“Throw it!” he yelled at Gabcik.
Gabcik tossed his grenade, which fell a few meters short and then rolled near the car’s rear wheel, where it exploded. The second explosion roused Klein, who had been knocked unconscious and fallen to the floor of the Mercedes. The big car absorbed the second blast, rocking violently, but shielding Klein from the grenades shrapnel.
Surprised and happy that he was still alive, the Unterscharfuhrer rolled to his right to escape the car, forcing open the passenger side door and tumbling to the ground, keeping the big Mercedes between him and his attackers.
Kubis and Gabcik remained crouched in the roadway nervous and hesitant. Gabcik’s Sten was useless. Kubis was afraid to rush the vehicle with only a pistol. The Czech’s had one other weapon left, a makeshift bomb, made from an old antitank mine. It was heavy and could not be thrown far, but was more powerful than a grenade. Kubis pulled the bomb from a sachet on his back, and handed his pistol to Gabcik.
“Cover me” said Kubis, as he armed the bomb, then ran forward several paces at a crouch. Ten meters from the car he stood and tossed the bomb, and fell to the ground.
The bomb bounced off the hood of the Mercedes and came to rest a meter from Klein. The SS Sergeant had just enough time to see the device and feel a jolt of fear to arc through his body before he was blown to bits. Kubis was also wounded by the bomb’s concussion and shrapnel as he lay in the roadway, hands over his head. Gabcik rushed to Kubis and determined he was alive. Screwing up his courage, Gabcik ran over to the burning Mercedes. On the far side of the car lay a burned and partially dismembered man in SS uniform. Gabcik turned the smoking corpse over to look at its face. There was nothing there but a reddish-brown mass of pulp.
Gabcik ran back to Kubis, who had staggered to his feet, his clothes torn and his face bleeding, but able to move.
“We did it my friend!” cried Gabcik “we did it! Heydrich is dead!”
Kubis smiled through his damaged face. The Czech commandos stumbled off into the brush at the side of the road leaving the blasted and burned body of Klein behind, lying next to Heydrich’s Mercedes.
Several hours later, in Lubin, Globocnik reacted to an initial and mistaken report of Heydrich’s death by exclaiming to Untersturmfuhrer Wirth “Thank God that sow’s gone to the butcher.” But word soon reached I.ubin that the account was mistaken, and luckily for the Reich, Heydrich was safe and sound, although his orderly was not. Nobody heard Globocnik’s comment but Wirth. Still, the ambitious SS lieutenant might cause Globo trouble yet should he flap his tongue about. Wirth had just returned from his mission to Sobibor when the mistaken call from Prague came through.
After satisfying himself that Heydrich was indeed alive, Globo took his aide aside.
“You did good work at Sobibor Wirth!” said Globo heartily, offering the young man a schnapps despite the early hour.
“Thank you, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer”
“Wirth” continued Globocnik “you are aware that the leadership at Treblinka has been lacking of late?”
“Ja, Mein Herr.”
“I had hoped to reassign Captain Stangl to the job, but a competent SS Untersturmfuhrer such as you would do as well. Of course, an appropriate promotion to would come with the new position, though that might take a month or two.”
“I would be honored” said Wirth, recognizing that he was being purchased, but happy to conclude the sale.
“Good. It’s imperative that you proceed to Treblinka a once. Relieve Dr. Eberl and organize the camp’s defenses. I will send you as many men as I can, as quickly as possible. You should reach Treblinka by this afternoon, and the first reinforcements should join you then.”
Wirth nodded, and clicked his heels. He was about to deliver a salute and execute an about-face, but paused and said “It’s very fortunate that General Heydrich survived that assassination attempt, is it not, Herr Obergruppenfiiehrer? He is a true hero of the fatherland.”
Globocnik smiled weakly. “He is one hero among many, Wirth. Perhaps you will be too. Dismissed.”
Wirth gave Globo a Nazi salute, executed a perfect turn and left the office. Globocnik mulled his situation. If things went well, Wirth would destroy the enemy partisans at Treblinka, and much the better if he died a hero in the process. Heydrich was another matter. Globo disliked the young SS General, but out of jealously not philosophy. A dead Heydrich might have made his life easier—what a boon that would have been! But with Heydrich alive there would be no rest until these enemies of the Reich were dead and buried—or he was.
Chapter 21
Mofaz awoke two hours after midnight on May 27 in an unusually good mood. Much as he disliked Feldhandler and his present situation, the soldier in him was grimly satisfied. Like many IDF officers, Mofaz chafed at the army’s growing moral weakness and hesitancy. In recent years it seemed not only that the IDF wanted to save all its soldiers from death or injury, but the enemy’s too. So many operations cancelled. So many attacks carried out halfheartedly for fear of losing Israeli boys, or killing too many Arab boys. Successful wars were not waged that way.
But under the present circumstances he and Yatom could do as they pleased. Mofaz, who had grown up in a religious West Bank settlement, didn’t much like Yatom, a card carrying secular Jew, and a self-declared atheist. But the Colonel was a tough, aggressive and competent commander, and Mofaz could not fault Yatom’s decisions thus far. Indeed, he looked forward to the flying attack on Treblinka—his blood was up.
As Mofaz walked among the men in the dark and cool Polish morning he boosted their spirits as well, with a combination of aggressive talk and deliberate fear mongering. Nothing made a soldier more alert and serious than a good dose of apprehension. Things had gone to easy so far, but there was no place for complacency, he urged.
Even the Jews from Sandler’s and Fliegel’s groups got the message though Mofaz spoke little German and no Polish—enough of them knew Hebrew, or a few words at least, to get the gist of the combative Major’s words.
An an hour later, much to Yatom’s satisfaction, Mofaz had the unit mounted and ready to move out, without the sayeret leader having lifted a finger. Mofaz could be a pain-in-the-ass, but he was a smart and forceful officer—it was hard to ask for more. Yatom walked along the vehicles, garbed again, somewhat outlandishly, in a German field jacket over his Israeli kit. He reminded drivers and commanders of the day’s orders—drive fast, keep in column and shoot if you have to. Satisfied, Yatom climbed into the leading staff car as Nir once again gunned the engine.
A few minutes later the sayeret was back onto the high road.
According to the map they were motoring on a relatively good highway, Route 690, north to a town called Ciechanowiec. If the sayeret was lucky, they would reach the town in the sleepy morning hours when transiting the built up area inconspicuously would be easier. From Ciechanowiec, the column would turn west on a relatively straight drive to Treblinka.
The sayeret hit Ciechanowiec a little after dawn. The Israeli drivers switched off their night vision goggles and maneuvered the vehicles through the narrow Polish streets. Ciechanowiec was a big town, and it was hard to keep to the high road through an intricate series of forks and intersections. At one point the column took a wrong turn and drove around in circles, until finding themselves heading west on Route 694, the road they needed in any case. They had not been on the new highway for long before Nir pointed excitedly down the road toward a rise, about half a kilometer distant, where there appeared to be a roadblock. Yatom told Nir to slow but not stop. He scanned the distant ridge with his binoculars. Behind him, Shapira in the first truck did the same. Yatom grabbed the radio handset from Nir’s pack.