One of the men threw back the canvas curtain and the men started jumping down onto the landing strip near a hanger. Isaac and Yuri ran toward the planes with two bombers. The others fanned out and knelt facing outward and began laying down a covering fire.
A detachment of Royal Marines came running out of the hanger but were quickly gunned down or forced to retreat. The hot sun beat on Isaac and Yuri’s backs. The two bombers ran toward a row of Spitfires lined up on the edge of the concrete runway. At each plane they stopped and wired a bomb high onto the landing gear, lit a fuse and ran on. Each man had four bombs. Isaac knew they had four volunteer bombers. Gabi had instructed them well, made them practice over and over.
Just as the Royal Marines were again making an attempt to leave the hanger, Isaac and the others heard an ear-splitting explosion, followed by another and another. They stopped firing and looked to the east. A huge cloud full of fire and more explosions rose out of the desert. It was immense, growling and rolling, shaking the ground.
Yuri pointed. Isaac could see and feel an immense pressure building from that direction. His ears felt as if the drums would burst. In just a couple of seconds, a hail of sand peppered them and, as Yuri pulled him flat, the wave burst on them with a roar like none of them had ever heard. Clouds of sand and grit poured over them, followed by shrapnel, pieces of building material, glass and everything else in the way between them and the ammunition bunker. The shock wave lifted Isaac from the tarmac like a leaf and blew him back toward the hanger.
Several of the Marines who had gained the safety of an Austin 4wd vehicle were killed as the vehicle was lifted and blown over them. The airplanes were blown back in a lethal dance, flipping, cartwheeling, and smashing into each other, finally coming to rest against the hanger wall. Then the individual bombs wired to the landing gears started exploding, sending pieces of aircraft into the sky, and through the curved metal walls of the hanger.
Isaac lay on his stomach more than thirty meters from where he’d been. The truck they’d come in was miraculously, still upright on its wheels, though it had rolled over and over, smashing the glass, ripping the canvas off the rear and scattering Gabi's precious blocks of plastique.
With the great black cloud still billowing in the distance, Isaac climbed to his feet looking for the other men. Zvi was running from man to man, urging them up. When he saw that Isaac and Yuri were all right, he ran for the lorry.
Isaac and Yuri shouted at each other, though neither could hear anything but the blood pounding in his head. Isaac shrugged and pointed. Yuri instantly understood and ran to get the others moving.
They lost six men that day. Fortunately Gabi wasn’t one. He was busy running about and collecting his bricks of plastique.
When Isaac caught up to him, he was giggling. He grabbed Isaac’s shirt and yelled in his face. Isaac heard nothing but saw that Gabi was laughing hysterically. They found four of the plastique bricks and ran for the lorry. Isaac collected as many of the MP40 machine guns as he could find. When he tried to picture where they all had been when the blast caught them, he realized that the lorry must have rolled to within inches of where he and Yuri had been crouched.
Zvi had the lorry running, and Isaac helped two men into its battered bed. One had lost part of a hand, and the other had a broken ankle, the bone sticking out and blood dripping steadily. Off in the distance, they heard sirens. Most of the men had their clothing nearly torn off. Zvi pounded on the door and ground the lorry into gear as Isaac jumped onto the bed, the last man on board.
Aside from not being able to hear and some skin scraped from being hurled along the tarmac, both he and Yuri were basically unhurt. Their blouses and trousers were in tatters, though. Yuri had a blood smear down the side of his face, but Isaac could see no large cuts or wounds on his head, just a patch of his dark hair missing. They grinned at each other and shrugged.
Zvi was headed toward the main gate when three boxy vehicles with large red crosses painted on them passed him. He shouted something and waved them past. Then a column of military vehicles went screaming by. As he came to the gate, he yelled at a guard, “I’ve got to get these men to a hospital. The whole bloody ammo dump just blew. Must have been the heat or something!”
The guard quickly raised the barrier, and Zvi sped through.
Later, they would mourn the loss of six good men, but right now, they had to get back to their base in Beersheba.
