Mila 18 - Leon Uris [224]
“Truce!” he called. “Truce!”
The door slammed behind him. He turned and looked into the bearded face of Samson Ben Horin.
“Hands up,” Ben Horin said. He frisked Koenig. “March!” Down the corridor. The walls were stained with dried blood from German executions. The plaster chipped away. Debris everywhere.
“Turn in there. Sit.”
Franz didn’t like the sordid room. It was overturned and smashed. It smelled bad. He swallowed to loosen his throat and stared at the table, afraid to look into the eyes of Samson Ben Horin. Samson smirked.
“So you are a superman,” he said.
Koenig felt inept before the lean, fierce, black-eyed young Jew who could obviously rip him to shreds. Samson sat in the window sill and swung his leg back and forth. “So you are a superman,” he repeated.
The door opened. Simon Eden towering over six feet three inches and like a band of steel, Andrei Androfski with the power of a lion, Rodel with the build of a tank—all came in and leaned against the wall.
Koenig knew instantly that not only were the Joint Forces not a myth, but the survivors were a fierce breed.
Alexander Brandel helped Rabbi Solomon into the room. He and the old man sat opposite Koenig.
“Stand up in the presence of our rabbi,” Andrei said, “and cover your head.”
Koenig pushed the chair back from the table and arose.
Rodel did not particularly subscribe to the idea of having Samson Ben Horin and Rabbi Solomon attend the conference. To him, Ben Horin’s Revisionists were akin to fascists. Moreover, Ben Horin would not bind himself to Joint Forces. As for Solomon, it was sentimentality and nonsense. But for the sake of unity he did not protest.
“Talk,” Simon said.
“On behalf ... on behalf of the German authority, I am authorized to negotiate a settlement of our difficulties.”
The pronouncement was made without reaction. Koenig cleared his throat and continued.
“We would like to put the past behind us. Let bygones be bygones. I mean, there is no use dragging out old skeletons in the closet. Let us forget yesterday and talk about tomorrow.”
Still no reaction from the six men he faced.
“What we wish to do is complete the resettlement of the ghetto. Now, before you say anything, let me assure you that I came here fully prepared to guarantee excellent working conditions at camps you are free to examine.”
Ben Horin swung his leg back and forth from his seat in the window. Rodel glared hatred. Simon and Andrei looked aimlessly at the floor. Only Alex registered some amazement.
Koenig cleared his throat again.
“We are prepared to sign a pact. Our word. A treaty, if you please ...” He stopped. All six pairs of hard eyes were on him now, registering disdain. He was making no progress whatsoever and he was getting more nervous,
“All right. I ask you, under what conditions will you consider abandoning the ghetto?”
There were no German tricks left, no more cunning or wile or ruses.
“You must consider it,” Koenig continued. “Mind you, I am not making threats, but surely you must know that your position is impossible.”
Still no reply. Koenig had come to barter, prepared to fall back to a line of retreat to get what he wanted; peaceful liquidation. Their continued silence had left him with no choice but to make the final offer at once.
“You men here represent the leadership of what we estimate to be forty to fifty thousand people. To show you we mean business, we are prepared to pay you a handsome indemnity. Several hundred thousand zlotys. We will deposit it in Swiss francs, American dollars, or however you desire, and we will give you two thousand visas to Sweden. We guarantee safe conduct under Swedish or Swiss auspices. If you wish, you can leave in lots of one hundred and arrange coded messages to assure each other of safe arrivals. Now, gentlemen, what could be fairer than that?”
Koenig’s offer was absolutely clear. It was a bribe for freedom. They would allow the leaders