“What was that about” demanded the baffled Opificius.
Wirth looked at his fellow SS officer with evident dislike. “I’m the commander here, Hauptsturmfuhrer. Do not demand answers of me.” Opificius choked back his own disaffection, allowing indoctrination and training to hold. “Excuse me Major! I was only concerned about your safety” he lied. Having verbally prostrated himself, Opificius pressed on. “May I ask why you stopped my troopers’ assault?”
“This assault?” Wirth smirked as he pointed to the dead soldiers at his feet. “I seem to be more solicitous of your men than you are.”
“They are combat soldiers” said Opificius angrily, ignoring again the nineties of rank and determined to have his say. “Their duty is to die. Perhaps you don’t appreciate that.”
“You were dispatched to protect this camp” said Wirth. “Now the critical part of the installation, its raison d’etre, is wrecked and Wirth gestured dramatically about him, as the gas chambers blazed amid the efforts of the bucket brigades to douse them.
“You prevented me…” stammered Opificius before Wirth cut him off.
“Shut up!” rasped Wirth, as if Opificius were an unruly child. “This is your fault, and you’ll pay for it. The only good that can come of this disaster is what is inside this gas chamber, and I want him alive.”
“Who?” asked Opificius, still unable to guess Wirth’s motive. “A partisan?”
“That’s no partisan He just killed four of your men. It is a British commando—likely the leader. And I intend to have him. Alive.”
Opificius stood by dumbly. Wirth was obsessed with his silly commandos, but the Waffen SS commander was in no position to argue. Then, incredibly, Wirth knocked on the chamber door, like he was the milkman.
Shapira couldn’t hear the discussion between the German officers from inside the darkened chamber, but sensed something was up, since the attack was suddenly aborted. If they just tossed another grenade or two Shapira knew he’d be done—he had no control of the doorway. He moved the two dead Germans across the threshold anyway, as a lame obstacle, and pulled away one of the Mausers which might be useful as a club.
Shapira considered shooting himself—but he wasn’t suicidal. If he fought on he’d be killed anyway, but it was not exactly the same thing as suicide. And the truth was, Shapira didn’t want to die. He knew when he set off, and left Norit behind, that his chances were not good. But duty and the abstract risks of a pending mission were different than deliberately seeking death.
Plus, Shapira had other concerns, most importantly, how to protect Norit and the rest of the Jews of Biali. If he could lead the Germans away from Biali by giving them false information, through the inevitable torture, he would do Norit greater good than dying a glorious death. Indeed, if he told the Germans the real truth, he would only confound them more. But beyond all that he was simply curious. He was in war torn Europe in 1942! He wanted to experience more of it, explore it, live it, even if that meant capture, interrogation and torture.
And so, sitting on the floor, in the grim darkness of the death chamber, the blood of German soldiers soaking his trousers, Shapira decided to parlay if he could. He barely heard the incongruous but welcome knock on the door. Shapira almost laughed. What was he to say? Who is it? Come in? He decided not to be wasn’t in a movie, and he was dealing with the SS.
“I am Major Ronald Shapira of His Majesty’s Palestinian Brigade!” he shouted, in English, hoping that sounded right. He waited. “Raus! Waffen ab!” said a harsh German voice. Then in halting English “You will be treated goodly.”
“Ich spreche Deutsch!” shouted Shapira. Continuing in German he said “I demand to be treated in accord with the Geneva Conventions, as an enemy officer, properly surrendered.”
Outside the chamber, in the growing light of dawn, and the flickering glow of the dying fires around him Wirth smiled and looked over at Opificius in triumph “Sicher Herr Major” said Wirth. “You have my word.”
Several hundred meters from the burning gas chambers, high in a leafy oak, Chaim watched as Shapira was led away. The sergeant had ignored his team leader’s orders. Instead of withdrawing as he’d promised, Chaim shed his heavy vest and helmet—hiding them in the lower branches—and climbed high into the tree. Ignoring the ache in his damaged shoulder he found a comfortable spot from which he could clearly see into Belzac and into the woods behind him, where Sandler’s men and the few survivors of Shapira’s demolition platoon, had fled pell mell into the woods.
Ten of Sandler’s men lay dead or badly wounded outside the Belzac wire, and of those that escaped, many carried small bits of shrapnel, including Sandler himself. Only four men from Shapira’s demolition platoon had made it out alive. The SS came through shortly afterward, shooting the wounded and piling into the forest in a jaunty chase of the survivors. Having received no fire from high up in the trees, they didn’t bother to scan where Chaim looked on.
Shapira’s surrender didn’t much surprise Chaim. The Israeli platoon leader had accomplished his mission—the gas chambers were destroyed—so why sacrifice himself unnecessarily? Imprisonment by the Nazis would no doubt be terrible, but all the members of the sayeret had long ago come to grips with the possibility they could be taken by Arab forces—Chaim figured there was little to choose between Hezbollah and the Nazis. Shapira would likely survive German mistreatment, unless they deliberately killed him. As Shapira was led away Chaim watched without thought of attempting a rescue. He had only ten rounds left in the Tavor, plus his Sig—but that was it. And Shapira was surrounded by hundreds of Germans.
Chaim stayed in the tree until well after sunrise, when the German patrols returned from their chase of Sandler’s men. They were partly successful, he figured, based on their animated discussions and sign language—young soldiers were similar everywhere. Whoever they found, Chaim decided, they must have killed, because although they carried a few extra weapons there were no prisoners. The Germans settled in for breakfast near their old entrenchments and the woods fell silent. Off in the distance, a small German convoy departed the camp. Chaim didn’t know if Shapira was in it, but guessed that was likely. Unless the Germans were fools, they would realize Shapira’s potential value and spirit him away quickly.
The Israeli sergeant slipped out of the tree, recovered his vest and helmet, and set off into the forest. The truck and staff car they’d taken from Biali were five kilometers to the north, hidden in the bush. He found the car a little before noon after a nervous search, interrupted once by a nearby German patrol. In the car were a platoon radio, food, water, and a pair of MP-40s.
Although Chaim didn’t know the fate or status of the rest of the sayeret, he wanted to advise Yatom of Shapira’s fate and his own situation as soon as possible. He knew that the sayeret leader could only wait so long. Chaim extended the antenna of the radio and attempted to transmit a message. The radio was at the limit of its range, and while Chaim had managed to send a brief signal to Yatom the day before, the radio battery weakened, and weather conditions were worse. He could not get through and would have to get closer to Biali before trying again. With German patrols still about, Chaim couldn’t risk driving away in the middle of the day. He took the radio, an MP-40 and some supplies and moved off several hundred yards to wait for darkness.