Mila 18 - Leon Uris [254]
So great was Oberführer Funk’s frustration, he shot one of his officers to death in a rage.
“German patrol overhead.”
Mila 18 went into a familiar pattern of silence. Deborah Bronski kept the remaining twenty children quiet. The Fighters did not breathe. The wounded prayed silently, daring not to shriek out their pain.
An hour passed ... two ...
The Germans still hovered over them, pressing in to find the elusive headquarters of the Joint Fighters.
On the third hour Rabbi Solomon began to weep prayers. Simon Eden nearly choked him to death to silence him.
Overhead, dogs sniffed up and down Mila Street; sound detectors begged to hear a cough, a cry.
At the end of the third hour the tension became unbearable. Heat added to the stillness. One by one they pitched forward in dead faints. Christopher de Monti yanked Deborah’s hair to keep her awake.
And then a cry!
Simon and Andrei and Tolek Alterman pistol-whipped the weepers into silence before a mass outbreak of hysteria.
Five hours ... six ...
The utter collapse as the Germans left the street.
Journal Entry
Tomorrow our battle goes into its twenty-fifth day. I want death to take me. I cannot stand more of it. Till yesterday I managed, but now Sylvia is gone and Moses is close to death. What has he had? What has he had?
Our boys and girls still fight fiercely. The enemy cannot claim the ghetto. I will die with pride. There is only one thing I wish now. Christopher de Monti must be taken out of the ghetto. He alone knows where the entire works of the Good Fellowship Club are buried. We cannot risk keeping him here any longer. I have not prayed in synagogue since I have been a boy. I have taken a position of convenience by calling myself an agnostic. I therefore did not have to submit to the hypocrisy of dogma, but on the other hand it spares me from exposing myself by saying I am an atheist and do not believe in God. Yes, a true position of convenience. Now I ask God to prove Himself. I beg him to let Christopher de Monti live so that this history will not die.
ALEXANDER BRANDEL
Chapter Nineteen
ANDREI ROLLED HIS TONGUE over his gritty teeth and peered out from behind the rubble pile. Muranowski Place before him was lit up with arc lights. It looked like day. Andrei thought, this night life is killing me. There was no chance of getting into the bunker from the Muranowski entrance. The square had at least two companies of Germans in it. He scratched his beard. Got to remind Simon to trim my beard tomorrow. I looked like hell in the mirror. Come to think of it, I owe Simon a trim too.
Andrei patted the Schmeisser, “Gaby,” and sized up the opposition. He had only one clip of twenty bullets and a grenade. Poor Gaby, Andrei said to himself. I can’t keep you clean any more. I’m all out of oil. Your pretty little sights are all rusted. Sorry, Gaby, we simply can’t take on a hundred of these whores by ourselves.
Well, they’re not moving, Gaby, so we’d better move, because I’m tired. I’d love to brush my teeth again before I die.
Each night since the beginning of the rebellion Andrei made a round of the Joint Fighters’ positions and reset them with orders for the next day. After the Germans were driven out of the ghetto in the first days the job was not too difficult. He could travel walking upright with runners at his side. During the fires it was nightmarish. Leaping flames, crumbling walls, and those damned artillery shells.
Now the communications between bunkers was all but broken. Two days ago he carried an order from Simon that each group was independent to act and improvise against the conditions in the immediate area. Each commander was responsible for forming his own hit-and-run attacks and, even more urgent, finding the food and ammunition and medical supplies to continue the fight.
Each night Andrei left Mila 18 to regroup the diminishing army. The Germans were getting bolder and bolder. Their night patrols increased. It took Andrei almost all night to find his scattered people, although