“I am” said Shapira, before Yatom could respond. Shapira gave the sayeret leader a quick wink. “Colonel Jones at your service“ continued Shapira. “Like my man here said, we need petrol and some other supplies. We are allies old boy. If you help us I’ll see that you get plenty more Bren guns and much else besides.” Yatom looked at Shapira and let the charade continue.
Samsonov, for his part, seemed not to like Shapira’s impromptu performance. His twisted his face into a scowl and shifted his body toward the Israeli lieutenant. Samsonov looked monstrous as the mottled light from the houses fell across his massive frame. “You are in occupied Soviet territory, Colonel Jones” said Samsonov very slowly, crushing each English syllable under his thick accent. Shapira had the impression of a bear slowly stalking its prey in the forest, crunching brabbles along the way. “Nothing here is easy to come by. I don’t have petrol or anything else to give you for free comrade.”
“Then at least put us up for a few hours in one of your houses, Marshal” said Shapira. “My men need rest. Perhaps we could discuss a fair exchange in the morning.”
Samsonov stood remarkably still, more like a predator than a friend. “You are behind the attacks on the German camps?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“I know what happens in my territory. What is your unit?”
“His Majesty’s Parachute Brigade” said Shapira, not missing a beat. “I am pleased to meet you.” Shapira extended his hand to the Russian.”
Samsonov stepped forward and took Shapira’s hand. The two men gripped each other tightly.
“Very well, Colonel Jones” said Samsonov. “How many men do you have?”
“A platoon” answered Shapira. “That house should do nicely” he said pointing at the smaller of the two well lit buildings.
Samsonov thought for a moment, then clapped his hands. A soldier immediately ran up to him. They spoke in rapid Russian. The soldier followed by several others trotted over to the house and started shouting excitedly. As the Israelis watched half a dozen other sloppy looking Russians stumbled out of the house followed by an equal number of half-dressed women. The smaller house was clearly a brothel. Marshal Samsonov seemed to have made a pleasant base for himself in the middle of a nasty war.
“Come” said Samsonov. “The house is yours for the night. You’ll find it quite comfortable I think, and if you wish, the ladies can stay—but you will have to pay.”
“Thank you Marshal, but you may have the ladies stay elsewhere” said Shapira.
“As you wish. Put your vehicles there” said Samsonov, pointing at the yard between the two houses. “I’ll put out a guard so you can rest, and we will talk further in the morning, yes?”
“We are grateful indeed” said Shapira sincerely. “May I ask one more thing before we go?” Samsonov nodded curtly, his expression suspicious.
“How is it that you speak such excellent English?”
Samsonov paused, his gaze baleful. “My father was a merchant—a middleman you would say. In the years just after the revolution I traveled with him to England—several times. He did much trade there.”
“I see” said Shapira. The Israeli was ready to take his leave when the Russian started speaking again.
“He traded prosperously even after the revolution, and I with him, until Comrade Stalin reproached him—for the good of the motherland.” Samsonov’s lips curled into a smile, but his eyes remained fixed on Shapira, as if the two parts of his face were disconnected. Shapira stared back at Samsonov uneasily, wanting to end the discussion. Samsonov waited some more seconds, his eyes straying from Shapira to the commandos arrayed along the road.
Finally, the Russian clicked his heels, nodded curtly, and stalked away toward the larger house. His men followed him furtively, like rats in a pack thought Shapira.
The Israelis parked the trucks as Samsonov instructed and carefully unloaded the wounded who took three of the six available beds. Fliegel’s men plus Norit and Hannah followed and quickly claimed the other three beds—the women took two, while the Bears piled around the remaining cot, agreeing to take turns. The Israeli commandos resigned themselves to another night on the ground—but least with a roof over their heads.
The house was warm, dry and flush with electric light. Feldhandler, with Perchansky and Roskovsky assisting, immediately began fiddling with his converters and redrargers while the other Israelis handed over a jumble of NVGs, radios and gunsights for recharging. Despite Samsonov’s promise to guard them, Yatom insisted on putting out his own watch, with Itzak and a glum looking Bull named Lev getting the first duty.
Yatom told Itzak to patrol around the house with Dev until relieved. “Just make sure our Russian friends don’t shoot you by accident.” Itzak returned a wry smile, not sure if Yatom was joking about his dark skin or just making a general comment. Lev looked at him curiously—proliably the first dealings the young Jew had had with any black man, much less one that would give him orders.
Anxious for a bit of sleep himself, Yatom nevertheless insisted on calling over Shapira and Mofaz for another a powwow. They sat at the table where Feldhandler worked on the electronics.
“How is it going Doctor?” asked Yatom, relieved to be speaking Hebrew again.
“It is working—but it will take a most of a day to charge all of this stuff.” Yatom looked at Shapira. “Your little performance was impressive. I’m glad you decided to come on stage when you did.”
“You’re welcome.“
“Do you think we have a day?” asked Yatom, addressing the group.
“No” said Mofaz irritably. “I heard most of it—my English is good too—I don’t trust that big galut”
“What he said seemed to be true” said Shapira. “Some carried British weapons—how else would they get them but from Allied airdrops?”
“I don’t know Lieutenant” said Mofaz. “You’re the historian. Ijust know that I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything” said Feldhandler. “We know you don’t like the general situation. What specifically makes you think we should not rest here for a day?”
“There is something about him” said Mofaz thoughtfully “that makes me think he is at best a criminal, at worst an enemy.”
“What exactly?” asked Yatom.
“I don’t know” said Mofaz. “You know” said Shapira “Major Mofaz may be onto something. That last bit Samsonov said about his father and Comrade Stalin—perhaps he’s not a Communist.”
“Most people in the Soviet Union were not Communists” said Feldhandler “just like most kibbutzniks”
That brought a laugh from the group, even Mofaz. The Israeli kibbutz movement was probably the purest practical expression of true communism modern history—but had recently fallen on hard times, economically and philosophically.
“I think we should stay through the day and depart again tomorrow night” said Perchensky, injecting a little practicality into the discussion. “The wounded especially need rest.”
Yatom looked at Mofaz.
“Major?” asked Yatom respectfully.
“Beseder” said Mofaz. “But we still need petrol, which this Marshal Samsonov is not donating. What are we to trade for it?”
“We have plenty of weapons” said Yatom. “So does he—unless you are thinking of trading our equipment?”
“Not our equipment” said Yatom “except perhaps an Uzi or two. The Russian might like an Uzi. He might value novelty.”
“I doubt he’ll trade much petrol for one or two Uzis” guessed Shapira “but it’s worth a try.”
In the large house next door, Marshal Samsonov also sat at a table, considering his options, a bottle of rough vodka lubricating his own council of war. Samsonov had removed his fancy dress jacket and replaced it with his real army shirt, which carried the worn shoulder tabs of a senior sergeant. Another sergeant called Kuba sat at the table along with artillery lieutenant named Zinoviev. Zinoviev had long ago surrendered his authority to Samsonov, preferring to drink, fuck and accept the rare salute from the rabble around him. “These are certainly the commandos who have been raiding the German camps” declared Samsonov. “Anybody disagree?” Samsonov’s boorish threatening tone didn’t really invite disagreement, and his men were rarely inclined to challenge hisjndgnrent.