Wingate licked his dry lips. He was waiting to kill more Germans. That was why he had shot that first one, he realized now. He had known it would bring others, which was what he had wanted. As if in answer to his thoughts, he heard the muffled thunder of jackboots sound suddenly on the stairs above him. A German officer barked a command.

  When the footsteps reached the stairway leading down to the cellar, Wingate cocked his Sten and went down on one knee. The door burst open. First one, then two, then three SS—all of them out of uniform—spilled out into the hallway.

  “Mein Gott!” cried the first as he stumbled over the fat German and saw Wingate. There was a napkin still tucked into his open shirt.

  Wingate wanted more Nazis, but this seemed to be all he was going to get for now. He squeezed the trigger. The Sten rode up a little, striking the closest German in the neck. A dark gout of blood spurted toward Wingate. He pulled the Sten down and kept pouring fire into the three men, anxious that he hit the other two Germans lower than he had the first. He was aiming for their groin. He did not want them to die immediately.

  The bolt of his Sten slammed home onto an empty chamber. The stench of cordite hung heavily about him. He stood up and looked down at the grisly pile he had created. In the sudden stillness, all Wingate could hear was a ringing in his ears. Then one of the Nazis, still alive, tried to pull himself out from under his comrades. His bloody hand poked out feebly, causing a slack head to roll back.

  In that instant, Wingate’s cold fury drained from him. He was suddenly weak, spent. He took an involuntary step toward the struggling German, caught himself, and ducked swiftly back around the corner, slamming a fresh clip into his Sten as he pushed through the cellar door.

  All the cellar windows had been painted black. The sudden darkness blinded him. He stumbled, but kept on his feet, then held up, confused. The misshapen, oversized form of what must have been the furnace materialized out of the blackness in front of him. The doorway leading to the courtyard opened suddenly.

  “Captain!” Martens cried.

  Grateful for the light the open door provided, Wingate ducked around the furnace and headed for Martens. “Over here,” he called. “I’m coming!”

  The garage was a few feet from the cellar door. As they ducked into it, Wingate glanced down and saw the sprawled bodies of two German mechanics. “I didn’t hear shots,” Wingate said.

  “I used my knife, Captain,” said the Belgian, smiling coldly at Wingate. “It is much quieter.”

  “Where’s Regnais?”

  “He has a German car running—a closed sedan.”

  They were through the garage, running toward the corner of the building. “Where the hell is it?” Wingate demanded.

  “In the alley, waiting for us.”

  “You came back for me?”

  “That’s right, Captain. I know how you feel about Regnais’ driving, but I did not want you to have to use the subway all the way back to the ghetto.”

  For the first time in a long time, Wingate laughed.

  Chapter Eleven

  As they drove out of the alley—Wingate in the front seat beside Regnais, Sol and Martens in back with Aldini—Wingate kept his Sten at the ready, expecting any Gestapo remaining in the building to pour out the front door in an effort to stop them.

  Instead, not a German appeared; the ancient house was as still as death. As Regnais shifted and sped past the entrance, Wingate slumped back in his seat. His gamble had paid off. There had been only five Gestapo members in the building. The rest must have been pressed into service by General Stroop, who had already been considerably embarrassed by Jews no longer willing to cooperate in their own extermination.

  “We left that place pretty quiet, Captain,” said Regnais, tooling around a corner and narrowly missing a streetcar. “How many did you stop in that cellar?”

  “Enough.”

  “That was fine work you did back there, Captain,” Martens said. “Too bad we did not get there sooner. I do not like the way the corporal looks.”

  “How is he?” asked Wingate, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “He’s passed out. The pain from that chewed-up foot, I think. He tried to run on it when we reached the garage.”

  Wingate winced at the thought and turned back around.

  “Listen to that,” said Regnais.

  Wingate listened—and nodded. The closer they got to the ghetto, the more ominous it sounded. The Germans must have brought in field artillery as well as additional tanks. It was the middle of the afternoon, but the spring sky was hidden by the smoke drifting over the city from the burning ghetto. The few Poles in the street seemed to be glancing constantly up at the smoke-shrouded sky. It was, Wingate realized with some irony, getting a little difficult for the Polish citizens of Warsaw to ignore the existence of the ghetto and all that it implied.

  Difficult, but not impossible.

  “We are getting near the ghetto, Captain,” said Regnais. “Do you want me to just drive in though one of the gates?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Regnais shrugged, a sudden grin on his face. “Hell, no.”

  “Pick a gate without too many Germans,” growled Martens.

  The first gate they roared past not only had German soldiers marching through it, but a Mark II tank and a field artillery piece as well. The Germans were so confused and ill organized, they scarcely glanced at the staff car as Regnais drove past.

  “There is a smaller entrance on Nalewki Street,” spoke up Sol. “The Germans would not be able to get tanks and artillery through there.”

  “How do I reach it?” Regnais asked.

  “Keep going,” said the boy calmly. “I will direct you.”

  They had almost circled the ghetto before Sol finally leaned forward and pointed out a narrow side street ahead of them.

  “Down that street,” he told Regnais.

