by Sewell, Ron
The major studied the man before him. Dark circles filled his eyes, lips dry and bleeding and a face covered in scabs. “Hauptman, can you hear me?”
In English the major said, “Corporal, stay with the captain, give him half a cup every fifteen minutes. No more unless you want to kill him.”
“Sir, from what’s left of his plane, he’s the lucky one.”
“Fifty yards from water and food.”
“We hid it well.”
“Corpse buried, sir,” said the sergeant. “The men placed a rough cross on the grave.”
Lieutenant Baumstein of the Long Range Desert Group removed his goggles, leant on the cave wall and lit a cigarette. He stared at the Luftwaffe captain and spoke. “Sergeant, load the supplies and make a bed of sorts in the back of the halftrack for our prisoner. I don’t think he’ll be any trouble.”
“He’s seen you. A bullet might be kinder, sir.”
“We’re British and do not murder helpless men.”
“Yes, sir. And we’re Jews wearing Africa Corp uniforms.”
“It’s what they pay us for, Sergeant.”
“Yes and not half enough.”
Two soldiers carried the unconscious Geller and placed him on the rough and ready stretcher.
“Sandstorm on its way. Cover him with a tarpaulin, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. At least those bloody mosquitoes will stay away.”
“Nature’s insecticide. Sergeant, right flank, Corporal tail-end-Charlie.”
Baumstein held his right arm high, covered his nose and mouth with an improvised mask. With the drop of his hand the task force moved out.
***
A bright light shone in Geller’s eyes. Images flashed across his mind of his parents. Pictures of his father teaching him how to fish. Why was his bed so uncomfortable and the noise of traffic deafening?
“Lieutenant, the German flyboy keeps muttering. If you have a listen you might understand, being from Germany yourself.”
“He’s dehydrated and rambling. Spoon-feed him water and pray he lives. In two days we can hand him over to the medics.”
“If he lasts that long,” muttered Private Cohen.
***
“What are his chances, Doctor?” asked Lieutenant Baumstein.
“He’s young and strong.”
“Any idea when they’ll take him for interrogation?”
“A week or two. Depends when I say he’s fit enough.”
“Well I’ll leave you to your patients, Doctor. I’ve got two days to get ready for the next series of attacks.”
“If you can bring your men back in one piece, Lieutenant, or should I say Heil Hitler, Major?”
“It’s a ruse that works, Doctor. God help us if we’re caught.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be shot as spies.”
“On that wonderful reflection I’ll take my leave.”
***
“Hauptman Geller,” said Doctor Tanner in German. “There’s a wagon going to Cairo in ten minutes. I’ve orders to see you’re on it.”
“My war is over, Doctor. I‘ve seen too much for my own good. What will happen to me?”
“They will interrogate you and after, send you to England. I believe a camp for German officers exists. Don’t ask me where.”
Geller collected his notebook and shoved it into a small leather holdall which a nurse had given him. “Shall we go, Doctor?”
Both men strolled out of the hospital tent towards the waiting lorry.
“You’ve a choice. Give me your word you will not try to escape.”
“Doctor, you’ve seen my Iron Cross First Class for my duty to the Fatherland.” He ripped it from his tunic. “Take it and remember I am German, not Gestapo. You have my word.”
“Hauptman Geller.”
“Doctor.”
“Please take this. A few sandwiches and a water bottle for the journey.”
“Thank you for saving my life.”
“It’s what doctors do, Hauptman.”
Geller clambered into the back of the truck. A soldier fitted the tailgate and joined the driver.
Geller waved farewell.
***
“Sit, gentlemen,” ordered Hitler with his hands clasped behind him. “My diamonds for our factories, they are here?”
His aide replied, “Mien Fuhrer, in my hand is the report from our people in Luderitz. The transport left four days ago. Alas, its arrival in Berlin has been delayed.”
“Herman.”
“Here, Mien Fuhrer. The weather I cannot control but I assure you your package will arrive and its contents distributed as you ordered.”
Hitler’s eyes glared at the others but he remained calm. “You chose the pilot yourself?”
“I did, Mien Fuhrer. He is the best.”
“It’s a good thing I trust you. Everyone out. I need to discuss with Herman my new strategy for my bombers.”
Everyone left in silence, the last man to leave closing the large double doors.
“General Witzleben, what game is Herman playing? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand the plane disappeared in a sandstorm,” said General Beck.
“A dangerous one. I have it from a reliable source that another delivery of diamonds is on its way.”
Beck laughed and the sound echoed along the uncarpeted hall. “Our illustrious leader would have us shot if he knew.”
“But he’ll never know. Will he?”
Part Two
Chapter One
Pangbourne, River Thames, England 2012
Petros and Maria lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
“Don’t you have an appointment with Rabbi Levy this morning?” said Maria.
He swung his legs out of the bed. “Plenty of time. I’m going for a run with Dog and I’ll shower when I get back.”
Maria sat and brushed a free-spirited hair from her face. “Alysa’s awake and singing nursery rhymes at full volume. No peace for the wicked.”
Dressed in his tracksuit, he perched on the edge of the bed. “No doubt he’ll be asking for another collection.”
