The Shield: a novel (20 page)

“
And how do we get to any of those communities?” Amos wanted to know.

“
How about setting up a meeting with Eichmann at the Brindisi compound and telling him that we'll send our agents to deceive the Jews? These agents will be our liaison with the activists in Jewish communities,” suggested the Defense Minister, “but I am reluctant to suggest we send the Ultra-Orthodox as agents – the sight of bearded Jews traveling all over Europe may be too much for the Nazis.”

The Religions Minister nodded: “I agree, especially as few of the Ultra-Orthodox are trained for this kind of activity. On the other hand it would be enough, in my opinion, to send agents who are observant, know the history of the community they are visiting and can persuade the leaders that a miracle happened and the state of Israel is here, now. They saw it that way in 1948. These people are open to the idea of a miracle, which I think is really what it is anyway. Oh, and some of them had emissaries in Palestine. If we could locate their descendants, it might make the mission that much easier.”

“I have a related question. Isn’t the compound still being built? Do we really want to let this Nazi see what we’re doing?”

“
Hannah has a point,” Amos Nir said, “But I think that psychologically it's a good idea to make him come to us and meet face to face. Maybe we can create an enclosure in the compound and meet him there, limiting what we show him?”

“
That sounds much better,” Hannah responded. “Who will talk to him?”

Nitzan Liebler thought for a moment: “I think that we have the right man there already. The commander of the facility is one Colonel Ephraim Hirshson. He speaks German, not like a native but well enough to be understood. His Arabic is good and he is a tough cookie and definitely the guy to deal with the likes of Eichmann. We'll need to tell him what we want from the Nazi and I believe he can get it.”

***

The next time Ibrahim woke up, a couple of hours later, he felt much better. His headache was gone and his foot wasn’t as red. He enjoyed the sensation of not being in pain. The door opened and a soldier in a black uniform
came in. He put a bundle on the chair next to Ibrahim’s bed.

“
What is going on?” Ibrahim asked.

“
Everything will be explained to you in good time,” the soldier responded in Arabic. “Please dress and get ready to leave.”

Ibrahim did as he was told. A bit later he was escorted to a small dining room decorated with swastikas and verses from the Koran. Within seconds a f
amiliar looking man entered the room.

“
Sit,” the man pointed at one of the chairs at the dining table. “May Allah bless you forever. You deserve a good meal before going back to Palestine.” The man took a seat opposite Ibrahim.

As soon as they were seated, servants, in the s
ame black uniforms, started serving food.

“
Do you recognize me?” the man asked.

“
Your Excellency, I think that I am in the presence of the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem!” Ibrahim attempted to get up.

“
Sit, sit,” the Mufti said. “I am glad you recognized me. It is a good sign that I am known even in your own future time.”

“
Sir, you are not only known, but revered by us. You are our role model and we strive to fulfill your vision.” Ibrahim’ voice was slightly trembling with excitement.

“
Now listen carefully,” the Mufti said, extending a typed sheet of paper. “I have carefully read the books you brought. Here is a message for my grand nephew. You will have to memorize it. I'll also give you a handwritten note to show him. The note is written on and sealed in rice paper, so if you get caught on the way back just swallow it.” He pulled out a fountain pen from his pocket, signed the flap of the envelope, finished the cup of coffee he was drinking and got up. Ibrahim jumped up from his seat.

“
Sit. Finish your meal in peace. Later one of my aides will instruct you on how you will return to Palestine. May Allah be with you always.”

“
Yes, sir. May Allah the mighty and merciful smile on you forever.” Ibrahim attempted a salute like he saw the soldiers give the Mufti.

The Mufti saluted back: “Allahu Akbar,” he said as he left the room.

Later, after nightfall, Ibrahim was taken to an airplane parked on the runway of a small airstrip. It was dark except for the car’s dimmed lights, but even in this light he could see the German Luftwaffe insignia on the plane. He had never before flown in such an old-fashioned airplane. It was uncomfortable, noisy and slow. The plane’s windows were painted so no light could escape. Only the pilots could see outside. Ibrahim spent his time on the plane memorizing the message.

Finally they landed without cutting the engines: “This is as far as we go,” the pilot said in German, with an adjutant of the Mufti translating. “Here is our position on the map. Walk southeast from here for about eight miles. It will be light soon - Be sure to hide during the day. As soon as it gets dark you can cross the border. You know how to get where you are going.” The adjutant added “Allahu Akbar.”

Colonel Hirshson was busy. He hadn’t been this busy since he was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed second lieutenant preparing his platoon for an operation in Gaza.

Two weeks ago a small flotilla had entered the Italian port of Brindisi. The flotilla consisted of two large Israeli missile boats, two 3000 ton cargo ships, and two mostly submerged and invisible submarines. Under the watchful eye of the missile boats, submarines, drones and jets patrolling the skies above, the cargo ships were unloaded and returned to Haifa for a second run.

Hirshson was responsible for getting the construction done and setting up the facility. He had at his disposal a battalion of combat engineers with their heavy earthmoving equipment. Two infantry battalions were assigned to guard duty and navy and air force units kept a watch on the area.

The first engineering job was to create an earthen barrier about thirty feet high around the compound. It was built inside a perimeter fence erected by the Germans only a week earlier. The barrier would enclose an area two miles wide by three miles long, with the longer side being parallel to the sea and the port in the northwestern portion. The toughest job for Hirshson had been prepping space for a pre-fabricated concrete wall that was to separate the town of Brindisi from its port. He didn’t like the idea of forcing blameless Italians from the surrounding area.

“
Colonel,” the mayor of Brindisi complained at a meeting called by Hirshson, in which a number of prominent citizens participated, “if you cut us off from the port we will lose our livelihood. This town needs fishermen going out to sea every morning.”

