Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 87 of a new online serial novel, Nine A.M., by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
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Beretta / 93R
On a stack of rusting rifles in the first box lay a wooden box on a slant, and this was what was etched into it. Binyamin opened the cover and looked at the metal object there. What a shame he’d never had a real opportunity to examine this thing from up close. Maybe he’d had an opportunity, but not a real one.
A few years ago, which now felt like at least a thousand years, he had been a young fourteen-year-old boy who had successfully finished his studies in the preschool, and had also been through his stint working at the kennels. Finally, he’d reached his training period at the factory. The job he’d been assigned was errand boy for Max Sherer, who worked sewing the furs and finishing them. Binyamin had mainly made him tea and searched for his needles that kept falling on the floor. He’d also watched and asked questions, and when Max was in a good mood, he’d allowed the young Binyamin to practice on some damaged bits of fur.
Then, one day, when Max didn’t come and the other worker was busy on the other side of the factory, Binyamin had—of his own accord—sat down at the corner table, picked up a needle, and began to work. Miraculously, his gamble paid off, and on that day, Leo Sherer and Josef Wangel came for an inspection—and were impressed at the outcome of the boy’s efforts, despite his never having had any professional training.
From that point on, a new period began in his life and in that of Mamme and Naomi. Wangel and Leo both greatly admired his excellent work, and they rewarded him in all kinds of ways. Leo would speak with him at length, explaining the different stages of the fur production process. Rumor had it that Leo considered him a potential successor in managing the factory. But as Binyamin grew older, and Leo realized how clearly Orthodox the boy’s worldview was, his attitude steadily cooled, until it was completely transformed.
The Nazi, in contrast, continued giving preferential treatment to the youth, who had raised their sales levels to a scale unseen until then. This was both because of his speed, which increased production, and because of his flawless work. And once, as a token of appreciation, Wangel had shown Binyamin his personal weapon from up close. Not that he let him load the pistol and practice shooting himself, like he sometimes let Leo Sherer do, but he did show Binyamin how to change the cartridge and, in general, how to use the gun.
Mamme was very displeased when she’d heard about it. “Nothing good comes from being close to them!” she’d said angrily. Indeed, nothing at all had come from it. If Binyamin could only remember now something of Josef’s explanation about the pistol that he’d taken out of his belt then—if it was such a pistol like this one in the first place—that could be of such benefit to him now!
But Binyamin didn’t remember. He stood and stared at the pistol—which looked very new—nestled in the velvet-lined box. If he wasn’t mistaken, the gun that Wangel had shown him then was very different from this one.
In any case, there were no cartridges or bullets in this box. There were only old rifles that didn’t look like they worked at all, and they each had various symbols and letters on them. So was this the sum total of all the weapons that the Wangel family possessed?
Not exactly. Josef always had a gun on himself, and sometimes Hauptmann Katarina and the gefreiters did as well.
Binyamin took the rectangular wooden box out and then turned his attention to the other box. It was locked with a bar, which he slid to the side, and then opened the cover.
Inside were ten smaller boxes of various sizes. On two of them, he noticed the same logo that was on “his” gun. Those were probably cartridges of bullets, but he couldn’t really figure out how to use them without having any prior experience. They might explode in his hands!
But there was something else there, too: two thin booklets.
With a trembling hand, Binyamin took the gun out of the box and studied it. It was likely that it wasn’t stored loaded, right? He turned it from side to side, his ears constantly on alert to the half-open door. Putting the pistol back into its box, he turned to the booklets. The first one—which was thicker—had a drawing of a long, barreled weapon, which was very different from the one he was holding. But the second one depicted “his” gun. And the booklet was filled with drawings: a whole series that was apparently a guide on how to handle this weapon.
He took the two matching cartridges marked “Beretta.” Based on their markings, each one had twenty bullets. He put the two into his pocket so that he should have forty opportunities to save himself. And hopefully not only himself.
***
“I spoke with the deputy ambassador. They cannot cooperate with us without an approval from the higher ups.” Moshe Hanter was standing on the sidewalk, with one foot on the step of the minibus. “We don’t have spare time to wait for him. But he did let me speak to two security guards from there, who agreed to come with us. Privately, of course, but with the backing of the embassy that will be in touch with them, in case of an emergency.” He winked to his son and scanned the people sitting in the vehicle. “Now we’re going to pick them up; they’re waiting for us with a few other members of the community. You have the map, right?”
“Yes,” Bentzy said, his right foot tapping nervously. “But I didn’t have time to tell Dena anything. She’s going to be worried.”
“When we come back, b’ezras Hashem, you’ll tell her everything. Until then, Mommy will keep her updated; she does know. Meanwhile, put on your tefillin, and then you’ll give them to me.”
