“Why don’t you try?”
“What can I say for being a damned fool?”
“Come,” Simon said.
Andrei trailed him haltingly out of the cell and across the narrow passageway to the opposite cell. Simon pulled back the sack curtain. The three of them were there. Sylvia with her little boy on her lap. Moses Brandel at the age of four was disciplined to the silence of underground living; pale, scrawny from the lack of sun and air and nourishment. Alexander gazed emptily at the floor in much the same way as he had since the children were taken to the Umschlagplatz. Sylvia stood and put the boy down. She blocked Andrei’s way, but Simon nodded for her to leave the room. She looked from Andrei to Alex, then took the child and led him out.
Andrei hulked helplessly over the dejected man, groping for words. He knelt slowly beside Alex. Alex turned his face, recognized Andrei and hung his head.
“I ... uh ... wanted to give you this,” Andrei said, showing the book. “They ... uh ... were lucky enough to salvage it from Mila 19.”
Alex did not answer.
“I think that—well, with Ervin gone, you’ll want to take up the work again.”
Again, nothing.
“It’s very important that the archives be continued and—Look, I know something I didn’t know. What I mean to say is, it takes many kinds of men and many kinds of battles to fight a war.”
Andrei reached out and touched his shoulder, but Alex shrank away.
“Please look at me, Alex,” Andrei whispered. “You must hear what I’m saying. Alex, once I told you that the Brandel journal would never take the place of the Seventh Ulany Brigade, and you answered that truth is a weapon worth a thousand armies. I never understood that till now. It’s true, all of the divisions of the German army can’t defeat these words.”
Alex shook his head slowly.
“You ... you were right. You’ve won a great battle with this,” Andrei said.
The mouth in Alex’s bearded face fumbled to form words in a cracked, wavering voice. “I called my dearest friend a man who thirsts for personal revenge. I ... took the weapons from your hands. I am the vengeful man. Your way has always been the only way.”
“You’re wrong about that, Alex. My way hasn’t been the only way. I would have destroyed us all long ago. You see, only because of men like you and Simon has a moment like today been possible for men like me.”
“The children are gone ... Everyone is gone ... I have failed.”
Andrei clutched Alex’s arms hard and pleaded with fervor. “Listen to me!” he cried. “We’ve all done the best with what we’ve had. No man has ever fought a better fight than you! And it was the only fight. It was, I swear it.”
“Don’t patronize me, Andrei. It is I who should be on my knees to you.”
Andrei released his grip and stood up slowly, and his voice mellowed with softness. “All my life I have believed I walked in the darkness, battling windmills, crying for lost causes, living a life in dubious battle. My father gave me a country which hated me, and you have given your sons a ghetto and genocide. God only knows what kind of a world Wolf will hand to his sons. We enter this world in the middle of a war that is never won. It has always been this way—this endless war. No one of us ever really wins in his life. All you have the right to ask of life is to choose a battle in this war, make the best you can, and leave the field with honor.”
Alex mumbled, “Make your battle ... leave the field with honor.”
“You’ve fought your good fight. Now the war goes on. I must fight my way now.”
“Oh, Andrei, stop! What is there left but doom?”
“Left? We have a lot left. We can go out like men. ... “What though the field be lost? All is not lost—unconquerable will, the study of revenge, immortal hate ... The courage never to submit or yield.’ I never understood those lines till now. But I know—it is not a dubious battle.”
Alexander picked up the book, and his fingers caressed it lovingly. He opened it, glanced up at Andrei quickly, then thumbed hungrily through Ervin’s notes. He came to the last entry. “Who will fire the first shot?” Alex took out a pencil, and his hand wrote:
Journal Entry
Today a great shot for freedom was fired. I think it stands a chance of being heard forever. It marks a turning point in the history of the Jewish people. The beginning of return to a status of dignity we have not known for two thousand years. Yes, today was the first step back. My battle is done. Now I turn the command over to the soldiers.
Chapter Five
PIOTR WARSINSKI SLAMMED THE phone receiver down. He scratched his scaly hands. Again he had pleaded in vain with Sieghold Stutze to issue firearms to the Jewish Militia. After the outbreak of January 18, Warsinski was positive that the Germans would return to the ghetto immediately with an overpowering force. Instead, several days had passed in silence and his police were becoming afraid to patrol the streets.
Warsinski scoffed at the idea that the ambush at Niska and Zamenhof streets was anything but an insane gesture by a madman. He knew there was no real planned insurrection. He had no fear of this so-called Joint Jewish Forces. But he was afraid of what would happen if Sieghold Stutze decided he was no longer able to command the Militia effectively.
Piotr growled in frustration and became restless. He decided to leave the barracks and go to the Pawiak Prison. A girl had been brought in earlier who was suspected of being a member of the Joint Forces. He would work her over, and that would relieve the tension. Perhaps he could force from her the location of Eden or Andrei Androfski or Rodel. If he could deliver such a prize to Sieghold Stutze it would reaffirm his ability.
But, Piotr mused, it was getting more and more difficult to beat information out of these people as time went along. Those who were left simply could not be tortured for information. But what the devil, he could rip the clothing from the girl and smash her up. That would be a good evening’s sport.
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.