I peered through the broken window. I had a perfect view of the street and an excellent shooting position, assuming I actually managed to shoot.
The Germans were able to gas us so easily because they didn’t regard us as human beings. We knew exactly what kind of people they were, though, and that was why the other fighters were burning to kill them. But I could still see the face of the young soldier begging for mercy, and I still didn’t know if I was going to be able to kill anyone.
In the distance, we saw a tank rolling into the ghetto followed by about twenty members of the Jewish police. Behind the traitors, the soldiers had shouldered their arms and were marching in rows of four. It was unbelievable, but they were singing!
Im grünen Walde, da steht ein Försterhaus,
da schauet jeden Morgen,
so frisch und frei von Sorgen,
des Försters Töchterlein heraus …
The swine were belting out a marching song.
They thought they could wipe us out and sing while they were at it …
Lore, Lore, Lore, Lore,
schön sind die Mädchen
von siebzehn, achtzehn Jahr …
The SS men marched with every confidence, without even one of them holding a gun at the ready. They obviously weren’t expecting any resistance. They were so used to leading Jews to the gas chambers without a battle that they weren’t even on the lookout for signs of an ambush.
We all waited for Mordechai’s signal to start shooting. But right now the soldiers weren’t close enough.
Der Förster und die Tochter, die schossen beide gut …
The tank rolled toward our window.
Der Förster schoss das Hirschlein, die Tochter traf das Bürschlein …
Jewish policemen walked past. Miserable creatures.
Tief in das junge Herz hinein …
Now the first soldiers marched past, right under our window. Amos couldn’t wait to start shooting, but Mordechai still didn’t give the order. He waited until enough soldiers were within shooting distance.
Ta-ra-la-la, ta-ra-la-la,
tief in das junge Herz hinein …
At last, our leader gave the signal by throwing a hand grenade out the window right into the bulk of the men.
Lore, Lore …
As it exploded, the soldiers screamed and a barrage of Molotov cocktails, grenades, and bullets rained down on them from the roofs, out the windows, and off the balconies.
The Germans and their Jewish helpers started to panic and broke formation. The German Übermenschen—the supermen—knocked one another over as they sought cover in empty shops and house entrances, or behind mounds of rubbish.
All over the place, soldiers were struck by bullets and collapsed to the ground, while others ran through the streets, burning alive, until they fell down on the cobblestones and didn’t get up again. Their screams were barely audible in all the din of the explosions. No one went to help a fellow soldier. And no one was singing now. No more Lore, Lore …
Amos was standing beside me shooting. It was strange to see him like this. Fulfilled, exhilarated, avenging his friends and himself at last.
The first Germans started to shoot back. Bullets hit the wall behind us.
I crouched down beneath the window.
“Mira, shoot!” Amos hissed at me and threw another hand grenade down into the turmoil raging on the street.
But all I wanted was to scream. I was so scared of dying. And of killing someone else.
“Mira!” Amos shouted.
Black smoke was billowing up from the street.
“The tank, I took out the tank!” Esther whooped.
I stood up and stared down at the street. The tank was in flames, and I watched a soldier crawling out covered in blood. There was just a bloody stump where his right arm had been. He fell off the tank and hit the ground. The rest of the crew didn’t get out. They burned to death inside the vehicle.
A Jewish policeman lay bleeding to death beside the soldier. The two of them shared the same fate. But the Jewish policeman accepted death. He called out, with the last of his strength, “Jewish bullets! Thank you! Thank you!”
He was able to die knowing that we had given him back his dignity in the final moments of his life.
“Mira!” Amos was outraged.
I couldn’t shoot. Until … until I spotted the fat pig from the guardhouse in all the chaos, standing beside the burning tank. I remembered what he nearly did to me, what he had likely done to so many other girls. I pointed my gun at him and my hand shook.
The window next to ours was hit by a volley of bullets. It burst into thousands of pieces, but I didn’t duck away again, because the fat pig from the guardhouse was aiming his gun at someone. He’d shoot one of our comrades throwing Molotov cocktails from the roof. Or Ben Redhead, maybe, who was up there, too. I envisaged Hannah lying in the pool of blood in the pantry. And shot.
The SS man fell to the ground.
It was the first time I’d shot someone deliberately, not in self-defense but in battle. I kept on shooting, shooting, shooting. As if I was intoxicated. And I didn’t feel guilty, at all. Every soldier I killed was one SS man who would never kill children again or sing while he was doing it.