“Aren’t you the lucky one,” he said, sitting Jacob on the table, “to have so many lovely women in your corner.”
Jacob frowned at him, his hands still clenched into fists.
Francek appeared at the front door and shouted, “They’re here.”
Everyone ran outside and toward the front gate, where two dun-colored buses were parked, their blacked-out windows shut tight, as a dozen British soldiers were climbing down from a flatbed truck behind them.
Nathan cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Let them out of there, you pigs.”
As the troops surrounded the buses, Francek cried, “English Nazis.”
The other men took up the phrase, chanting, “English Nazis, English Nazis.”
Bryce surveyed the scene from the doorway of his office: the shouting inmates, the nervous soldiers, and his own men standing at attention. He walked across the road and stood with his back toward the gate, watching as a British staff car sped toward them.
The two officers seemed surprised by the jeers and catcalls that greeted them as they got out of the car. They returned Bryce’s salute without enthusiasm and followed him to his office.
The crowd quieted, waiting to see what would happen next. The Jewish guards—Goldberg and Applebaum—were summoned into Bryce’s office, fueling another round of angry speculation about their role in a place like Atlit. But as time passed and the sun grew hotter, the insults and chanting resumed.
A stone sailed over the fence with enough force to hit one of the soldiers, who slapped at the back of his neck and cried, “Shit.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” echoed a delighted chorus of little boys, who were hushed only when Applebaum and Goldberg reappeared and hurried across the road and through the gate.
“Comrades,” Applebaum called as he waved for people to gather. “The colonel has ordered that all male internees must return to their barracks before the men can be unloaded.”
“Screw them,” Francek exploded. “Why should we agree to that? We’ve never been locked in during the day.”
“My friends,” said Goldberg, “think of the poor men inside those buses. They are exhausted and hungry and I don’t have to tell you how hot it must be with the windows closed.”
Francek put his finger on Goldberg’s chest. “Shame on you,” he said, poking hard. “You are a collaborator, a lackey, a stooge. The both of you.”
“Stop it,” said Shayndel, worried that Francek’s antics would somehow jeopardize the escape plans. “Our brothers are suffering and we have to do whatever we can for them. Even you, Frankie,” she said, pinching his cheek as if he were a child.
“Let’s go,” she said, and started walking back toward the barracks.
Leonie took her arm. Tedi and Zorah followed, and the rest of the women fell in. Finally the men started to move, too, until only Francek was left, yelling and poking at Goldberg. Nathan and Uri grabbed him under the arms and carried him off, kicking and sputtering.
It took nearly thirty minutes before the last of the Atlit men disappeared. Meanwhile, the women stood in small, quiet groups within sight of the buses, watching until a soldier walked out of Bryce’s office and gave the order.
The men staggered out, their faces dripping with sweat, their shirts soaked through. They blinked into the bright light, trying to get their bearings as British soldiers surrounded them and waved their rifles toward the front gate, where Goldberg and Applebaum offered greetings and encour
agement in Hebrew and Arabic.
Shayndel counted thirty-nine prisoners. They were all young men, black-haired and olive-skinned. None of them had seen a razor for days and their faces bristled.
The soldiers herded the new inmates back toward the barracks. “Doesn’t everyone have to go through Delousing?” asked Leonie. “Why aren’t they taking them for a shower?”
“I don’t know,” Shayndel said, “but I don’t like it.”
It was a strangely quiet parade. No one shouted family names or hometowns; it was clear that none of these dark-skinned men was from Poland or Lithuania or any place these girls once called home. The men seemed to wilt before their eyes; their shoulders sank, their heads dropped.
“This is terrible,” Shayndel said and called, “Be strong.”
“I don’t think they speak Yiddish,” said Zorah.
Shayndel changed to Hebrew, shouting, “Welcome, friends. Shalom! Shalom!”
A dozen heads turned toward her. White teeth flashed against brown skin. Fingers were raised in a V for victory.