  Regnais cut the wheel sharply. They were on Nalewki Street. The wall appeared two blocks ahead of them. The gate—a wooden one, recently constructed—was closed. Four Germans were posted outside, and an armored car had pulled up onto the sidewalk.

  “Can you get past that armored car?” Wingate asked Regnais.

  “I am sure I can, Captain.”

  “Then keep going,” said Wingate.

  Wingate felt the car surge ahead as Regnais stomped on the accelerator. Wingate turned in his seat. “Get Aldini down,” he told Martens. “And keep down yourselves, both of you.”

  He turned back around and poked the snout of his Sten out the side window. The four Germans at the gate had come alert as soon as they saw the staff car increase its speed. The moment Wingate showed his Sten, they went for their own weapons.

  Wingate waited no longer. While he was still half a block from the gate, he opened up on the sentries. He cut one of them down before the man could join his comrades behind the armored car. The staff car swept closer. From behind the armored car, the remaining three Germans opened fire, shattering the staff car’s windshield. Shards of glass showered the interior. The gate loomed. Wingate flung himself down below the dashboard.

  Regnais must have been doing eighty when he plowed into the gate. The impact sounded like a cannon going off. One wing of the gate swung wide, the other came off its hinges, as the car exploded through and swept on down Nalewki Street. Wingate glanced back. The Germans were racing after them, pouring fire at the car as they ran. Wingate heard the slugs ripping into the rear of the car. A tire blew. The car skidded sideways, rode up onto a sidewalk, then slammed to a halt against the side of a building.

  As Wingate piled out, he glanced back down the street. The sentries were still racing into the ghetto after them.

  “Get Aldini out of there,” Wingate told Regnais. “Take him to Berensen’s bunker. I’ll see what I can do to discourage these jokers.”

  Wingate raced back down the street, keeping close to the face of the building. As soon as he came to a doorway, he ducked into it. The sentries, exhibiting more enthusiasm than good sense, were running down the middle of the street. Wingate waited until the closest German was within range, then stepped out from the doorway and cut him down with a short blast. His two companions immediately broke for cover as Wingate ducked back into the doorway.

  Glancing back up the street, he saw Regnais, Sol, and Martens hurrying across a vacant lot with Aldini. In a moment they were out of sight. Wingate looked back at the Germans. One of them was moving carefully closer. Wingate watched him duck from an alley into a doorway. Wingate waited patiently. He knew the German in the doorway would soon wave his companion across the street while he gave him covering fire.

  The German in the doorway waved his companion out of cover and began firing at Wingate’s doorway. The slugs tore into the brick facing, causing red brick dust to filter down onto Wingate’s hands.

  The second German stepped obediently into view, looked furtively toward the doorway where Wingate was crouched, then darted out into the street. As soon as he reached the middle of the street, Wingate flung himself flat and aimed a burst at the hapless German, catching him low enough to send his feet out from under him. The SS slammed down onto the pavement, his rifle slapping it with a loud crack.

  The covering fire ceased. In the sudden silence Wingate could hear the wounded German crying out feebly. His companion in the doorway, however, pulled back hastily, and without firing a single further round in Wingate’s direction, raced back down the street.

  Wingate let him go, scrambled to his feet, and trotted back up the street after his men.

  Wingate could hear the distant thunder of German field artillery and the thud of tank cannons. The sky overhead was filled with smoke so dense Wingate was able to catch only occasional glimpses of the bright afternoon sky. From these low-hanging clouds, a hellish rain was falling—glowing bits of cinders filtering down through the searing air.

  He left the vacant lot and started cautiously down a deserted street toward the sound of battle. He had decided he need not follow his men to Berensen’s bunker. Aldini was in good hands, and there was little more Wingate or anyone else could do for the corporal until this day’s battle with General Stroop’s SS troops was over. And Wingate wanted to put in his own two cents—and more—before he fled the ghetto with Stern that night.

  He could deny it no longer. He felt guilty about pulling out now. He had fought against admitting it to himself because of his orders—and what he sensed was the importance of his mission. He had promised himself early on that he would not let this happen. But it had.

  He had become involved in the Jews’ courageous, yet hopeless struggle. And with Lisa, as well. And with Felix the Cat. And Berensen. With all of them. How the hell could it be otherwise?

  Wingate reached an intersection and headed down a narrow street he hoped would take him to the intersection of Mila and Zamenhofa. But he had not gone more than a few blocks when he turned a corner and saw his progress blocked by a sheer wall of flame. Two blocks further on, a complete city block of apartment buildings, each of them at least five stories high, was engulfed in flames. The buildings’ topmost floors were shrouded in dense, black smoke, through which—like satanic tongues—enormous flames occasionally burst. Even at that distance, Wingate could feel the inferno’s breath beating upon him.

  He ducked into a doorway to escape the heat and saw, less than a block away, four Germans—two of them carrying flamethrowers darting from a building they had just touched off. Wingate could see the black smoke already pulsing out through one of the windows on the ground floor. At the same time he glimpsed a lone woman, a shawl around her head, looking down from a window on the top floor. A second later she was hidden by the smoke.

