Ana Grinspan had seen Germans in her rifle sights before, but this was different. The mutual curiosity of enemy looking at enemy. The practical application of Andrei’s continued lectures that these were not supermen. Hit them with a bullet and they will go down. The soldier was clearly puzzled at the face of his enemy. The “sub-human” was a tall handsome woman leading men whose prowess he had no desire to contest.
“I have a message for your commander from Dr. Franz Koenig representing the German authorities,” he recited.
“Runner.” Ana commanded, “go to Atlas in Jerusalem and tell him that Pharaoh has sent a messenger under truce. We will hold him at Herod’s Palace.”
A runner dashed off down Zamenhof Street.
“Blindfold him,” Ana ordered.
Moments later Simon Eden spoke to the back of the soldier. “I am the commander,” he said.
“Dr. Koenig wishes to have a meeting under truce with you and your command. He guarantees complete safety—”
Simon interrupted. “Tell him that if he wishes a conference he will walk alone through the Leszno-Tlomatskie Gate holding a white flag and he will stop before the Civil Authority building. He will come between twelve and twelve-ten o’clock.”
The single obese figure of Franz Koenig waddled into the unearthly stillness. He quaked with fear, waving an oversized white flag back and forth with each step.
Down the middle of the empty street. The eerie sensation that a thousand pair of eyes were on him. Hidden. Looking at him. He stole glances at the windows and the roofs. Not a stir. How could anything be so deserted?
Koenig had wanted to wear civilian clothing, but he feared the Nazis would think he was afraid to wear a uniform. He did slip off the swastika armband the instant he was inside the ghetto. No use antagonizing them, he thought.
He inched farther up the street, past Dzielna, past Pawia. Still no sign of life. He stopped at the intersection of Gensia and looked in all four directions. Nothing. Only a snowfall of feathers. The structure of the Civil Authority building was behind him.
“Anyone here?” Anyone here ... anyone here ... anyone here? echoed his voice.
“Hello!” Hello ... hello ... hello.
Ten minutes passed. Koenig was numbed with fear.
“Koenig!”
He looked for the voice.
“Koenig!”
The front door of the Civil Authority building was ajar. He walked gingerly up the steps and shoved the door open. It groaned. He narrowed his eyes to slits to see down the shadowed corridor and waved the white flag.
“Truce!” he called. “Truce!”
The door slammed behind him. He turned and looked into the bearded face of Samson Ben Horin.
“Hands up,” Ben Horin said. He frisked Koenig. “March!” Down the corridor. The walls were stained with dried blood from German executions. The plaster chipped away. Debris everywhere.
“Turn in there. Sit.”
Franz didn’t like the sordid room. It was overturned and smashed. It smelled bad. He swallowed to loosen his throat and stared at the table, afraid to look into the eyes of Samson Ben Horin. Samson smirked.
“So you are a superman,” he said.
Koenig felt inept before the lean, fierce, black-eyed young Jew who could obviously rip him to shreds. Samson sat in the window sill and swung his leg back and forth. “So you are a superman,” he repeated.
The door opened. Simon Eden towering over six feet three inches and like a band of steel, Andrei Androfski with the power of a lion, Rodel with the build of a tank—all came in and leaned against the wall.
Koenig knew instantly that not only were the Joint Forces not a myth, but the survivors were a fierce breed.
Alexander Brandel helped Rabbi Solomon into the room. He and the old man sat opposite Koenig.
“Stand up in the presence of our rabbi,” Andrei said, “and cover your head.”
Koenig pushed the chair back from the table and arose.
Rodel did not particularly subscribe to the idea of having Samson Ben Horin and Rabbi Solomon attend the conference. To him, Ben Horin’s Revisionists were akin to fascists. Moreover, Ben Horin would not bind himself to Joint Forces. As for Solomon, it was sentimentality and nonsense. But for the sake of unity he did not protest.
“Talk,” Simon said.
“On behalf ... on behalf of the German authority, I am authorized to negotiate a settlement of our difficulties.”
The pronouncement was made without reaction. Koenig cleared his throat and continued.
“We would like to put the past behind us. Let bygones be bygones. I mean, there is no use dragging out old skeletons in the closet. Let us forget yesterday and talk about tomorrow.”
Still no reaction from the six men he faced.
“What we wish to do is complete the resettlement of the ghetto. Now, before you say anything, let me assure you that I came here fully prepared to guarantee excellent working conditions at camps you are free to examine.”
Ben Horin swung his leg back and forth from his seat in the window. Rodel glared hatred. Simon and Andrei looked aimlessly at the floor. Only Alex registered some amazement.
Koenig cleared his throat again.
“We are prepared to sign a pact. Our word. A treaty, if you please ...” He stopped. All six pairs of hard eyes were on him now, registering disdain. He was making no progress whatsoever and he was getting more nervous,
“All right. I ask you, under what conditions will you consider abandoning the ghetto?”
There were no German tricks left, no more cunning or wile or ruses.
“You must consider it,” Koenig continued. “Mind you, I am not making threats, but surely you must know that your position is impossible.”
Still no reply. Koenig had come to barter, prepared to fall back to a line of retreat to get what he wanted; peaceful liquidation. Their continued silence had left him with no choice but to make the final offer at once.
“You men here represent the leadership of what we estimate to be forty to fifty thousand people. To show you we mean business, we are prepared to pay you a handsome indemnity. Several hundred thousand zlotys. We will deposit it in Swiss francs, American dollars, or however you desire, and we will give you two thousand visas to Sweden. We guarantee safe conduct under Swedish or Swiss auspices. If you wish, you can leave in lots of one hundred and arrange coded messages to assure each other of safe arrivals. Now, gentlemen, what could be fairer than that?”
Koenig’s offer was absolutely clear. It was a bribe for freedom. They would allow the leaders and part of the Jewish Forces to escape and, not only that, pay them to escape in exchange for leaving the rest of the survivors undefended and at the mercy of the Germans. Without Joint Jewish Forces there would be no further danger of resistance. The rest would go quietly.
“Don’t keep Dr. Koenig waiting, Alex,” Simon said. “I’m sure you have an answer for him.”
Alexander Brandel stood up face to face with Franz Koenig. He expectorated a large wad of spit which landed on Franz Koenig’s nose and dribbled down the German’s lips and chin.
“Get out,” Simon hissed.
Samson Ben Horin jumped down from the window sill and cocked his pistol. “Let’s give the Germans a real answer.”
“No,” Rabbi Solomon said. “He has entered our house under truce. We are bound to protect him.”
“Rabbi! This is Pharaoh! The blood of Jewish slaves is on his hands. His fat pockets bulge with gold from Jewish sweat.”
“No, Samson,” the rabbi admonished softly. “As elder of this community, I will not permit it.”
Samson jammed the barrel against Koenig’s temple and snarled. Neither Andrei nor Simon nor Rodel cared to stop him.
“Only one side in this war is the Nazis’. Let this miserable cur crawl out of here with the memory of honorable men engraved on his wretched soul living in fear of the moment the wrath of God will avenge us!” Solomon said.