Mac wingate 5, p.10
Mac Wingate 5, page 10
“I must go to work now,” Comrade Paul said.
“What do you do at this hour?”
“I am a baker,” he said. “It is I who will get you the trucks tomorrow night. But stay. You are both so tired. And here, I have saved you each a tin of sardines. Eat, eat. I will go now.”
In a moment he was gone.
“We can’t stay,” Lisa said. “We must get back. While it is still dark.”
Wingate felt his pulse thudding in his temple. It was astounding. He might have been a schoolboy out on his first date. He knew what he wanted, and what Lisa wanted, as well. All she needed was a reason for changing her mind about going directly back to the ghetto.
“We can’t stay long,” Wingate said. “But it wouldn’t be polite to leave this food untouched. There doesn’t seem to be much food in the ghetto, I’ve noticed.”
Lisa nodded and slumped back into her chair. They ate Comrade Paul’s generous offering in a nervous silence, Wingate astonished at how hungry he had been. The bedroom was visible from the table. Comrade Paul’s bed was neatly made with a bright, tassled pillow at the head.
The ersatz coffee washed down the small meal. Lisa looked across the table at Wingate. “I am damaged goods. Captain,” she said, her voice cold, almost lifeless. “I think it would be best if we returned to the ghetto now.”
“To reality, you mean.”
“Yes. To reality.”
“What do you mean—damaged goods?”
“I am not ... a virgin.”
“I had not made such a requirement, had I? As a matter of fact,” he said, smiling gently, “neither am I.”
“That is not what I meant,” she said curtly, getting to her feet and heading for the door.
He reached the door before she did. “What did you mean?”
“Frankenstein,” she said. “Blosche! He has used me, Captain. Twice he found me! Each time I was unarmed! Do you understand now?”
She ducked her head. He could see her fighting it, but then she began to sob, silently, her entire frame shuddering convulsively. He reached out and gathered her into his arms, then held her close. Her gasping sobs were no longer quiet. He hung on to her, aware for the first time of her amazing, birdlike fragility. She was like a little girl all of a sudden, crying as if her heart would break over some childhood misadventure—only she wasn’t a child anymore and what had been happening to her was more than the loss of a favorite doll.
At last she quieted. But she did not push away from him. Slowly, tentatively, she put her arms around him and rested her head upon his chest. He lifted her gently in his arms, turned, and carried her into the bedroom.
Chapter Eight
It was Felix the Cat who found Martens.
Kurt Barack, Lazar Berensen, Lisa, and two other ZOB commandants were going over the upcoming delivery of arms with Wingate when the young courier entered Barack’s bunker. Wingate was studying a map Berensen had prepared of the sewer system they would be slogging through that night, when he felt a gentle tug on his sleeve.
He glanced quickly around to see the boy’s enormous eyes staring up at him.
“Felix!” said Barack. “We are busy here. Stay outside until I call you.”
The boy took a step away from the table, glancing nervously at Barack, then back at Wingate.
In German, Wingate asked, “What is it, Felix?”
“I have found the other one.”
“Martens?”
“Yes.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I will take you.”
Wingate looked around at the others. “We just might need that AWOL sonofabitch,” he told them. “And I’d like to have a word with him myself, just on general principles. You don’t need me anymore. There shouldn’t be any trouble with this delivery. But if we do have trouble, it’s pretty clear where that trouble will come from.”
“Yes,” said Berensen. “An informer. You say Gimolka suggested one of the Thirteen might have infiltrated our units?”
“That’s what he said.”
“We must be careful,” said Lisa. “Such a thing is not impossible.”
“I suggest we tell as few members of ZOB as possible,” Wingate said. “With my men helping, you won’t need too many others. The less who know about this operation, the better.”
“All right, Captain,” said Berensen.
Wingate left the table. As soon as he did, Aldini and Regnais bestirred themselves as well; they had been sitting with their backs to the wall, conversing quietly.