“Will you do it?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“My wife and Bear.”
“Have I ever said no?”
“Not yet.”
She sidled across the bed and pulled him down, planting a kiss on his lips. “It’s what you do. Go for your run.”
***
Petros met Bear Morris outside the Rabbi’s Georgian house.
“I put my money on Russia,” said Bear.
“Poland. Bet you a tenner.”
“You’re on.”
Petros pressed the doorbell. From inside the chimes came clear and loud.
“Is he looking at us?” asked Bear.
Petros peered at the security viewer and smiled at the image of a one-eyed man checking him out. “These days it’s wise to have a peek before opening your door.”
Rabbi Levy, a short, ruddy-cheeked man with a long beard opened the door. “Petros, Bear, shalom. Come into my office. I’ll ask Martha to make coffee.”
Oak-panelling covered three walls of the office, on the other an overflowing bookshelf. A dark wood desk and two chairs occupied the centre. Rabbi Levy relaxed in a brown leather recliner on his side of the desk, and motioned for them to sit.
The rabbi leaned back holding a book in his hands. “This,” he held up a tatty black book, “was brought to me by the grandson of a deceased Polish rabbi.” He smiled. “Hand-written in ancient Hebrew.
“From a transcription I understand but unknown to the occupying German army. The artefacts from many synagogues before being looted and destroyed were collected and hidden underground. With the demise of the ghetto all knowledge of this act of defiance vanished.”
“Why don’t you pass this information to the authorities?”
“Treasure hunters. Four people are aware of this; the Chief Rabbi, you two and I. Today, many of the young of Poland do not
admit that he or she is Jewish. For many years after the war a Jew could not feel safe in Poland. Pope John Paul did more to attack anti-Semitism than any other person in the past two thousand years. But if a whisper of hidden treasure became known, half of Warsaw would be digging holes in the ground.”
“The war ended seventy years ago. Why so long?” asked Petros.
He held up the book. “This writer died during 1943. He strapped the book to the body of his six-year-old son and told him to run for his life. Somehow the boy escaped using the secret paths in and out of the ghetto. A farmer found him malnourished and unconscious, sixty miles from Warsaw, took him in, and raised him as a Catholic and one of his own. No one could read the book but it remained a relic from days best forgotten. The boy married a local girl and they produced one son. He was given the book to keep and in time researched the language and on discovering he was a Jew by lineage, kept quiet. Later in life he came to England to work. A few weeks ago this man died, his son found a package addressed to the Chief Rabbi. Needless to say, this is confidential information.”
“After all these years, you have faith that it’s still there?” said Petros.
“Yes. The ghetto after the war remained a wasteland. The interesting part of this tale is the artefacts, according to this book, are located somewhere under the Little Ghetto which remains almost just about untouched.”
“I thought you said they destroyed the ghetto,” said Bear.
“Most people think that. By chance, the Nozyk Synagogue survived as a stable and storehouse. Why destroy something useful?”
“If, and I stress if, we go to Poland and we find whatever, what do we do with it?” said Petros.
“The Rabbi of Nozyk Synagogue will decide what to do.”
“Why us? Our services don’t come cheap,” said Petros.
“You’ve anticipated my next question. The Chief Rabbi has agreed to meet your costs and pay you both one thousand pounds a day for a maximum of ten days.”
Petros gave this collection a few minutes’ thought. In the ten years since he and Bear formed the company, they had on many occasions taken on collections of an individual nature. He made up his mind.
“Rabbi, give me a couple of days and I’ll go and find your missing treasure.”
“Do I have a vote?” said Bear as he shifted his gaze from the window to Petros.
The door opened and Martha entered with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She placed the tray on the rabbi’s desk.
“We’ll help ourselves. Thank you,” said rabbi Levy.
Martha nodded and left the room.
Petros fidgeted in his chair. “Your decision, Bear, but I’m going. I owe the Rabbi for his help in the past.”
“You can be annoyingly condescending sometimes,” said Bear.
“Are you coming or not?”
“Someone has to watch your back and God gave me the job. Rabbi, where do we start digging?”
“Drink your coffee. Under the Nozyk Synagogue and from the directions in the book a tunnel leads from the main storm drain to a vault. The problem is the drain runs straight through the old Jewish market square from under the Catholic Church to the Yiddish theatre. You will have to find the vault’s entrance constructed at the beginning of the war.”
“Sewers aren’t my favourite place,” said Petros.
“Storm drains are or should be separate and distinct from sewers. So you should be safe,” said Rabbi Levy.
“Methane is a by-product of decomposition, one spark and bang,” said Petros. “I accept this is a storm drain and maybe free of gas but these old systems have a habit of joining together in the most unusual places.”
“I’m sure you will find this collection quite easy. The tunnels are of red brick construction and those who hid the artefacts marked the entrance with a Swastika in black bricks.”
Petros leaned back in his chair. “Strange, that they marked the location with the sign of their persecutors?”
