Black Cross

“Be quick,” Little said.

“If you won’t bomb the camps, will you allow me to take a small commando force into Poland and attempt to liberate one concentration camp? I know the British Army is training a few Jews to parachute into Hungary to try to warn the Jews there to resist. General, I’m not asking you to risk a single British life. If I fail, what would you have lost? A dozen Jews. I’m an experienced guerilla fighter—”

“I’ll bloody bet you are!” Major Dickson bellowed with sudden savagery. “Experienced at murdering British soldiers!”

The red-faced major was on his feet. Stern made no move toward or away from him. Instead, he raised his cuffed hands to the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down. From the left breast of his khaki shirt flashed the glint of silver and blue. It was the George Medal, the second-highest British decoration that could be awarded to a civilian.

“Major Dickson,” said Stern, “this medal was pinned on me by General Bernard Law Montgomery for reconnaissance actions at El Alamein. The second award I received for aiding the British Army at Tobruk. Auchinleck pinned that one on. Both those officers are better men than you, and if you had any brains or heart whatever you might have understood at least part what I’ve said here today. I’ve stood here as a soldier asking only for the chance to fight. To show Hitler something he has never seen—something he needs to see—a Jew who can fight, who will fight. Myself and twenty Haganah guerrillas, properly equipped, could destroy a concentration camp, I am sure of it.”

“Now we’ve got to it!” Dickson roared. “The bloody Haganah!”

Duff Smith felt like boxing Dickson’s ears for him. Thankfully, General Little waved the major down. “Such a raid is out of the question, Mr. Stern, for more reasons than I can name. Take a bit of advice. The best thing you can do is go back to Palestine and help your own people.”

“My people are dying in Germany,” Stern said.

“Yes … well. There are a lot of people dying all over the world just now.”

Duff Smith watched the shackled hands rise up and point accusingly at Little. “General!” Stern said in a voice booming with prophetic power. “One day soon the world is going to ask England a very embarrassing question. Why did you refuse to grant sanctuary to the Jews who were being slaughtered by the millions in Europe? Why did you throw the lucky handful who managed to reach Palestine into British concentration camps? And most of all—”

“Enough!” shouted Little. His cultivated British reserve had finally cracked. “You dare march in here and preach to us? You insubordinate upstart! You’re not a soldier. You’re a bloody terrorist! It takes a lot more than a gun to make a soldier, Stern. Why, if it weren’t for us standing alone against Hitler in 1940, your people would have been wiped out years ago!”

Major Dickson pointed at Stern. “The only reason you were allowed to come to England was to answer our questions about terrorism in Palestine.” Dickson’s eyes glowed with a cruel light. “And I’m happy to say that, as a major of intelligence, your interrogation will fall to me!”

Stern flexed his fists in rage and frustration. Duff Smith saw Captain Owen edging closer in case his friend’s self-restraint snapped. General Little gathered up the papers from Stern’s file and dropped them into a satchel at his feet.

“Place him under arrest, Sergeant Gilchrist,” he said calmly.

Captain Owen shouted, “Wait!” but he was too late. As the sergeant approached, Stern swung his cuffed hands straight up from his waist with animal quickness. Gilchrist was grabbing for his truncheon when the steel cuffs caught him on the point of the chin. He hit the floor with the deadened thud of an unconscious boxer.

Major Dickson groped for his sidearm, then remembered he had left it with an aide for cleaning.

“Stop this nonsense!” cried General Little.

“Jonas!” Peter Owen yelled. “For God’s sake!”

But it was all for naught. As the second guard charged, Stern swept up Gilchrist’s truncheon from the floor and jabbed him in the belly, then spun to the wall beside the door as the man went down. Almost on cue, a sentry burst into the room with his revolver drawn. Stern’s stolen truncheon crashed down, snapping the man’s wrist and sending the pistol clattering to the floor. Stern lunged for the door, but the sentry caught him by the collar with his good hand and jerked backward.

There was a sound of ripping cloth. Stern’s jacket came off, and his khaki shirt fell around his waist. He whirled.

“Bloody hell!” gasped the guard. “Look at that!”

The sight of Stern’s exposed torso stunned even Brigadier Smith. The young Zionist’s back, shoulders, and abdomen were transected by a netting of livid purple scars, some made by blades, others obviously by fire. The scars on the abdomen ran straight down past the waistband of his trousers. The moment of stillness lasted several seconds. Then Stern knocked down the sentry, snatched up his shirt and bolted through the door.

“After him!” Major Dickson screamed as footsteps pounded down the stairwell.

Captain Owen threw himself in front of the door. “General Little! Please let me talk to him!”

“Out of the way,” Major Dickson growled, “or I’ll order my men to shoot you down.”

“For God’s sake, General!”

“Attention!” General Little roared.

The guards froze where they stood. Duff Smith had remained motionless throughout the confusion, as if watching a staged musical.

“Steady, Dickson,” General Little said. “I’m going to let Captain Owen bring him back. There’s no sense in unnecessary bloodshed. You can question Stern at your leisure after you’ve calmed down.”

“Sounds like a good plan, Johnny,” Duff Smith said, speaking for the first time.

Major Dickson stood white-faced and shaking. “I’m going to throw that bastard in irons and sweat him until he diagrams the Haganah’s whole batting order! He’s one of the ringleaders. You can just tell.”

“He’s only twenty-three, sir,” Owen said. “But you’re probably right about him being a leader.”

“I’d hate to see that chap chained to a wall,” said General Little. “He’s got guts, even if he is a Yid.”

“Interrogating him would be useless anyway,” Owen said in a monotone.

“Why’s that?” asked Dickson.

“Major, Jonas Stern could probably tell you every key man in the Haganah’s ranks. Probably in the Irgun, too. But he wouldn’t tell you. He’d die first.”

“A lot of men say that,” Dickson said. “In the beginning. That attitude doesn’t last long.”

Owen shook his head. “Stern’s different.”

Dickson smirked. “How’s that?”

“Didn’t you see the scars? He’s been there before. Tortured, I mean. And nothing like our methods, believe me. He was running from a raid near Al Sabah one night when his horse broke its leg. He was only seventeen. The Arabs were hot behind the raiding party. They ran him down almost immediately.”

“What the hell did they do to him?” asked General Little.

“I’m not sure, sir. He doesn’t talk about it. They only had him for a night and a day, but they were real tribesmen, the ones that got him. Murderous brutes. Stern somehow managed to escape on the second night. He never told them a thing. I heard some of his mates whispering about it during the North African campaign. He’s a legend among the Zionists. I never saw him with his shirt off before today.”

“Good God,” Little muttered. “I saw the results of some Arab interrogations in the Great War, near Gallipoli. It’s a miracle the fellow survived.”

“Like I said, sir. Not much use in questioning him, to my mind. He won’t talk unless he wants to.”

“I see what you mean,” Little agreed. “We’ll sort out this mess tomorrow. You’ve got four hours to bring him in of his own volition, Owen. After that, Major Dickson’s men will have a free hand.”

“I’ll find him, sir.”

Little nodded. “That’s all, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.” The Welshman darted through the door.

Brigadier Duff Smith rose slowly, nodded to Little, and followed Owen outside.

SEVEN (#ulink_3fbb66db-9722-5a46-b1c8-f6963e379e08)