In the rear of the damaged lorry, Isaac and Yuri tore strips from the men’s clothing and made bandages and tourniquets as best they could. It took several hours for them to return. Twice they had to hide to avoid British patrols. The lorry was smoking and making a horrible noise from the rear axle. Finally they had to abandon it behind a row of deserted sand colored buildings. Zvi took off at a run, leaving the others to tend to their comrades. In less than a half hour, he was back with a battered pickup truck. They quickly loaded the men and weapons aboard and, without a backward glance, drove off on the last leg of their trip to the British airbase. They arrived back to base at dusk, exhausted and famished. When the gate closed behind them, Isaac finally gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against the rear of the cab. He and Yuri stretched out where they were and slept until morning, each cradling a machinegun like a child clutches a stuffed toy.
Chapter 32
They carried out two more operations before Zvi finally let them go to Jerusalem to meet with the famous Seymour Levintall. The two operations were low-level, one with Gabi demonstrating a quick and easy method for taking down power and telephone poles with the plastique explosives, and the second, a break-in at a British supply outlet near Hebron to steal uniforms and official stationery. Because Abraham was with them, there was no killing. They tied up the three soldiers on duty, and Abraham apologized to them, in Hebrew, then German, not sure if any of the men even understood him.
Abraham was back to his full weight by now, almost 100 kilos, and had grown his beard back. It was bushy and dark, looking like the hair on top of his head had migrated to his chin. His friends kidded him about this.
Isaac, Yuri, and Abraham were given a ride to a bus stop in the Jewish section of Palestine by Ari. Zvi wanted them to take one of the Irgun vehicles so they could come back quickly but Isaac demurred. “No, you may need it. We will return as soon as we can.”
Isaac clutched a thick folder under his arm. It was filled with life-sized drawings of all the SS men, doctors and nurses, camp guards, and other Nazis he could think of. He also drew pictures of his mother, sister Miriam, and brother Herschel, hoping that they had somehow survived. Last, in his pocket, was a small picture over which he’d spent some time, the picture of the girl from the train, Deborah Eisenstein. He would keep it and always look for her.
When the ancient bus came, they boarded, using as fare some of the British currency that Zvi had given them. They had enough for a room in a pensione for a week, as well as for food and expenses.
When Isaac asked what they should do if they needed more, Zvi laughed and said, “Steal it. You are Irgun!” Zvi also gave Isaac a phone number and a name on a scrap of paper, admonishing, “Only in an emergency.”
The bus took them through hills and valleys, mostly desert. In the distance, Isaac saw the occasional black tent, a donkey grazing on infrequent thistle bushes. He wondered how his people would ever wrest a living from this God-forsaken nothingness. Through the front window, past the keffiyeh-clad driver’s head, Isaac could see the narrow ribbon of asphalt snaking back and forth around the larger hills as it steadily climbed to Jerusalem’s plateau. They motored through Hebron and finally, with a groan, up the winding road, where the bus turned just short of the old city’s wall. The driver ground through the gears and steered down narrow streets to the north end, across from the Damascus gate where there was a courtyard surrounded on three sides by whitewashed stone buildings. This was the Jerusalem bus station. Two more aged Bedford 29 buses sat in the yard, motors idling, black smoke puffing out the exhau
sts.
The three disembarked in the heat of the afternoon. The stone buildings surrounding them reflected the sun, and Isaac indicated a shaded spot for them to gather. He needed time for his eyes to grow accustomed to the glare. They sat on a rickety bench against a high wall.
“Mein Gott,” grumbled Abraham, “I thought the farther north we rode, the cooler it would be.” He mopped his receding hairline with a large blue bandana.
Yuri joked, “If you didn’t have that ugly beard, perhaps you would be cooler.”
Before he could answer, Isaac teased, “Maybe if you hadn’t been eating so well, you wouldn’t be carrying all that hot, heavy weight, eh?”
Abraham remained calm. “Ah, lads, just remember, when the hard times come again, you skinny boys will be the first to go. Stout people like me have plenty of extra, um, stored rations to live on.” He hauled himself to his feet, offering a hand to each of the others. “Now let us go find the hotel Zvi told us about.”
