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    Ze'ev! (Wolf!)
    Ze'ev! (Wolf!)
    Ze'ev! (Wolf!)
    Ebook105 pages1 hour

    Ze'ev! (Wolf!)

    By David F Eastman

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    About this ebook

    Ze'ev! (Wolf!) is the fictional story of Jakub Wolff, a fierce and courageous 22-year old, Polish resistance fighter who, as a lone wolf and along side his comrades-in-arms, resisted and fought the Nazi SS and German Wehrmacht soldiers guarding the imprisoned Polish Jews held captive in the Warsaw Ghetto during the 1943 uprising.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid F Eastman
    Release dateSep 6, 2019
    ISBN9780463364987
    Ze'ev! (Wolf!)
    Author

    David F Eastman

    I am an avid reader and passionate writer. I have written eight eBooks and thirteen short stories and my genres include science fiction, horror, murder, political intrigue, conspiracy theories, fables and parables of life and love. I am currently working on two new eBooks, one about World War 2 and a second about a terrorist attack on the U.S.I am a retired life science and high technology marketing executive and currently mentor and guide scientists, physicians, medical students and engineers in managing their start-ups, developing their inventions, commercializing their products and building their businesses into viable, successful and profitable ventures.I have a Jewish heritage from both German and Polish grandparents, on my mother's side and an English, Native-American heritage on my father's side.I have one wife, one son, and four cats.I love to travel and learn about new cultures and people and just returned from a month long pleasure trip to Venice, Italy, New York City, Athens, Greece, Split, Croatia, Montenegro and Zurich, Switzerland. Next year I plan to spend three weeks n Italy drinking good wine.I

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      Book preview

      Ze'ev! (Wolf!) - David F Eastman

      זְאֵב

      Ze’ev!

      (Wolf!)

      By David F. Eastman

      A Murder of Crows

      February 5, 1943

      1:00 AM

      The pale moon lit up the rooftop of the brick-strewn, fire-scarred tenement building in the Muranów neighborhood within the high walls of the Warschauer Ghetto (Warsaw Ghetto). The original tenement fire, accidentally started on the building’s upper floors by a blown over candle in one of the apartments, had scorched the outside and although the lower floors were untouched, they were later evacuated by the residents. The smell of burning timbers was still in the air from the burned out apartments and, below on the lower floors now sitting empty, the air had turned musty. Dirty windows lined the outside of the building, some open to the weather, some cracked and some with bullet holes in them, and so the wind often whistled through the tenement on its way to other places unknown.

      On the rooftop in the darkness, black stove pipes, broken brick chimneys and frayed electrical wiring stood out in stark relief against the moonlight. A lone blackbird was perched on a rusty, creaking weathervane, cawing out into the blackness of the night, as a slight breeze slowly turned his wrought iron perch eastward. To the North, German artillery barrages pounded the Armia Krajowa (Polish Home Army) still fighting German army units in running skirmishes across Poland. The artillery explosions emblazoned the sky with bright yellow flashes and unseen thunder.

      Wolff eyed the blackbird with caution. He could not afford any noise giving away his position. He heard the hustle and bustle of the German patrols below, noisily walking the streets in their nightly vigil to terrify the inmates of this mad asylum. He looked up at the blackbird on the weathervane and, posed his grimy finger up to his lips, entreating the bird to be silent. The bird ignored him and cawed out to the coven of blackbirds perched on other rooftops nearby. Wolff remembered from his Hebrew studies that one name for a coven of blackbirds was a murder of crows. That is what Wolff would like to do to the noisy bird, murder him, but he knew that he must remain quiet. Crouched on all fours, Wolff moved slowly and cautiously across the rooftop, crawling on the light dusting of snow that had fallen during the day, the powdery snow sticking to the knees of his trousers and the tips of his shoes.

      Sound is my enemy, silence my friend, he quietly whispered to himself.

      Slung over his shoulder with a leather strap, wrapped in an old moth eaten blanket reeking of mildew and human sweat, was his German Mauser Gewehr 98 sniper rifle. It was his favorite rifle, not just because it was a superb sniper rifle and had never failed him, but because he took it off a dead SS Kommando he had killed in the forest.

      No good Nazi like a truly dead Nazi, he said to himself and smiled.

      He cupped the wrapped wood stock of the rifle in his left hand to prevent it from hitting a protruding pipe or catching on a fallen wire, to prevent any echoing sound exposing his position. He had practiced the flow and grace of his movements before; silent, wistful, deliberate much like a ballet dancer performing before an adoring audience.

      And what is my adoring audience on this dark, snow-covered rooftop? Wolff thought to himself, a murder of crows!