***
Was he hearing sounds from inside the house? Someone was walking there, near the stairs.
After thinking for a second, he pushed the box of old rifles into the closet and closed the doors, but he stuck the pistol and the booklets into the box of ammunition, locked the box, and then retreated with his loot to the fireplace. First, he would thin out the Wangels’ arms stockpile.
He looked with dismay at the ash that his feet had left around the floor, but it was too dangerous now to linger around so he could deal with it, when someone might come up at any minute.
The rope was still hanging inside the fireplace. With his lips pressed together, Binyamin tied it to the handle of the box, and hoped that his little delivery would get to the top in one piece, without the bar or the hinges of the cover coming apart. He himself climbed up and then began to pull the rope.
The box made it safely to the rooftop.
He carefully placed it beside him and opened the cover, listening carefully for any noises from in the house. The faint noises he had heard before had gone quiet, and no one came up.
Binyamin opened the box and, with extreme caution, by the light of the moon, handled the gun according to the illustrated instructions. He felt his fingers shaking; maybe it was the fact that over the last thirty-six hours, all he’d eaten were a few cookies. But the tension and excitement that flowed through his veins overpowered his weakness.
When he finished, the skies were light pink. He put the gun into his pocket and davened Shacharis. Then he lay down, exhausted. He’d have to push off his thoughts about food for a few more hours, until night fell again. He could not return now to the camp area, and he also couldn’t go down and cover up the sooty tracks he’d left. He’d wait, with the hope that no one would look for him here, and when night fell, he’d return to the camp and make it clear to all that there was no choice. They’d have to confront the Wangels as a united, strong group and present them with the truth.
And yet… It would be better to find a relatively safe area for the women, the children, and the elderly to take cover…just in case.
***
Binyamin opened his eyes, squinting in the sunlight. What time was it? It looked like it was around nine a.m. He’d fallen asleep, either from exhaustion, or weakness, or a combination of both.
His mind was becoming a bit clearer, and his thoughts wandered again to the tracks he’d left behind. Those were a real danger. The footprints might lead the Wangels right to where he was. Maybe he would take the risk and go down, even though any one of the Wangels was liable to come up to get something at any time…
Wait, there were noises from downstairs! Someone was coming up the stairs, talking loudly. It was Bernard. “I’m telling you, Father, we need to take action. The younger Sherer wasn’t able to find him? But we need to talk to him! And to bring him face to face with Elkovitz, to see if we can believe their fantasy tale!”
Based on the volume, his father was probably on the floor below. Binyamin didn’t hear what Josef answered, but he did hear Bernard:
“And I’m going out to find him right now, Father, you hear me? Me, myself, and I! I’m going to equip myself, and it would be interesting to see if any one of the Je—” He fell silent for a fraction of a second, and then screeched, “Father, do you know who touched my Beretta?! Did one of the girls dare take it, instead of their own clunky pieces of junk?!”
Binyamin rose silently, sticking the gun into his pocket. The weapon was rather large, and the handle stuck out; he hoped it wouldn’t fall out. He hurried to the far edge of the roof, and, holding onto the drain-pipe and the window cornices, he slid his way down to the back garden. From there, he flew to the gate that separated the Wangels’ estate from the camp.
When he passed by the entrance, he heard a holler that sounded almost inhuman, coming from the third floor: “There he is, Father!!!”
Binyamin didn’t wait even a fraction of a second to turn and raise his eyes to the purple-faced Bernard who was standing at the window. He ran, half-crouched, in the field of wild grasses, where the growth was swaying in every direction, partially concealing him. He wouldn’t go into the bakery or the carpentry shop, which he was passing now. He didn’t want to put anyone in danger. But he had to find a place where he’d have some advantage, in light of the fact that he’d never used the gun before.
“Stop, verfluchte Jude!” someone shouted somewhere behind him. Was it Bernard? No, it was his father, Hauptmann Josef. “Stop!”
But Binyamin didn’t stop. The distance between them was vast, and that was to his advantage. He ran behind the residential huts, in the empty area that separated them from the wall on the west side. Behind that wall was an abyss. He got to the kennels, and out of breath, turned toward the cemetery. He had no time to look around him, but here and there, he noticed people gathering, watching the chase in dread and fear. Let them go away, so they shouldn’t put themselves in danger!
“Stop, you son of the Satan!” he heard Josef Wangel calling in the distance. “Freeze in place, Schvirtz, or I’m going to shoot!”
Hashem!
Binyamin leaped behind the nearest matzeivah and crouched at its foot, drawing out the gun from his pocket. “Stop, Wangel!” he called, without making himself visible, and with his left hand, he pulled out the pin of the gun. He heard a click. The weapon was ready. “Stop, because I am also armed!”
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