They wandered past the huge gate, and, after asking for directions several times, they managed to find their way to Hazatira Street. The street was lined with small shops, some no wider than a man with outstretched arms. Above the shops were apartments, and each alley displayed clotheslines strung between two buildings. On the street men and women hawked used clothing, household goods, phonograph records, and postal cards.
Toward the end, they found a sign pointing down an alley. It read Grand Hotel Kiev. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Abraham said, “I wonder how grand it can be?”
Hoisting their bags once more, they trudged down the alley. Toward the rear of the building facing the street they found three steps leading up to a door with the name of the hotel in faded gold paint.
In a small lobby were several chairs and sofas arranged before a polished wood counter. Behind the counter stood a nearly bald man wearing a loose-fitting white shirt with long sleeves. The sleeves were tied closed with two pieces of red ribbon. An imposing nose with a piece missing from one nostril preceded a pair of green eyes, which lit up at the approach of the three weary travelers.
“Ah, fine gentlemen, welcome, welcome to the Grand Hotel Kiev.” He spread his hands, one of which was missing two fingers. “How many rooms would you like? One? Two? Or three?”
Isaac asked, “Do you have a room with three beds, Mr...?”
“I am Adir ben Movsha, at your service,” he said with a bow so low his face almost touched the counter. “To answer your question, my good sirs, no, two beds at most, but we can always bring in an additional mattress so you will be able to stay together. Will that be satisfactory?”
Isaac looked at the others who nodded. “Fine, Mr. Ben Movsha.” Isaac reached for the proffered key and said, “We expect to be here for five or six days.”
Ben Movsha nearly clapped his hands, “That will be excellent, gentlemen. Please sign the desk entry form.” He slid a form and a pencil across the counter, all the while grinning broadly exposing large, yellow teeth.
Isaac signed in and then, with his companions behind him, climbed the wide stairway to the third floor. The key was attached to a wooden plaque with the number 304 burned into it.
The room was surprisingly airy and clean, the sheets, though thin and nearly threadbare, stretched tight and without stains. A blanket was folded neatly at the foot of each bed. Nearby, a glass-inset double door led to a small balcony dotted with potted plants and two wicker chairs.
“Very nice,” said Abraham, tossing his canvas bag onto the bed nearest the balcony.
Isaac prowled the room, opening doors. One revealed a closet with wooden hangers on a pipe bar. The other was locked, apparently a connecting door to the next room. Yuri was on the balcony with Abraham, surveying the alley behind the building and the building next door, which was no more than eight feet away. Beside the railing to his left was a cast iron drainpipe from the roof. It was held to the wall every six feet or so with metal straps and large square-headed bolts.
Abraham said, “Looks strong enough to bear our weight if we have to make a quick getaway.”
Yuri frowned, “Why would we need to do that?”
Abraham shrugged, “One never knows. I also think we could jump to the balcony next door if need be.”
Isaac joined them, crowding into the small space. “What time is the lecture tonight?”
“It is at 7:00 PM. We will have to ask Mr. Ben Movsha for directions to Hebrew University,” Abraham answered. “I believe it is north of the old city on Mount Scopus ̶ a short walk for strong lads like us.”
“Fine, fine. Now let us go and get some food. That ride left me thirsty, hungry, and tired. When we get back, the spare mattress ought to be here.” Isaac turned to Yuri, “I challenge you to a coin flip for the bed.”
“Abraham, will you please flip it? I don’t trust this gonif,” Yuri snickered.
Abraham dug a Palestinian 100 mil coin from his pocket. “Isaac will be the numbered side and Yuri the obverse. The winner gets to choose, all right?”
They both nodded, and Abraham tossed the coin high, letting it fall on one bed. It landed number side up and Isaac grinned, tapped his chest and pointed at the bed. Yuri sneered, “I like a coin with a man’s face on it. Gives it character.”
Abraham rooted around in a pocket and produced a gold sovereign. “Is this what you mean, my fine young friend?” The gold coin sparkled in the sunlight. Abraham winked and slid it back in his pocket.
After getting directions from Ben Movsha at the desk, they set out for Hebrew University. It sat on Mount Scopus, quite a long walk, but they had plenty of time. Along the way, they found a small café with outdoor tables and awnings.
