Mofaz, soaked in Itzak’s blood, joined them moments later. It was time to deal with Marshal Samsonov.
Samsonov and Zinoviev had tried to watch the battle from the upper windows of the big house, which looked over the smaller manor.
The two Russian officers had noted a lot of shooting and screaming, which was to be expected, but no other sign, one way or the other, as to whether the attack was successful. Kuba had offered to waive a pair of women’s bloomers from the neighboring house to signal success. Quite a funny little idea frorn the raucous sergeant thought Samsonov.
But unbeknownst to the Marshal, Kuba was dead, killed by Itzak’s grenade. The bloomers, thick though they were, didn’t stop shrapnel.
“I think we should go” said Zinoviev abruptly. “Why?” grunted Samsonov. “You frighten too easily. How did you ever become an officer?”
“Samsonov—seriously—we should get out of here. The attack…” but Zinoviev couldn’t finish. Even now he couldn’t bring himself to challenge the hm sergeant. Several more minutes passed and the big house fell silent. One way or another the battle was over, he only question was who won. No bloomers waived from the smaller manor, thought Zinoviev glumly.
Then on the lower floors the two men heard shooting, the cries of several women and a terrifying, if muffled explosion. This was followed by more shouting, now from angry men in a bizarre language, not English at all. Samsonov was sure he heard the voice of Colonel Jones, in the strange tongue. The enemy soldiers continued to shout to each other as they clambered up the stairs, the clump of boots marking their progress, supplemented here and there by the crump of a grenade, or the burst of an automatic weapon. Samsonov and Zinoviev sat nervously at the big table. A loaded PPSh-41 lay between them. Zinoviev ignored it and reached for the last bottle of vodka, sucking down several huge gulps. Samsonov picked up the gun at the sound of clanking equipment and footsteps in the hall. The door to the room was wide open. Samsonov pointed the gun at the open threshold. A small odd looking grenade skittered across the floor.
Zinoviev closed his eyes and waited to die, hoping it would not be too painful. Samsonov pulled the trigger on the submachinegun spraying rounds at the door until the grenade exploded. The Russians were blinded by an effulgent flash and stunned by a hard concussive blast. Seconds later the ‘English’ commandos were on them, punching, kicking and clubbing, but not killing.
Marshal Samsonov came to in his undershorts with his hands bound in front of him. He was sitting in front of the wireless set. Zinoviev squatted beside him, similarly inconvenienced hut, thought Samsonov, the the lieutenant appeared happy just to be alive. ‘Colonel Jones’ and the other English offirer stood nearby, along with several of their troops. Examining the commandos in the light of day, Samsonov thought that the soldiers didn’t look very English at all, they looked swarthy—like Arabs or Turks. The muscular officer who had beaten his guards the night before walked over and grabbed Samsonov by the chin. It seemed that this man, and not Colonel Jones, was now in charge.
“You are going to do just as I say” said Yatom in English “and answer my questions. Do you understand?”
Samsonov considered playing dumb, maintaining that what had happened was a mistake, but realized that no matter what he said, Zinoviev would undermine him, if he hadn’t already. Samsonov nodded.
“Good” said Yatom. “Do you work for the Germans?”
“Yes” said Samsonov “but I have no choice.”
Mofaz standing nearby, and still raw over Itzak’s death, stepped in and smashed Samsonov’s fare with a closed fist.
“No excuses from you” hissed Yatom. “Answer my questions. Afterwards you will get on your radio and call your German contact.”
Sanrsonov nodded. Yatom questioned Samsonov for several minutes, learning the identiy of his German contact. Yatom and Ido then led Samsonov to the wireless set in order to contact Captain Reder in Globocnik’s headquarters. Yatom told Samsonov just what to say. Samsonov sat in front of the wireless, but did nothing. Yatom slapped the huge Russian across the face, but Sanrsonov sat, still dumb. Finally the Russian pointed at Zinoviev. “He must do it” croaked the Russian sergeant as he gestured at his comrade. “I can’t operate the wireless.”
The Israelis looked down at the ancient wireless set, which appeared little more than a jumble of wires and boxes, bolted to a metal frame. Feldhandler finally figured it out. There was no microphone—it operated in Morse.
“Bring the other one over” barked Yatom. Mofaz dragged Zinoviev, who didn’t speak English, over to the wireless set.
“Tell him what to signal” Yatom instructed Samsonov. The two spoke in Russian for a few seconds. Perchensky, the only one among the Israelis who spoke any Russian at all attempted to follow. The sudden betrayal and the death of Itzak had reawakened, at least for a time, her loyalty.
After the Russians finished talking Perchensky tried to translate, speaking now in Hebrew. “As best I can figure, the big one told the little one to pass on the signal as you instructed” she explained. “But the signal is in Morse, and in code on top of that. I-low can we know he’ll do what we say?”
Yatom thought about it for a few seconds, but without consulting further grabbed Zinoviev by the scruff of the neck and told him in English—“Do it!” The terrified Russian got the message and began tapping out a signal in Morse. Either the Russian lieutenant would send the signal Yatom wanted, or he would betray them again. Either way, Yatom figured, the sayeret would be long gone, and Zinoviev dead.
Zinoviev completed the message, and several seconds later the Israelis heard a Morse reply. One way or the other, the signal had gotten through.
Nir and Bolander collected the radio set and attachments and carried the equipment out to the waiting trucks. Yatom, Shapira and Ido followed, leaving Samsonov and Zinoviev alone with Mofaz. The two quick shots echoed down the hall before Yatom reached the steps.
Yatom waited there for a moment so that he and Mofaz could walk out together. “That was quick” said Yatom.
“I’m not a sadist. They deserved worse.”
The two ofiicers left the house and found the rest of the sayeret and Fliegel’s remaining men hard a work at a collection of outbuildings behind Samsonov’s headquarters. There the Israelis found a cornucopia of anns and supply, including hundreds of gallons of precious fuel. The sayeret sorted through the supplies, refueled the vehicles, and loaded on extra jerry cans of petrol. They recharged as much of their electronics as they could.
The Israelis counted a dozen Bren guns, scores of Sten sub-machine guns, and over a hundred Lee-Enfield rifles. They found two American—made 81mm mortars with sixty bombs between them.
There were also four Soviet Degtyarev light machine guns, several down more PPSh-41s, along with hundreds of British, Soviet and German grenades. The Israelis loaded the haul in their own trucks and
a pair of good German LKWs that Samsonov had used for himself.
While loading one of the LKWs Shapira ran into Norit showing Hannah a Sten, and describing its use and operation.
“You seem very familiar with that” said Shapira. “Why wouldn’t I be?” answered Norit, as if Shapira was talking about a fork. Shapira forgot that the Sten was one of the most widely used weapons in the pre-state yishuv.
“No.no reason” mumbled Shapira. “I just didn’t know if you could really shoot.”
“Try me” said Norit, locking and loading a magazine.
“Okay, okay Rambo” said Shapira in English, baffling the two Jewish women with the anaclironisrn. “Not right now, but I think you’ll have plenty of chances.”
Norit smiled, which made Shapira feel good for the first time since Itzak fell. The feeling didn’t last, as the baleful Mofaz came upon them. ”Jalla cheroa” said the Major, his voice barely above a whisper.