  The Germans were on the other side of the street and had not seen him. Wingate began to work himself closer, keeping low and using doorways for cover whenever the chance afforded itself. He wanted to reach the Germans before they entered another building. He kept low until he saw them turn into a building. At that, he threw caution to the winds and began to race openly down the sidewalk.

  But one of the Germans entering the building turned and saw him. He spun about and called to his companions. The Germans with the flamethrowers ducked into the building.

  Wingate cursed and opened up on the remaining two, who flung themselves to the ground and returned Wingate’s fire. The slugs whined close about Wingate. He realized he was acting like a fool, and ducked hastily into a nearby doorway.

  It was already occupied. A tall, stooped man wearing torn wool pants, a filthy shirt, and a black beret was crouching in the doorway with a young girl, both of whom were armed with rifles. The girl could not have been more than eighteen; the man was in his fifties. The girl was dressed in a filthy skirt and blouse and had a ragged babushka tied about her flaming red hair.

  They both looked at Wingate in astonishment.

  Wingate tried a smile and told them who he was in English. They frowned and said something in Polish. Wingate shook his head and told them again, this time in German. They understood him at once. His name was Hartmann, hers was Rachel. She was his daughter.

  “We are with Halinka’s unit,” Hartmann said. “But the fires have separated us.”

  “The German dogs are burning us out,” the girl said miserably. “And they do not care that so many are trapped inside the buildings.”

  “Maybe we can stop this bunch, at least,” Wingate told them.

  “How?” asked Hartmann.

  “Do you think you could use this Sten to cover me?”

  The man eyed Wingate’s weapon greedily. “Yes,” he said. “I could do that.”

  “What will you use?” Rachel asked.

  “Does that rifle work?”

  “Yes. But my shoulder is bruised from using it, and I am afraid I have not yet hit a single German.”

  “Give it to me.”

  As Rachel handed him her rifle, Wingate gave his Sten to her father and checked the rifle’s action. When he saw that it was loaded, he looked back at Rachel. “Let me have a few more rounds.”

  “I have no more.”

  Wingate looked at Hartmann. Hartmann shook his head.

  “I have no rounds left, Captain. That is why we were hiding in this doorway. We started the day with only three bullets each.”

  Wingate took a deep breath and glanced down the street at the two Germans. They were still crouched in the doorway. Wingate looked back at Hartmann. “I’m going to try to make it to that doorway across the street. When I give you the word, start firing at those two, and keep firing until I reach the doorway. Then watch me. As soon as I give the signal, open up again while I charge those two.” He paused a moment. “I suggest you stop firing when I reach their doorway.”

  Hartmann nodded.

  “I will go with you, Captain,” said Rachel.

  “Don’t be silly. Stay here with your father.”

  “He does not need me. You do. I will use your small gun. It will not be so difficult with such a small gun. I am no good with these long rifles. They are so very heavy.”

  “No. Stay here. That’s an order.”

  Wingate turned and nodded to Hartmann, then dashed from the doorway. Behind him he heard Hartmann open fire and saw the Germans pull back hastily into the doorway. He was halfway across the street when he heard footsteps behind him. Glancing back, he saw Rachel. Groaning, he increased his speed and flung himself across the sidewalk and into the doorway. Rachel almost collided with him as she raced in after him.

  “You aren’t even armed!” Wingate cried angrily.

  “Then give me your small weapon, Captain. It is not fair to ask me to fight at your side without it.”

  He thought he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across the girl’s pale, freckled face.

  Without further argument, he handed her his automatic, checked the rifle once more, then looked back across the street at Hartmann. The man had ceased firing the moment Wingate and Rachel reached the doorway. Wingate nodded to the man. At once Hartmann opened up again. Wingate slipped from the doorway and raced down the sidewalk toward the Germans.

  One of them, keeping himself flat on the sidewalk, poked his head and shoulders out of the doorway and aimed his assault rifle at Wingate. Wingate dodged away from the face of the building and fired from his hip at the German. The slug blasted a hole in the sidewalk in front of his face, peppering him with tiny shards of concrete. Clutching suddenly at his eyes, the German dropped his weapon.

  Then from beside Wingate came a thunderous detonation as Rachel fired Wingate’s automatic. The German’s head exploded. Still racing toward the doorway, Wingate was astonished to see Hartmann racing across the street toward them, the Sten still jumping in his hand. Wingate reached the doorway, his empty rifle held over his head like a club, only to find the other German, as dead as his companion, sitting on the sidewalk in a pool of his own blood.

  Rachel quickly took the German’s MP-40, while her father stripped the assault rifle from the German his daughter had dispatched. Wingate wanted to tear into Rachel and Hartmann for their foolhardiness, but forced himself to hold his tongue. This was their war, he reminded himself. And what did it matter if they followed the rules or not—as long as they killed Germans?

  “Those two with the flamethrowers are still inside,” Wingate told them as he took his Sten back from Hartmann. “Why don’t you two stay out here? I won’t be long.”

  “No, Captain,” said Hartmann. “We’ll go in with you.”

  “Lead the way,” said Rachel.

  Wingate glanced at the girl. She was carrying the German submachine gun. “Let me have my automatic back,” he told her.

 

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