“This looks good enough to me,” said Abraham halting, and dropping his bulk in a creaking canvas-backed chair. Isaac and Yuri followed. A waiter appeared almost instantly. He was a skinny youth with large ears, a receding chin, and bushy black hair almost shaven on the sides.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in Hebrew. “Something to drink?”
“Yes, please,” said Isaac. “Something cold. A pitcher of a light wine with ice if you have it.”
“Of course. For all three?” They nodded, and the waiter strode away.
When he returned with a tray of glasses and a jug of cold wine, Abraham asked, “What kind of food do you have this evening?”
“Why don’t I just bring you something my mother just made? It is a traditional Ukrainian dish called vareniki. You will like, yes?”
He rushed into the café and was back with plates, utensils, a saltbox and a bowl of broken ice. Then a matronly woman came forth with a tray full of bowls, savory smells rising to envelop them.
“This vareniki,” she proudly said.
Her son helped her place the bowls on the crowded table. Inside were golden dumplings they soon found were stuffed, some with meat, some with cabbage, some mushrooms and some with potatoes. Then she spooned soft, golden onions sautéed in a creamy butter sauce over the dumplings.
The boys dug in and soon greeted the son and mother with moans of pleasure.
“These dumplings are exquisite,” moaned Abraham. “I love the ones with potatoes and meat.”
“Yes,” Yuri agreed. “It puts me in mind of the fine cuisine in the Buna.”
“Ah, my friends, let us not forget the delicious food provided for us in Buchenwald.” Isaac tried to keep the conversation alive but they soon fell into a melancholia remembering those ghastly days when men were dying all around them, starving to death, so weak that diseases ran rampant.
Abraham grasped a hand of Isaac and Yuri on either side of them and bowed his head. In a low, rumbling voice, he whispered the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead.
The wine was chilled just perfectly, and they finished the entire bottle. While the sun dropped in the west beside the mountains and the sky glowed softly as the moon rose, they each thanked the mother and son, paid in Palestinian pounds and left a very generous tip.
The pr
ospective evening stroll turned into a fast hike up the winding road, and they worked off the meal by the time they reached the campus of the oldest Jewish university in Palestine. The cornerstone had been laid in 1918, and the school officially opened in 1925. All this they read on a plaque standing by a gate leading into the campus. Other signs directed them to a small auditorium where they arrived just in time to be seated before Seymour Levintall mounted the rostrum to scattered applause. Levintall was not a tall man, barely five foot six inches. He was thin with a small bulging stomach. His hair was graying, his skin unusually mottled and lined for a man no more than thirty-five or so.
“I’d like to talk to you tonight about our Holocaust,” Levintall began, “where, once again, we Jews were being blamed for all the ills of the world.” He looked around and continued, “I am afraid that here in our Yisroel, we will be blamed again and will need to defend ourselves. This time, we will not go quietly to the cattle cars.”
He went on like this for a few more minutes before he got to the reasons he was here. “I need as many eyewitness stories as I can get from camp survivors. The Allies are going to continue trials of former camp guards, doctors, SS soldiers, builders, anyone who had a hand in establishing the extermination camps, work camps and detention facilities. I need photos, descriptions, names and anything else you can give me that will help us identify these evil people and enable us to bring them to justice. My office is in Brussels, and my team of people are all volunteers. Any donations you or your relatives can give will be gratefully accepted. We are committed to using all the monies we receive to our cause.”
After the lecture, a short line formed of people who wished to speak with Levintall. Isaac stood with the others, his portfolio under his arm. Levintall listened for a few minutes to each respondent and gave them slips of paper with a date and time. He shook hands with each person. When Isaac stood before the tired-looking man, all he did was pull the drawings from the folio, one at a time. Each one was a precisely detailed drawing of a camp guard or nurse or doctor or SS soldier. Faces, uniforms with proper badges and names were all illustrated on each page. Levintall looked at each one, the eyes boring into him. He set aside several of the drawings. After he had seen the last one, he looked up at Isaac.
Long Lost Brother Page 20