As De Jong had feared, a hundred men immediately surged forward to participate, and De Jong had to yell at the top of his lungs to stop them. He turned to Sobel in desperation. “Sobel, select forty four men. Quickly!” yelled the Dutchman.
Sobel moved among the crowd pulling a man here and there, making sure he got representatives from the main camp and the Sonderkommandos, until there were two score and two men standing awkwardly before De Jong. De Jong, told himself to pretend he was back on the parade ground of the Dutch naval training school. He arranged the men in a firing line, facing the prisoners only ten meters away. As he worked, several of the Ukrainians and one German, fell to their knees, while another retched. None ran or protested. They were going to death with no more resistance than their Jewish victims, who they had reviled for passivity.
De Jong and several of his men walked along the line, checking the mens’ rifles, half afraid they’d be shot themselves by the inexperienced executioners, most of whom had never held a firearm until a few minutes before.
“Every two of you aim at the man—I mean prisoner—in front of you. You understand?” The line of shooters haphazardly nodded their heads, or said yes in a variety of languages. De Jong heard German, Polish, Yiddish and Dutch among them. De Jong examined the two groups now, one of shooters and the other of the condemned. Half of the Nazi prisoners had now dropped to their knees or were full on the ground.
“Stand them up!” De Jong cried, and his men moved to get the fallen prisoners back on their feet. Looking at the line of shooters, De Jong decided that for such a group, even at ten meters they were too far away from their targets.
“Shooters! Step forward two steps.” Haltingly, the line moved forward. De Jong moved along the line, reforming it, but worked from behind the shooters for his own protection. He dressed the ragged line, pulling or pushing a men by the shoulder, checking that the bolts on their Mausers were closed. De Jong noticed that the crowd had grown silent, fascinated by what they were witnessing and nervously anticipating the crack of rifle fire, which they, from their own bitter experiences instinctively feared.
De Jong stepped away from the rank of executioners. “Raise your rifles!” The shooters raised their Mausers, now only five meters from the prisoners who stood naked and trembling before them.
De Jong paused, ready to give the order to shoot, when suddenly, one of the men fired accidently. He missed, but now half of the Jewish shooters unevenly followed the first shooter, blasting their Mausers at the prisoners while the rest held off. Here and there a German or Ukrainian was hit and dropped, many hit in the arms or legs or groin.
Those not hit raised their arms to their heads or dropped to the ground. Two tried to run.
De Jong, carrying an MP-40, watched in disgust as the execution fell apart, but with little other choice he yelled “Losl” bidding all the shooters to open fire. His men quickly shot down the two fleeing prisoners, while the executioners either fired their first shots, or if they had already fired, worked the bolts on their Mausers to load another round.
More prisoners fell, but Stangl and about five others remained standing. De Jong wanting to put an end to the mess pointed his MP-40 at the German Commandant, who stood naked and dumb, seemingly in shock. The Dutchman fired a long burst, knocking Stangl off his feet in a shower of blood. De Jong turned the weapon the remaining prisoners, but as he aimed, the last of them fell to his amateur firing squad, which had kept up a ragged fire.
“Halt!” he yelled, as several of the shooters, now more accustomed to their task, continued to pump rounds into already dead and the wreathing wounded on the ground. “Put your rifles down!”
Some of the shooters, uncertain of De Jong’s meaning, gingerly lay their rifles on the ground, while others, more familiar with parade ground practice, if only from watching films, grasped their rifles by the barrels and put the butts of the rifles in the dirt. De Jong, psychologically battered and completely exhausted, but knowing that he had to finish the job, walked over the pile of dead and wounded and finished off those still alive with short bursts from his submachinegun. Brains, guts and blood splattered his shoes and pants.
Finished at last, sickened and thoroughly drained physically and emotionally, De Jong walked over to the sorting shed, wanting very much to collapse against it. Sobel came over to him, and put an arm around De Jong’s shoulder.
“You did well,” said the former prisoner. “What are your orders now?”
De Jong let out a long sigh and took a sip from his canteen bottle. He turned around and took in the scene behind him. Dead Germans and Ukrainians lay at his feet. The makeshift firing squad had already broken up, solemnly reintegrating itself within the greater mass of Jews. The crowd, its bloodlust spent, was quiet.
“Line them up in a column, as best you can, by the front gate. Have my men help you. Make sure we take everything we can. I will join you in a minute.”
Sobel ran off on his organizing task, leaving De Jong, for the moment, alone. The Dutchman allowed himself to lean for a few moments against the rough wooden wall of the shorting shed, still mostly full of the the last possessions of thousands of dead Jews.
Chapter 17
The sayeret was already several kilometers away from Sobibor, driving fast, as Israelis are wont to do, when they heard uneven volleys from the executions echo across the countryside. Yatom hoped to find a good road to the north. The morning sun was already up over the horizon. According to their watches, it was a little after six. Yatom would have to get off the road soon, but he wanted to put as much distance as possible between the death camp and the convoy before calling a halt.
The last hours before the sayeret’s departure had been frantic with preparation. Loading the trucks, organizing the camp Jews, and securing supplies and transport had been only part of the problem.
Yatom knew that he needed a better plan. He had only the vaguest notions of what to do next. Feldhandler demanded the fall of Treblinka and Belzac both on moral grounds, and as a condition for getting them home. Yatorn had his doubts that taking the two remaining death camps would really ensure their return, even assuming he and his men even survived the ordeal. But they were not exactly driving into the unknown either. Between their collected knowledge of the Holocaust, Polish geography, Feldhandler’s books, and the maps they’d taken from Stangl’s office, Yatom had a rough idea of what the sayeret faced in the coming days.
It had been Feldhandler’s idea to go after Treblinka first. Belzec lay to the south which would have forced them to backtrack. Attacking Treblinka would draw the Germans away from the capsule and the Jewish escapees. More was known about Treblinka as well. According to the histories, only two Jews survived Belzac, leaving little testimony about that camp—the deadliest death camp of the trio.
Stangl had trained at Belzac but Shapira’s attempt to interrogate the SS commandant had failed. It wasn’t that the German bravely resisted—he seemed willing to cooperate, but he was in shock. His testimony was mostly nonsensical. The only thing that came through was that Stangl thought little of his counterpart at Treblinka, a man called Erbel.
The policeman Mueller remained eager to cooperate and seemed to know a thing or two more than he let on. Mueller claimed to know nothing of Belzac, but seemed to have heard much about Treblinka, second hand, from other policemen who had made death-train runs there. According to Mueller, Sobibor was a model of efficiency and mercy compared to Treblinka. Stangl had been a competent, cold-blooded murderer. Erbel was a monster, reveling in an orgy of blood and death. Bodies lay strewn about Treblinka. Trainloads of victims were murdered haphazardly and brutally, even by the macabre standards of the Holocaust. Mueller’s account jibed with Feldhandler’s meager histories, Shapira’s own knowledge, and Stangl’s mutterings.