Mila 18 - Leon Uris [208]
Piotr was not afraid to go into the streets alone. He told his men so. Yet it was stupid to invite another attack from a madman. He called in his personal bodyguards, six fat, faithful huskies, to escort him to the Pawiak Prison a few blocks from the barracks.
When he arrived at the ugly reddish brick structure a phone call awaited him. He took it in his office.
“Sturmbannführer Stutze here,” the Austrian said.
“Yes?”
“Warsinski, I have been thinking over your request for arms. Perhaps we can supply some guns for a special squad of your men—in exchange for certain new duties.”
“When can we talk about it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine. I shall expect you at the barracks, then?” Warsinski asked.
“No, no, no,” Stutze said quickly. “We meet outside the ghetto at the Stawki Gate at noon.”
“Noon. Stawki Gate.”
Warsinski unbuttoned his long gray coat and hung it up. He took off his jacket and lowered his suspenders. His big belly, released from restraint, poured over the top of his trousers. His hands itched. He scratched them until they pained, then opened the desk drawer and wiped a thick oozy green salve over them. The ointment stung tears into his eyes. He stretched back on his cot, holding his hands under his head, his underwear gray with sweat stains under the armpits.
What was Stutze up to? Warsinski’s bulgy face became mobile with thoughts and counterthoughts. He had to keep the appointment. Was it a trick? Perhaps Stutze was a coward afraid to come into the ghetto, and wanted the Militia to carry out Reinhard Corps duties. Why else would he give arms? Had Stutze decided that a convert like Warsinski wasn’t really a Jew and therefore could be trusted with guns, like the Ukrainians? He brushed his long handle-bar mustache. Why not arm him? He had been loyal. But ... the Big Seven had been loyal too.
Crash!
A splintering sound bolted him to a sitting position. He saw the door fly open with such impact that it nearly tore off its hinges.
“What the hell!”
Three pistols were leveled at him. One man closed the door, the second went to the desk and tore the phone wire out. Warsinski squinted at the third. Knew him from somewhere. Alterman ... Tolek Alterman from the Bathyrans.
Warsinski scowled at them fearlessly.
“I have the pleasure of carrying out the judgment of Joint Forces to execute you as a traitor to the Jewish people,” Tolek said.
Warsinski laughed in contempt. “Guards!” he roared. “Guards!”
“They don’t hear you, Piotr Warsinski. They are all locked up. Pawiak Prison is in the hands of Joint Jewish Forces. The prisoners are being freed at this moment.”
The smirk came off Warsinski’s face. The guns on him were in steady hands. He folded his hands and closed his eyes and lowered his head. “I don’t beg like Jews,” he said. “Go on. I am ready.”
“It is not so simple,” Tolek said. “There are a lot of questions you are going to answer first.”
Warsinski snarled at them. He thought so. Yellow Jews unable to carry out the execution. It is all a bluff. Talk ... negotiate ... bargain ...
Tolek’s boot suddenly came up into Warsinski’s fat stomach, sinking in from toe to heel. The air left Warsinski. He sank from the bed to his knees. A second kick caught him alongside the jaw, thudding his head against the wall. He sat dazed. Tolek nodded to his two comrades. The first, Pinchas Silver, tossed a thumbscrew and a pair of pliers onto the desk. Adam Blumenfeld revealed a barb-tipped whip.
“We picked up a few of your toys from the interrogation room, Warsinski. Get up and sit at the desk.”
Warsinski did not move.
The lash cut through his underwear. Piotr crawled quickly on his hands and knees to the desk and sat.
“Thumb ... let’s have your thumb.”
The lash ripped once more over his neck.
“Thumb!”
He extended a green-ooze-covered paw. Tolek locked Warsinski’s thumb into the screw and slowly turned the top bolt to apply steady