      Moving slowly on all fours, the soft snow clinging to his outstretched fingers, Wolff moved to the very edge of the rooftop. Crouched just below the raised ledge, he stealthily peered down over the side to the street below and the Mila Street guard house.

      He remembered that it was early Tuesday morning. Time really meant nothing to Wolff, generally, but he kept track of certain days in his mind so that he knew when the working Jewish crews left the ghetto and returned and when the Nazi guards were relieved at each of the ghetto’s 14 gates.

      It was a quiet, chilly morning. The snow clouds that had covered the Ghetto during the day had moved on and the night sky was clear. Only hours before the Jewish workers had returned to their ghetto homes after working outside the walls in the nearby Greifenberg industrial area. Two German Wehrmacht Army guards were smoking cigarettes and talking; a portly Sergeant Heinz Fugsbach standing in the guard house door and a stick thin scuttle-helmeted corporal leaning up against the red and white striped wood barrier. Wolff could not recall the corporal’s name, but in Hebrew he knew it meant gold hunter.

      Whatever his name is, Wolff whispered quietly to himself, he is a Nazi pig!

      Wolff remembered back to reports by other resistance fighters who had escaped the Ghetto that, in the early days of 1941 and 1942, Polish Policemen (the Blue Police) and Jüdischer Ordnungsdienst (the Jewish Police) guarded the entry gates and walls and patrolled the Ghetto streets. When the resistance took hold in early 1943, they were replaced with regular Wehrmacht and SS (Schutzstaffel) soldiers.

      Wolff watched Sergeant Fugsbach argue with an officer. The officer wore the distinctive black uniform of the Nazi SS Kommandos. Above the visor of his Shirmmutze (peaked hat), reflected in the street lamp overhead, was the silver SS Totenkopf (death’s head) symbol, a skull and crossbones, and on the shoulder epaulettes of his tunic, the insignia of an oberleutnant.

      Several squadrons of German Waffen SS and SS Kommando reinforcements had arrived in Warsaw only a few weeks before to help quell the fierce Ghetto resistance that had begun in January and that had seen the death of many Polish Jews and Germans, alike.

      The SS Kommandos were assigned to Warsaw by General Heinrich Reichsdorf in order to pursue retreating Polish soldiers from battles raging across Poland, search for resistance fighters hiding in the nearby forests and countryside, and to quash the growing resistance among the remaining Jewish population still being held captive in the Ghetto.

      Wolff wearily eyed the young SS officer. SS Kommandos

      were fearless in battle, unlike the Mannschaften--the regular Wehrmacht soldiers--and wore the infamous Totenkopf skull and crossbones on their uniforms as a badge of courage and pride. Wolff hated the Nazi SS like no other Germans, especially their officers, because he knew of their fierce, heartless and formidable courage. More the reason to kill them all!

      As the SS oberleutnant continued his angry tirade, he could hear the sergeant shouting his name out loud as he tried to defend himself, Ya, Oberleutnant Schroeder und nein Oberleutnant Schroeder.

      The SS officer stood nose to nose with the sergeant, yelling at him with spit flying out of his mouth and his arms wildly flaying about. Wolff could barely understand his mad ravings but picked up, with what little German he did know, that the oberleutnant was angry that the sergeant had let one of the old Jewish workers back into the Ghetto without his KennKarte pass. The Jew worked nearby in the German Uniform Reclamation Labor Camp repairing old uniforms and sewing new uniforms. Although the sergeant argued that he personally knew the old Jew, and, therefore, not a problem, the SS oberleutnant reminded him, at the top of his voice that a Jew without a KennKarte was an offense punishable by death and was to be immediately shot. The sergeant looked grim as he held his head down and the young officer kept up his angry litany of epithets.

      Wolff slowly unwrapped his Mauser Gewehr rifle from inside the blanket, the large black sniper scope coming out first and then the long stock of the rifle butt. He placed the rifle across his lap, and took a single, sleek .343 caliber bullet from a small leather pouch tied to his belt. He slowly flicked the lever up and back, slid the long bullet into the oiled chamber, and quietly slid the lever shut to cock the rifle for firing.

      Wolff knelt, crouching with one knee on the rooftop and on the other knee, cradled the rifle in his arms steadying it with his right elbow. Slowly and deliberately he moved his body over to the edge of the building. Although the moon was full tonight, he did not see it from his rooftop position which was hidden behind a raised stairwell enclosure. Moonlight splashed light across the rooftop except where Wolff crouched ominously in the dark shadow of the stairwell enclosure so as not to expose his position. He settled in, took in a couple of breaths to steady himself, than exhaled as silently as possible.

      Wolff leaned over the side and pointed the Mauser downward. Looking through the scope, he could clearly see the face of the oberleutnant outlined

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