“What?” interrupted Sobel. “You’re going to deny these men food?”
“No Sobel” answered De Jong. “I was just stating the truth. Of course they can eat and rest.”
“We have our own rations” said Yatom, which was barely true anymore. The Israelis had run out of Ioof the day before—irritating the already dyspeptic Mofaz—and were existing on captured German potatoes, Samsonov’s cabbages and energy bars. “We also have plenty of weapons and ammunition for you.”
De Jong put the sayeret up for the night in the old town hall building that served as his headquarters. Yatom’s men and Feldhandler shared a group of three good sized of rooms with comfortable furniture and even a cot—which went to Chaim—while Perchensky, Norit and Hannah shared another. Fliegel and his men had disappeared into Biali with family and friends. The town might have been short of food, but it wasn’t short of space. Bolander, sharing with Shapira, Chaim and Roi, the original team Gimmel, noticed it.
“I kinda expected the town to look like the Warsaw Ghetto” said Bolander in English, exercising his native tongue with some pleasure.
“But his place seems almost like suburbia—plenty of space and fine houses. There is probably food in the fields, or will be when harvest time comes.”
“I don’t think they are starving anyway” said Roi, understanding his comrade, but switching the conversation back to Hebrew. “They are a little hungry because there is a ration plan. They’re lucky to have a place to live and any food, given the alternative.”
“Roi” said Chaim jokingly “you sound like a politician.”
“I know what I see and hear. These people owe us their lives. Itzak’s dead. You’re injured, but they still complain.”
“They’re Jews” laughed Bolander. “And they are in trouble. Try coming to Israel from America.”
It was an old argument between the soldiers. For men like Bolander and Shapira, the contentious Israeli way could prove challenging and grating, yet sabras like Roi saw themselves as reasonable and polite. Just don’t stand in line with them at a falafel stand, or ask them to be grateful fnr American aid thought Bolander.
Shapira interrupted before things got out of hand, waving another of Feldhandler’s history books. “It says here that Biali was the scene of a particularly brutal massacre, even by German standards, just a few months ago.”
“The German Mueller, who got away” said Bolander. “He was there, wasn’t he?”
“Here” said Shapira. “The massacre was in the sun—ounding woods. There must be hundreds, even thousands of bodies outside town.”
“That’s why the town was empty” concluded Bolander. “The Jews from the train have simply taken it back.”
“We should have shot that bastard when we had a chance” said Chaim from his cot. “Now he’s free.“
Bolander shrugged Israeli style—he didn’t like the silent accusation against Perchensky. “We’ve killed plenty of Germans, and most likely we’ll kill a lot more before we get out of here” he said defiantly.
In the next room, Yatom, Feldhandler and Mofaz were discussing just that—getting out of 1942 Poland. The capsule was nearby, and Mofaz insisted that they secure it first thing in the morning. Yatom agreed, and Feldhandler didn’t argue, but the scientist warned Mofaz not to get his hopes up. Yatom cut off another argument by reminding Feldhandler of their deal. Two deaths camps were down and a force would go after Belzec as soon as they could formulate a plan. In the meantime he was to work at activating the capsule and transporting the team back to Dimona—sixty-nine years into the future.
“Mofaz” said Yatom “you and Feldhandler go out there before dawn. Take Nir and Perchensky with you. Shapira and I will talk to De Jong and this fellow Sobel.”
“What about Jezek, the Czech?” said Feldhandler. “We left him in charge too.”
“l’ll ask about him” said Yatom. “I didn’t see him when we arrived. Maybe he didn’t want to be a leader after all. Not everybody does.”
“Sobel and De Jong don’t get along” noted Feldhandler. “There are a lot of problems here.”
“Not your problem professor” growled Mofaz. “Don’t overtax your brain. We’re getting up in a few hours and going to the capsule. That’s your problem.”
In the morning Yatom and Shapira along with most of the men, met De Jong for breakfast in the large common room that once served as the town’s assembly hall. The Dutchman saw to it that the sayeret had bread and cheese with hot tea.
“Where are your other officers, and the dark—haired woman?” asked De Jong, noting the absence of Mofaz, Feldhandler and Perchensky.
Yatom ignored the question and posed his own. “Where are the Czech Jezek, and your friend Sobel?” Yatom liked the bluff Dutchman but wanted him out of the sayeret’s business. These Jews had enough problems without concerning themselves with the sayeret’s.
“You know Sobel is not my friend” smiled De Jong. “But he has power among the people from Sobibor. There is a split between the two groups—those from the train and those from the camp.”
“Why is that?” asked Shapira.
“You can guess for yourself’ said De Jong. “The Sobibor group went through much more than we did. They lost their families completely, and suffered greatly in the camp. To my mind the Sobibor survivors are psychologically scarred—often hard to deal with. We, from the train, are normal people thrown into a difficult circumstance.”
Shapira nodded, but De Jong went on. “They are also almost all men—few women, no children. I, on the other hand, am responsible for 1,700 people, of whom half are women and several hundred children.”
“The two groups don’t cooperate?” asked Shapira.
“Of course we do. But we don’t see eye to eye on many things.”
“Where is Jezek?” persisted Yatom.
“He is here and should meet us in a few minutes. Jezek is well liked by both sides. He’s a teacher and philosopher, a central European, while I am a Dutch naval officer, and Sobel a Polish businessman. But Jezek has family with him. I do not. He is a reluctant leader, greatly concerned for his wife and children—which to be expected.”
At that moment the Czech walked through the door, a thin and slightly stooped man with a kind face who looked much older than thirty-eight. De Jong greeted him warmly, and Jezek smiled at the commandos.
“I am sorry I was not here to meet you last night” said Jezek. “I was in the Polish village.”
“The Polish village?” asked Yatom, fearing he had misunderstood the German.
“Yes. William did not explain?” asked Jezek. Yatom shook his head as Sobel rumbled into the room.
“We hadn’t got to that yet” answered De Jong.
“What didn’t you do yet De Jong?” Sobel taunted.
“Stop” said Jezek to the Pole. Sobel obeyed Jezek, grabbed for a crust of bread, and sat down. De Jong was right—Jezek seemed to command respect even if he didn’t want to bear the mantle of leadership.
“Biali was always two villages” said Jezek. “Biali is the main town, which we are in now. It was almost all Jewish. The smaller village, Biali-Podlaski, was Polish—I mean gentile. After the Germans massacred the Jews a few months ago, the Poles helped themselves to Biali. We have moved them back to the village, which they are not very happy about.”
“How many Poles are there” asked Shapira.
“Of the gentiles—about 600 people” said Jezek. “They are poor farmers mostly. We have guns now, they do not. So they do as we say. But it is not a good situation for the long term.”
Yatom and Shapira exchanged glances. It was like Middle East politics. “What are you doing about it?” asked Yatom.
“My men are keeping them in their place” said Sobel. “They’ll learn that Mausers can kill Poles as well as Jews if they decide to cause trouble.”