Mila 18 - Leon Uris [185]
Andrei stormed out.
Roman broke the shortened cigarette from the holder and squashed the tip out. He looked up at a stunned aide. “If those blasted Jews try to contact me again, I am not to be reached, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jews are so emotional. Oh well, at least we won’t have a Jewish problem when the war is over.”
Simon Eden smashed his fist into his open palm as Andrei related the meeting with Roman. The attic room fell into gloom. Tolek, Alexander Brandel, Ana, Ervin, Wolf Brandel, Simon Eden. A ghastly morbidity crushed them. It was all over. Everyone thought the same thing at the same moment. It was all over ... done.
The alarm bell sounded five short rings to indicate a “friend” was coming up. Rodel, the Communist, entered. For an instant everyone looked eagerly with a flickering of hope beyond hope that some miracle had happened. Rodel shook his head. “They can give us four armed men, no more. They can’t even really spare that.”
Tolek droned the names of writers, doctors, actors, journalists, and Zionists who had been taken to the Umschlagplatz in the last few days. He went on and on, moaning a death march.
“Be quiet,” Andrei said.
But he droned on. The last of the rabbis—one saved by the Catholic Church as some sort of relic of a past civilization, the other was in their cellar. The rest, dead. “Dead, all dead,” Tolek said. “Farm gone ... farm gone ... everyone is dead.”
“Shut up,” Andrei repeated.
Ana Grinspan, an unwavering symbol of strength, a figure of daring, collapsed and cried hysterically. There was no one in the room who could comfort her.
“Say something, Alex,” Simon Eden pleaded.
But Alex said nothing these days.
“Dead ... all dead. Nishtdoo, keiner, keiner nishtdoo.”
“Stop your goddamned crying!” Andrei screamed.
Ervin licked his dry lips. Tears wet his thick glasses, so that the people before him were blurred images. Within five days he had lost his wife Susan and his mother. He had tried gallantly to carry on for Alexander Brandel after the children were rounded up. “Simon ... Andrei ... Comrade Rodel ... I ... have taken all the notes and volumes of the Good Fellowship Club and hidden them in milk cans and steel boxes. I had occasion to speak to your committees today. They are in full accord with me that if this last try for help was unsuccessful we should burn the ghetto and commit mass suicide.”
“You have no right to hold meetings behind my back,” Simon said without conviction.
“We had no times for rules of procedure,” Ervin said.
“Who among us hasn’t thought of suicide?” Ana cried.
And then silence. There were no arguments.
“As a Labor Zionist ... as a Labor Zionist,” Simon mumbled. He brushed the hair back from his eyes. “As a Jew and Labor Zionist,” he floundered and fumbled. Oh God, he thought, death would be so sweet, so very sweet. “As commander of Joint Forces, I cannot and will not give an order for a suicide pact. But if this is the wish of everyone, then I will resign my command and also abide by the decision.”
Andrei stared up at his comrade. Simon had been a soldier. Simon had been a strong man. Simon had been a leader. His innards were shot. The fine features of his dark face sagged with the loss of will.
Wolf Brandel, the youngest commander in the ghetto, walked slowly toward the door. “I will not obey that order,” he said. “My girl and I are going to live, and if we’re captured we are going to make them pay. If they want me,” Wolf cried, “let them come in and try to get me!”
He slammed the door behind him.
“Well,” Andrei whispered, “one of us is left with enough strength to want to live.”
Tolek fell on his knees. “Oh God! God! God! Please help us! What have we done? What have we done?”
No one looked at the other. Their faces fell into their hands. All through the night they sat wordless until the dawn broke them with weariness and they dropped off into snatches of nightmare-filled sleep.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the Big Action ended. On September 16, 1942, there were no more