“You heard Felix?” Wingate asked, as he paused in front of them.
Aldini nodded. “Felix found Martens.” He grinned. “We’ll surround the bastard.”
Wingate nodded grimly. Yes, he realized, perhaps that was what they would have to do. He snatched up his Sten, nodded to Felix, then followed the young courier from the bunker.
When they emerged from the bunker a few moments later and came out onto the sidewalk in front of the bakery, the brilliant early-afternoon sunlight almost blinded them. They had to hold up for a few moments, blinking painfully, until their eyes adjusted to the brilliant spring sunshine. They were all becoming like rats, Wingate realized, living almost entirely underground in the bowels of buildings, using sewers for roads, and seldom, if ever, emerging into the streets during the day. The Nazis had denied them that which everyone else took for granted, the right to a walk in the sun.
Keeping to back alleys and darting furtively across lots, Felix trotted steadily ahead of them. They were heading toward the Toebbens and Schultz workshops beyond Nowolipie Street. Aldini and Regnais trotted smoothly beside Wingate.
“Captain,” asked Regnais. “What is this Thirteen they mention?”
“Lisa explained it to me this morning,” Wingate replied. “The Thirteen is a Jewish collaborationist police unit, made up of the Jewish criminal element the Nazis found in Warsaw.”
“Trust the Nazis to think of that,” said Regnais.
“Why do they call them the Thirteen?” Aldini asked.
“That’s the number of their address on Leszno Street. The ZOB has assassinated many of their members, but many still remain at large, still working for the Germans. And the ZOB commandants do not know who they are.”
“Hell, Captain. They’re still Jews,” protested Aldini. “How could they betray their own people?”
“According to Lisa, its members are convinced the only way they can survive is to become indistinguishable from the Germans themselves. Be better Nazis than the Nazis, is the way she put it. They have already killed their share of Jews during interrogations.”
“It stinks, Captain,” said Aldini. “This entire operation is bad news. I’ll be glad to get out of here.”
Wingate did not bother to reply. After all, how could he blame the corporal? Wingate was getting to feel the same way. And then he saw that Felix had come to a halt.
The boy was crouching beside a brick wall that bordered a street. As they approached, Felix motioned to them to keep low and be quiet. As the others ducked low, Wingate moved up beside the boy.
“What is it, Felix?”
“There!”
Felix pointed down the street. A squad of SS had routed out a sizable Jewish contingent from somewhere in this end of the ghetto, and was marching the Jews into a vacant lot diagonally across the street from them. The street was a wide one, and the lot was even wider than the street. It was pockmarked with craters and piles of rubbish and other debris.
Wingate saw from the insignia on their uniforms that these SS were what Lisa called Junaks—Ukrainians, Lithuanians, and Latvians. Lisa had made it clear to Wingate that she saw no difference between these Junaks and the German soldiers who were members of the notorious Reinhardt Corps. If anything, the Junaks were consistently more rapacious than their SS counterparts, so frantic were they to prove their loyalty to their German masters. And of them all, Lisa had insisted, the Ukrainians were the worst. They seemed to take an insane delight in their task of bullying and killing Jews.
“What are those devils up to?” Aldini muttered.
Wingate was not sure, so he did not answer. The Jews, most of them old men and women with a few young women and children, were being lined up against a wall while one of the Junaks—a big, husky Ukrainian—moved down the line, evidently stripping the Jews of their valuables. There was a constant exchange between the Ukrainian and his comrades, who were standing well behind him, their submachine guns trained casually on the cowed Jews. From where Wingate was crouching, he could hear a little girl begin to cry.
“Looks like the bastards are robbing them before taking them out of here,” said Regnais.
Wingate nodded. He hoped that was all it was.
Felix suddenly pointed to an alley on the other side of the lot. “Martens,” he said.
“Where, damn it?” Wingate asked.
