His crazed thought process could take him no further on the road to madness as just then the earth shook and he ducked as flying bricks, mortar and dust filled the cellar. Looking up, he could hear voices, German voices◦— “Raus! Raus!”◦— and see light pouring in from a hole in the outside wall.
His first impulse was to rush to this newly-formed breach, to greet his comrades, to go home… But then he considered the men he would have to run past. Would they then know? He decided it would be better to follow the crowd out into the sunlight.
“Bring out the sick and wounded. We will take care of them,” continued the German officer. “You have nothing to fear.”
Wendorff looked back along the tunnel. Heated discussions were taking place amongst the soldiers as to what to do.
“Fight!”
“With what?”
“The wounded cannot last much longer.”
Looking across from him, Wendorff’s eye was caught by the young boy. “Is it safe, do you think?” he asked. “Can we trust the Germans?”
Wendorff did not want to be seen to reply too quickly or enthusiastically so he deliberately looked around and wore a look of confusion, as if he was waiting for orders. Then he entertained the romantic idea that he may be able to use his influence to get this young musician back to Germany. The world deserved to hear this natural-born talent, this voice. He knew a surgeon. Perhaps he could even find him a place in a conservatory…
“Is it safe?” repeated the boy.
Wendorff looked at him, saw his wide, innocent eyes, looked straight into them, gave him the most discrete of affirmations, and handed him his violin back. The boy silently thanked him with a trusting smile, put his violin back in its case, and rose to walk up the tunnel. Wendorff was just about to join him when a familiar female voice shouted from the back of the tunnel.
“We need help to get these wounded out!”
Without even thinking he turned and walked back up the tunnel to help Nurse Ostermann. Kneeling to help lift one soldier who had lost both of his legs, Wendorff looked back up the tunnel and saw the young boy approach the hole in the wall, his tiny frame silhouetted by the sunlight pouring in from outside. Then he heard a chilling voice.
“So, the rats are crawling out of the sewers. What do we do to rats, boys? We burn them.”
Outside the tunnel the engineer stood ready, the 11.8 litres of Flammöl 19 mixed with tar (to give it weight and distance) weighing on his shoulders. Knowing this should allow him a distance of twenty-five metres, he rechecked his aim to make sure the deadly flaming jet would go right down the tunnel. On the order, he released the fuel and immediately ignited it with the hydrogen torch. Holding for the designated ten seconds he felt the power course through him. He knew the temperature of the flame discharged by his inhuman weapon would reach 4,000 degrees centigrade. The engineer was therefore surprised when the first powerful blast hit the figure of the young boy who emerged from the tunnel entrance and this slight figure remained stock still and upright. Usually the victim fell straight to the ground, or ran briefly before falling to the ground, but each case was different. As the oxygen was completely used up all around the target, most died instantly, but some victims could survive for a few agonising seconds before collapsing. This boy took the full blast and just stood there, on fire, not even screaming.
Inside the tunnel, Wendorff felt the searing heat of the first burst and instinctively threw himself to the ground. His life had been saved by the fateful decision to return to help the wounded, placing him out of range. Looking up, he was horrified to see a scene from hell as flaming victims ran screaming back into the tunnel or just burned to death where they lay with their hair, clothes and bodies on fire. All that he and the others could do was to take off their jackets and try to put the fire out, but this inevitably made things worse as skin and cloth stuck to each other. If only there was water!
Then, looking further down the tunnel, Wendorff was appalled to see a small figure walk slowly back into the tunnel, completely aflame. Astonishingly, he made no sound as walked back. Wendorff gathered his jacket and rushed towards him. Just as he arrived he realized the reason for the silence. It had nothing to do with that otherworldly aura the young boy had carried with him, nothing to do with serenity. It was stomach-churning. The flesh on the boy’s face had melted and sealed his lips together. This great beautiful voice had been so reduced, so deformed, that now it was unable even to scream. But his eyes were screaming, what was left of them, before they too melted over and the boy slumped to the ground. Karl Wendorff fell to the ground with him, passing out and falling in such a manner that it looked as though he may never recover.
Despite all of the losses so far incurred, on the morning of the 24th of June General Schlieper announced the surprise decision that the 45th Infantry Division was to intensify its attack on the citadel and to commit its reserve troops into the fight. As a result, a fierce battle now erupted at the Brest gate. The citadel was protected on the north and east by the Kobrin fortification, the largest in the entire fortress complex. Up to a thousand officers and men from various units were still fit enough to take part in its defence. However, the defence of the entire fortress was impossible. There were simply not enough troops for that. Three pockets of resistance were therefore formed and the defenders had to act independently. The commanders were eventually able to meet when Regimental Commissar Yefim Fomin transferred his command post to the citadel and it was here that he made contact with Captain Ivan Zubachyov, assistant commander of the 44th Rifle Regiment, and who was commanding the defence in the citadel’s northwest sector.
Fomin and Zubachyov immediately decided to create a joint command for the defence of the central island and sought the advice of Major Gavrilov.
“Comrades, you have seen more of the fascists than I. What is your analysis of the current situation?” asked Fomin.
Zubachyov and Gavrilov looked at each other in silence as they each attempted to defer to the other. Who could possibly want to voice such grim and hopeless tidings? Gavrilov finally took a deep breath and chose to speak first. His tone was measured and without accent or inflection.
“The Cholmsker gate still holds. The others we have only intermittent contact with. Water shortages are acute. Ammunition is low. Medicine is almost non-existent.”
“Any radio contact?”
“No, comrade, we have neither equipment nor power,” said Zubyachov.
“Do we have any idea what is happening along the front? In fact, do we even know if we are part of a front?” asked Fomin.
Zubachyov and Gavrilov shook their heads.
“Do we have any idea how much longer we can hold on without ammunition or supplies…”
There was no need for Fomin to wait for an answer. He could tell by the faces of his fellow commanders just how critical the situation was. He had seen it with his own eyes. Women and children◦— those that were left◦— loading machine guns and scurrying about the ruins and remnants of the fortress scavenging for food, water and ammunition. He struggled to formulate a plan. The wounded◦— how much more pitiful could their condition get? Water◦— was there any hope? Radio communications◦— was there nothing that could be done? Were there any alternatives? Surely there must be alternatives?
At this moment of crisis, unbidden, his Grandfather Abram’s favourite saying came to his mind. “Yefim, my boy, please remember this Jewish wisdom from your ancestors◦— if life only offers you two choices, always take the third!”
So what was the third choice? Surrender? The thought chilled him, but surely it must be considered?