“
Yes,” agreed the colonel, “and it needs its smugglers to return every morning too.”

“
You have to allow us access to the port. We will complain to the Duce,” one of the town elders yelled.

“
Please complain,” Hirshson responded. “This arrangement has the Duce’s full agreement. I am truly sorry he forgot about your needs, and I think you should complain to him.”

“
Dear colonel, we do not wish to be an obstacle to whatever plans you have for the port,” the mayor added, trying a more friendly approach. “We only wish to help and hope you can at least allow us the use of some piers.”

“
How does this sound to you?” the colonel asked with a smile. “You can continue to use the northernmost pier and most of the warehouses as long as everyone in town reports
to us information and rumors about military activity, and we will be free to take more land to expand the compound to the South?”

“
We are in agreement,” the mayor declared after a short consultation with the rest of the attendees.

***
*

Work went on uneventfully for a couple of days after the meeting. The concrete wall was almost finished and the earthen barrier extended half way around the compound. The barbed wire erected by the Germans was connected to a computerized alarm system to prevent infiltration. Another week would complete the enclosure. The refurbishing of structures was well on its way with some ready to house evacuees. Then
Hirshson was ordered to set up a meeting with Colonel Adolph Eichmann.

The Israeli was too young to have witnessed Eichmann’s 1962 trial, but being interested in history - particularly that of the Holocaust - he had studied the testimony of witnesses in the trial. He was proud and bitter - proud that the Mossad captured this son of a bitch and brought him to trial in Jerusalem, bitter that Eichmann had done his job as the main organizer of the ‘Final Solution’ so well. Most of Hirshson’s f
amily had been killed, thanks to Eichmann. Only his grandfather and a few cousins survived.

Hirshson had one of his soldiers, a German speaker, call Eichmann’s office directly using a phone connected to the Italian system. It took a while to get through all the operators, but eventually a German voice announced: “Colonel Eichmann’s office.”

“This is the office of Colonel Abdul Rakhman of the Caliph’s First Guard Division calling Herr Eichmann,” the soldier said.

“
Just a second,” was the response.

Several minutes passed before a voice came on the line: “This is Eichmann. How can I help you?”

“
You are to report to our main gate in Brindisi in three days to speak to the Colonel regarding your request for help with the deportation of Jews.”

“
I will see what I can do.” Eichmann responded.

Looking at Hirshson, who nodded, the soldier said: “Herr Eichmann, you will either do exactly as you are ordered by the Caliph’s guard or somebody else will answer your phone next time. We expect you here next Thursday at four in the afternoon.” The soldier hung up.

“Very good,” Hirshson was smiling. “You seem to have a natural talent for this.”

“
No, sir. I just hate them.”

***

By the time of the meeting Hirshson had an office in one of the warehouse buildings of the port. Inside the entry door was a large waiting area equipped with food and thermoses with fruit juices, coffee and tea. The walls and floor were covered in expensive oriental rugs. The halogen lighting was adjustable.

A secretary’s desk occupied a space in front of an ornate carved door leading to the Colonel’s office. A l
amp and a sophisticated telephone were the only items on its highly polished surface. There were two more doors in the side walls of the room.

Eichmann’s car arrived at four in the afternoon sharp and stopped in front of the heavy solid truck gate in the concrete wall surrounding the port. A door in the gate opened and a soldier wearing a khaki uniform with a swords and rifle patch on his sleeve approached the vehicle, weapon ready.

“Colonel Eichmann is here to see Colonel Abdul Rakhman,” the driver said.

“
He may enter,” the guard responded. “You and the car wait here.”

Two men exited: Eichmann and his assistant.

“Only the colonel,” the guard said.

“
Surely my aide can accompany me?”

“
You may bring in whomever you like,” the guard replied with a cold smile, “but only you will come out alive. It’s your choice.”

Eichmann hesitated. He wasn’t used to this kind of direct and brutal treatment except by superiors. But these people were barbarians and he had better be careful. They destroyed Wolfsburg so it stood to reason that killing Alois would be nothing to them. He went in alone.

Beyond the door was a large square enclosed by a concrete wall tall enough to conceal everything behind it. Only one building was partly inside the enclosure. There was a door in its stone wall with a big flag of the Caliph over it.

“
Herr Eichmann, please hand over your side arm and the dagger,” demanded the guard. “They will be returned to you when you are done here.” Eichmann hesitated. They were on Italian territory after all.

“
You have a choice,” the guard said coolly. “You can proceed armed and be executed as an infidel bearing arms in the presence of an officer of the Caliph, you can leave now or you can follow our orders.” He smiled and extended a hand.

Eichmann handed over his pistol, ceremonial SS dagger and, just to be safe, a pen knife he carried in his trouser pocket. It dawned on him that this was
not
Italian territory anymore.

The inner door opened and an armed guard in a bulky uniform beckoned, leading the Nazi officer through twisting corridors into the bowels of the building. He stopped in front of a heavy door, which opened silently.

“Herr Eichmann,” the sergeant behind the desk said in good German, “welcome to our modest domain. The Colonel is busy and will call you in as soon as he is ready. Have a seat. If you need to refresh yourself, the facilities are there,” he said pointing. “Please feel free to enjoy the food and drinks.”

Eichmann sat in one of the comfortable chairs. He was annoyed – the secretary, who was only a sergeant, had not bothered to rise from his seat when he greeted a senior SS officer. The entrance door opened again and a man in an immaculate uniform entered. The sergeant jumped to attention: “Captain, Sir, the Colonel knows you are here.” There were other people in the room, all ignoring him. Two were civilians. Another two were in uniform. Officers he thought, but could not be sure. Two were having a lively discussion in Arabic, about Italian women. His Arabic was not as good as his Hebrew and too limited to understand the details.