Mila 18 - Leon Uris [237]
“Heil Hitler!” barked Funk.
The room stormed to its feet “Heil Hitler!” they responded.
Moved by the enormity of the moment, several officers burst into a spontaneous singing of the “Horst Wessel” song.
“Close ranks! Raise the swastika!
Storm troops, march with calm determination!
Soon Hitler’s flags will fly over all!
Soon Germany will take its rightful place.”
“Hello, Jerusalem. This is Tolstoy at Beersheba.”
“Atlas in Jerusalem. What is it, Tolstoy?”
“Water and electricity have been cut off in our sector.”
“We have the same report from Haifa. We are awaiting an Angel from Canaan for a full report. Have your Angels give a blue alert.”
“Shalom and ... good yontof.”
“Happy holidays to you too.”
Simon set down the phone. Strange, he thought that Rodel, a Communist and devout atheist, should wish him a “good holiday” for Passover. Simon faced Andrei, Tolek, Alex, and Chris. “Power and water are off in Rodel’s area too. He wished us a happy Passover. ... Tolek, send out the runners. Spread a blue alert.”
It became abysmally glum. The last-minute decision to bring in another forty children crammed Mila 18 beyond its capacity. Air circulation sufficient for two hundred twenty persons was inadequate for nearly three hundred packed into the catacomb. The rooms had no place for movement. The corridors were crushed with sweaty bodies, stripped to undergarments, sucking at the oxygen scarcely enough to keep the candles lit.
“Passover,” Andrei said sardonically. “The feast of liberation. What a damned joke.”
Simon nodded in agreement. “Oh, where is Moses to lead us through the Red Sea and drown Pharaoh’s army! The only pillars of fire are the ones that will devour us.”
“Well,” Andrei said, “we have to have the seder.”
Chris shook his head. “You Jews astonish me. In the pits of hell, about to be destroyed, and you mumble rituals to freedom.”
“Doesn’t one cry out more desperately for freedom when it is taken from him? What better time can there be than tonight to renew faith?” Alexander Brandel said.
“Come now, Alex,” Chris prodded. “Andrei, you, Simon ... most of those out there are not renewing a faith they’ve ever kept. Rodel, the Communist, wishes you well. What was his synagogue?”
“Yes, Chris, you are right in a way. And it is very strange that we who have not lived like Jews have chosen to die like Jews.”
“There is no reason and there is every reason,” Simon said. “We only know ... we must have the seder.”
Passover. The night of the seder. The retelling of a story from the ancient Hagada as old as recorded history. The liberation from Pharaoh’s bondage.
How Jewish Warsaw would have reverberated with the weeks of unabated excitement before the war! Alex tried to remember the Tlomatskie Synagogue ... crowds jammed to watch the elite fill the marble temple.
In the homes of the poorest, brass and silver candlesticks shone to a glisten and the white tablecloths and shining dishes dazzled the eye and the kitchens smelled of baking and candies prepared with the very soul of the homemaker.
The tables were fixed with special foods symbolizing the suffering of Moses and the tribes. The diced nuts and bitter herbs for the mortar of Pharaoh’s bricks which the Jews laid in bondage.
What the hell kind of bitter vetch could there be for the ghetto in the future, Alex thought! What symbol would there be for sewer water!
Watercress for the coming of spring, and the egg for the symbol of freedom. Well, spring was coming to Warsaw. There was no egg, no watercress. Forty thousand terrified people mumbling ancient prayers, begging to an unhearing God to fill His promises to bring forth ... to deliver ... to redeem ... to take the tribes of Israel. In six hundred bunkers the ritual was repeated in numbed and tear-filled voices while the Polish Blue Police took their positions around