And then he saw Martens, crouching low, his Sten in his hands, moving cautiously closer to the rear of the Junaks. And behind him came four others. As Wingate watched, they ducked behind a huge pile of bricks. They were obviously about to take the SS from behind.
“Regnais, Aldini,” Wingate said softly. “As soon as Martens opens up, we’ll do the same. Then follow me across the street. Got that?”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” said Aldini fervently.
“Lead the way, Captain,” said Regnais.
“Felix,” said Wingate, glancing down at the boy. “You stay here and keep down. That’s an order.”
Felix nodded obediently.
Looking back at the Jews huddled along the wall, Wingate saw the Ukrainian walking away from the Jews now, his pockets bulging. When he neared his companions, he stuck up his hand. From the Ukrainian’s fist, Wingate could see a gold watch swinging on its chain. Laughing, the Ukrainian turned to glance back at the Jews he had just robbed. Then he turned back to his comrades and shouted something. It sounded like an order.
To Wingate’s horror, the line of Junaks lifted their automatic weapons and opened fire. Groaning, Wingate watched as the murderous fire cut the Jews to pieces. They slumped without an outcry to the base of the wall, their lifeless bodies jumping from the deluge of bullets that continued to rip into them.
The only outcry came from the Junaks. They were enjoying their work so much they were laughing out loud in their delight.
“Mon Dieu!” said Regnais softly, “Monstrueux!”
“Oh, those dirty bastards,” groaned Aldini.
Wingate looked at the pile of debris behind which Martens and his men were crouching. Why in hell hadn’t they ...?
“Jesus, Captain, are we just going to watch?” Aldini asked bitterly.
“We can’t do anything until Martens makes his move,” Wingate told him, in an agony of frustration himself. “There’s at least a dozen SS over there. We’d have to cross the street and most of the lot to take them. We’d have no covering fire until Martens opened up.”
“What the hell’s keeping him from making his move then?”
“How do you suppose the captain would know that?” asked Regnais, his voice shaking slightly with suppressed rage.
As a result of what they had just seen, Wingate realized, the two of them were close to losing whatever discipline they had. “Keep your voices down,” Wingate warned them. “I know how you feel, but nothing can help those Jews now.”
The Junaks closed ranks and marched from the vacant lot. When they hit the street, they marched away from Wingate and his men toward the Leszno Street gate. In a moment they were out of sight.
Shaken, Wingate left his cover and crossed the street to the vacant lot, heading for the spot where he had last seen Martens and the others. Before he reached it, Martens stepped out from behind the debris, his four emaciated companions moving cautiously into view as well.
“Goddamn it, Martens,” said Wingate. “We saw you. Why didn’t you open fire on those bastards? We would have done the same as soon as you did.”
“Why do you think I sent Felix for you, Captain?” he asked unhappily. “I’m out of ammunition. All of us are. We were hoping to get close enough to them to attack without weapons. But they opened fire before we could get any closer.”
“Without weapons?”
“Yes, Captain. Without modern weapons, that is.”
Wingate glanced at the four Jews with Martens, and for the first time noted the wooden clubs two of them carried. Another had a half a crowbar, and the fourth had a short length of pipe. The four ragged men looked as weary and shaken as Martens. Wingate felt his anger begin to drain away. “Captain!” It was Regnais.
Wingate turned to the Frenchman. “What is it?”
“Look!” Regnais was pointing to the crumpled bodies slumped along the base of the wall.
To his astonishment and horror, Wingate saw two little girls crawling out from under the pile of corpses. They were holding hands tightly and each was covered with blood. Wingate and the others began to run toward them.
The girls held up when they saw them approaching. One of them, the taller of the two, looked blankly up at the men as they halted before them. Unlike her sister, who cowered against her, she seemed strangely composed, as if there was no longer anything in the world that could frighten her. Then she said something to them in Polish.
Wingate turn to Regnais. “What did she say?”