The rabbi grinned. “What better sign to use? You see the swastika as the Nazi regime. Before it was corrupted, it was a powerful symbol with positive meanings. In Warsaw, the Germans were afraid of the sewers. In fact they lived in continual fear of resistance fighters jumping out of the drains and attacking them.”
Petros’ eyes showed surprise. “We’ll need a couple of days. One more thing, the assistance of the local rabbi would help.”
“I’ll arrange a meeting. Let me know what hotel you’ll be staying in?”
“No problem,” said Bear. “Can you have a copy of the directions in the book e-mailed? I appreciate they’re vague but it’ll give us somewhere to start.”
“Of course, anything else?”
“I’ll let you know when we’re leaving,” said Petros.
Chapter Two
The young female receptionist behind the desk of the Golden Tulip Hotel, Warsaw, smiled as she checked Petros’ and Bear’s reservations.
“All in order. I’ll copy the details from your passports and have a porter take you to your rooms.”
Petros checked the time with the clock high on the wall and adjusted his watch; it was approaching midday.
The girl turned to remove the keys from the rack behind her. “I forgot, Mr Kyriades, you have a message.”
Petros took and opened the envelope. “It’s from the local rabbi. He wants to meet us at Plac Grzybowski at two o’clock.”
“Enough time for us to dump our bags and grab lunch,” said Bear.
“You had two breakfasts on the flight over, wasn’t that enough?”
“My needs in the morning are critical to my well being. And I never work on an empty stomach. Well, not if I can help it.”
“Sir,” interrupted the receptionist, “if you leave the hotel and turn left, you’ll find a bistro-come-cafe one hundred meters along the road. My father owns it and the food is good. Tell him Alicja sent you. I will have your bags placed in your rooms.”
Bear beamed at the young woman. “Much appreciated. Well, what are we waiting for, PK?”
They walked in the bright afternoon sunshine, their eyes searched for the bistro. On entering, they spoke to a man wearing a spotless white apron. “Alicja, at the Golden Tulip, told us you serve good food,” said Bear.
“I’m Alicja’s father, Aleksy. I promise you, if you don’t like it, you can have it at no charge,” said a middle-aged man with a powerful build and white hair tied in a ponytail. “I give you my special Bigos Stew with home baked bread. You’ll not leave hungry.”
Petros and Bear sat and waited for their stew.
Aleksy returned with two steaming bowls. “Here you are. Smell the aroma, meat with perfect vegetables. None better.”
“Looks good. Smells wonderful and I bet it tastes delicious,” said Bear as he ripped a large chunk of bread from the loaf.
Petros took a mouthful and ate. “Must admit it’s hot and tasty.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve thirty minutes to get it down your neck.”
“If you shut up, I’d manage to eat two platefuls in that time.”
Aleksy watched Petros and Bear leave. He turned to his young son. “I like those men but they’re not tourists.”
“What makes you say that, father?”
He shrugged. “Tourists take their time. Those two were in a hurry.”
***
At Plac Grzybowski Petros and Bear waited outside the Jewish theatre.
“There’s our man,” said Petros. “Tall, black hair, dark suit with a funny coloured tie.”
“How do you know?”
“He's examined a printout, looked at us and returned the paper to his jacket pocket. I noted he’s wearing a skull cap.”
“Mr Kyriades and Mr Morris, Jacob Baron. I recognize you from the fax Rabbi Levy sent.” They shook hands. “I understand you need assistance.”
“You could say that. Have you been told why we are here?”
“I have, but after so long, it might be a waste of time. Rabbi Levy and I go back
many years and I promised to help. What do you need?”
“Far more than you can imagine,” said Petros. “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”
“There’s a small café to the right of the Catholic church. Will that do?”
“Anywhere we can be undisturbed,” said Petros.
Jacob pulled a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, offered them, removed and lit one. “Nasty habit but the authorities have banned smoking almost everywhere.”
They chatted while they strolled to the café, found an empty table and sat. Jacob puffed at his cigarette and waved to attract a waiter. On their left, a glass door led to the inside where couples talked. A waiter arrived; they ordered three teas. He returned a few minutes’ later and placed three mugs on the table.
“Enjoy the tea,” said Jacob. “Now how can I help?”
“Bear and I need a workmen’s tent, sledgehammers, chisels, strong bags and some battery-operated head lamps.”
“I will ask my father, he works for the city.”
“Won’t he ask why you need them?” said Bear.
“Of course and I will tell him I’m with two men whose parents escaped through the labyrinth during the war. I arrange guided tours for inquisitive tourists. Any money I make goes to a children’s home. The difference, where you want to go is not my usual route.”
Petros grinned. “Rabbi Levy told us you’d help. He forgot to mention the guided tours.”
“He has a wicked sense of humour. In this instance, I agree the tent will be useful. I’ll obtain some hazard notices. When do you want to go into the tunnels?”
Petros looked at Bear. “The sooner the better. To be honest we don’t hold out much hope, but we like Rabbi Levy. He’s a first-class man.”
“I’ll meet you outside the Nozyk synagogue at nine tomorrow,” said Jacob.
“We’ll be there”, said Bear. “Booted and suited.”
Jacob coughed and attempted to conceal a laugh. “What do you mean?”