a bomb maker of some renown. In fact, the Nazis had used him in their rocket program. He ordered the others to throw the wall of empt
y ammunition boxes to the ground.

  Several minutes later, Gabi came running out. "We have ten minutes, maybe fifteen!" His arms were full of thick blocks of black packages.

  "What are those?" asked Zvi.

  "Plastique!" shouted Gabi scrambling under the canvas curtain that hid the bed of the truck, the men and their weapons. "Go, go!"

  Under the tarpaulin, Isaac asked, “What is this plastique, Gabi?”

  Several of the others were listening as Gabi held one of the blocks up. “This is a moldable explosive, very powerful and concentrated.” Two of the men moved away. Gabi laughed, “Relax, it needs a mechanical or electric detonator, like these,” he pulled a handful of flexible, wire-like pieces from a trouser pocket. “All you have to do is push one of these in the plastique, apply any electrical current and Boom!” He waved his hands over his head. “Here, smell,” he shoved the brick under Isaac’s nose.

  Isaac frowned, “Smells like, what, almonds?”

  Gabi was giddy with his discovery, “Yes, yes, that is how I knew what it was!”

  After stuffing the detonators back into his pockets, he took a deep sniff and grinned. “We can do a lot of damage with this stuff.” He went on to explain that he’d read about this in a British scientific journal. Originally developed by Alfred Nobel and known as gelignite, the British used it in the war to blow up bridges, used it in grenades and anti-tank shells. He took out a pocketknife and cut off a piece, and rolling it with his hands said, “See, one can make a snake out of it, wrap it around a telephone pole and, Blam, take the pole down!” Gabi was fond of making loud noises.

  They heard two loud slaps on the side of the lorry’s door. Guns were cocked and bombs prepared. The men rose into a standing or crouching position. The truck swerved and skidded to a stop, then rapidly reversed. When it had stopped, Zvi yelled, “Now, now!”