There were tears in Regnais’ eyes as he told Wingate: “Mummy is dead. They took Daddy away. I don’t want to live anymore.”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Aldini softly.
“Felix!” Wingate called, turning around to find the boy. Felix was standing some distance from them, watching the two girls with a stricken face. “Take these girls to the orphanage! Now!”
With a quick nod, the boy darted forward, took one of the girls by the hand and trotted off with her. The smaller one, still clinging to her sister’s hand, almost fell to the ground, but she regained her balance and kept going. At first the girls moved woodenly, clumsily, but soon both were running to keep up with Felix. Wingate watched them disappear into a cellar across the street.
Then he turned to Martens, “Martens! Where the hell you been? I ought to court-martial you!”
Surprisingly, Martens merely nodded. He seemed subdued, apologetic. Since Wingate had seen him last, his dour face appeared to have undergone a subtle transformation; its harsh, bitter lines had softened and his eyes no longer burned with the same fierce bitterness.
“You are right, of course, Captain,” the Belgian admitted, shrugging wearily.
Wingate tried to retain the edge of his justified anger at Martens’ insubordination. After all, this man had been AWOL for close to two days. But Wingate’s anger continued to drain away, no matter how hard he tried to recapture it. After what he had just seen, he no longer had the heart for spit and polish. Like Martens, he was completely drained, emotionally and physically. His earlier resolve not to allow his personal feelings to temper his sense of military necessity was becoming almost impossible to follow.
“All right, Martens,” he said, echoing the man’s weariness. “But I want you to remember, damn it, that you are a member of a team. This is not your own private war. Do you think you can manage that?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good. Tonight we’ll be helping the Jews pick up some weapons I’ve managed to wangle from the Polish underground. And we’ll need your help.”
“You will have it, sir.”
Wingate looked at the four bedraggled scarecrows standing behind Martens. “You men! Do you want to come with us? We will have weapons for you after tonight.”
The men looked quickly at Martens for an explanation. Martens spoke to them rapidly in Polish. One of the four answered Martens in a surprisingly resonant voice. Martens glanced back at Wingate.
“They’ll come, Captain.”
“Fine. Then let’s get back to Barack’s bunker.”
About nine o’clock that night, when Wingate returned to Berensen’s bunker from the orphanage, where he had gone to check on how the two little girls were doing, he was surprised to find that Aldini had left Barack’s bunker and was waiting for him.
“How are the two girls, Captain?”
Wingate considered a moment. “Lisa said they’re still in shock. The younger one seems to be coming around, though. She’s found someone to play with. The older one is not doing so well. She keeps telling Lisa she doesn’t want to live.”
“Is there anything I can do, Captain?”
“I don’t think so, Aldini. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. Not now.”
Aldini took a deep breath. “Yeah. I guess so.” He looked at Wingate for a moment, then said, “I don’t mind telling you, Captain, but I’m finding this business a helluva lot more than I bargained for. I don’t know if I can take it. I volunteered for this here mission because I thought it was going to be a piece of cake—like the Limeys say. But it sure as hell ain’t that. I’m glad you hit me that time. I deserved it. That’s all I been since I joined up, Captain. A royal fuck-up. And proud of it. I guess you might say I thought this whole war was a joke.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad way to look at it, Aldini.”
“No, sir. I don’t think it is. Not anymore, not after this business here in the ghetto. I mean, there ain’t nothing about this in Stars and Stripes. No one seems to care what the Germans are doing to these people. All we hear is battlefront reports. The Big Fucking Picture. Know what I mean? But this is what it is all about. This is why we’re fighting. And we got to fight it. We got to stop it. This ain’t no joke, Captain.”
Wingate nodded solemnly. Aldini was right, of course. Wingate felt the same consuming indignation. Like Aldini, it filled Wingate with a fierce desire to lash back at the monstrous tide threatening to engulf this place, and it did not matter how hopeless such a course of action might be.
