The List

By Stephen Robert Stein

The story of the Jewish Brigade as it evolves into a daring band of Jews hunting down Nazi war criminals

The List is an exceptional work of historical fiction that brings to life the untold story of the Holocaust and slaughter of not just Jews, but over 150,000 Serbs and Gypsies who were executed while Croatia was under fascist rule during World War II.

Martin Brosky escapes from Auschwitz and joins up with the British Jewish Brigade toward the end of the war and meets Sylvia Harvitz, a veteran of Tito's Partisans and survivor of a Croatian concentration camp, Start Gradiska. Martin's cries for revenge parallel with Sylvia's need to avenge the deaths of her parents as they travel together carrying out reprisals in Europe, and later in South America. Along with Mordecai, an Iranian Jew who also joins the Jewish Brigade, Martin and Sylvia become Mossad intelligence officers for Israel carrying out their vengeful missions together.

The List brings together the names and activities of nazis and Croatian war criminals, including Josef Mengele, who avoided prosecution for their war crimes and travelled to South America under the direction and help of the Vatican. Protected by dictators in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil, these men became targets for Martin and his Mossad agents. Readers will discover that vengeance is not without pain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rare Bird Books
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781644283356

Stephen Robert Stein

Doctor Stein is an orthopaedic surgeon now living in Batesville, Indiana. He is a graduate of UCLA and received his MD degree from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. Married to Rebecca, they have two children, Matthew and Alyssa.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

CROATIA

JUNE 12, 1945

The smell of death permeated everything—the trucks, the homes, the people. A train of vehicles passing through Herzegovina wound along the road between Korita and the Koritzka Jama Gorge—a line that never seemed to end. Beat-up Russian and German trucks were intermixed and filled with smiling, victorious Partisans waving flags at the scores of thin, unwashed people perfectly matching the debris strewn alongside the unpaved road. This untamed traffic of vehicles came to a halt at a sharp bend, where a foul, familiar odor percolated through the crowd standing at the edge of a cliff, silently looking down. Hundreds of bodies of men shot in the head had been flung over the edge of this gorge to die among the sharp outcroppings of granite, corpses piled three to four high, many of whose eyes stared vacantly up at the sky in wonder at how the Heavenly Father had let them die so violently. Forever marking the cruelty fostered throughout the Serbian villages of Croatia, these dead souls were the embodiment of religious hatred between two major Christian denominations: the Orthodox and the Catholics.

Holding a rag over her nose, Sylvia Harvitz stepped down from the aging Russian vehicle and peered at the mass of decomposing flesh below but pulled back up quickly and bent over to vomit. Her retching was drowned out by the continual wailing of relatives who had been searching for their families taken away by the Ustashe. Scattered among the decaying bodies were clusters of black vultures feasting on the rotting flesh, unconcerned by the groups of humans peering over the side of the cliff. A closer look at the dead revealed gunshot wounds traversing front to back on most of the skulls.

Amid mixed sentiments of relief that the Fascists had been defeated and anger at the horrific killings that had taken place, the villagers welcomed the trucks full of Partisans and other forces assisting the Communists, not yet understanding what their future would hold.

But Sylvia had other thoughts on her mind as this war wound down.

Next stop: vengeance.

CHAPTER 1

SYLVIA’S REVENGE

ZAGREB

July 1945

Gathering what little she had accumulated during the year and a half she’d spent as a nurse with Tito’s Partisan forces, Sylvia was finally able to leave Bleiberg, where her former fighters continued their vengeful killing of Fascists. She made her way back to Zagreb, a city now scarred from bombs and artillery. Hesitantly, she approached her parents’ home. It had been ransacked, all the furnishings either broken or gone. Wood had been ripped from the floors and stairs. Stepping over broken glass, she went upstairs to her room. Carefully opening her bedroom door, she became incensed. A man lay face down on a mattress on the floor; he was alive. Goddam it, get the hell out of my house! she screamed.

His face was covered with a black layer of dirt, his clothes muddied, and he smelled like he had slept in shit. Surprised at the anger in her voice, he jumped up, said nothing, and ran down the stairs. Paralyzed by sorrow, Sylvia sat down and held her face, as tears ran out through her fingers. I don’t know why, why I acted this way. There is no reason to be here. My family is gone, dead.

After a few minutes, she got up and looked around. There was nothing, nothing left.

She walked out, leaving the front door open; open to anyone.

•

Having given up her work with the Partisans, Sylvia was now a Displaced Person, a Jew who had survived a Croatian concentration camp, then joined Tito’s forces, but was now alone. Even though the Ustashe, the Fascists who controlled Croatia, were gone, she still had the feeling of being unwelcome in her homeland—now under Communist rule. But burning deep inside were feelings that couldn’t be quashed or ignored. She had watched Nazi lieutenant Ernst Maurer send her mother and father to their deaths at Auschwitz, and she relived that moment many nights, often waking in a cold sweat. Essentially a calm, nonviolent person, her steady emotions had gradually evolved into silent rage as she witnessed the death and killing of soldiers and civilians daily while working with the Partisans. Vengeance was a common topic of discussion among her cohorts, yet most of them could not identify specific individuals they would go after. Sylvia could. Ernst Maurer was first on the list.

She knew little about the Nazi lieutenant. He had been wearing the paired SS pins on his uniform the night he came to her home. It was well-known that the SS Third battalion had been initially assigned to the Zagreb area and that they’d left once the Ustashe, fascists aligned with the invaders, had taken control of the country. As the war progressed and the Germans and their Croatian partners were defeated, Tito’s Partisans regained control of Yugoslavia and entered Zagreb, where they captured the Ustashe administrative offices. Suddenly, as if a bright light had flashed in front of her, Sylvia knew where to look. There must be records here of the SS troops that occupied Zagreb.

•

In Zagreb, she sought out one Partisan commander, Marko Savic. Sylvia had known this officer well while serving with the Partisans, and he owed her a favor. She had been his nurse after he was seriously wounded at the Battle of Rijeka five months earlier. His office was located in upper Zagreb near the government building in St. Mark’s Square. Passing in front of this majestic church, she entered the classic parliament building seemingly untouched by the war and climbed the stairs to the third floor.

Sylvia, good to see you, and I hope all is well. What brings you here? Savic smiled and pointed to a chair.

Hesitantly, Sylvia began. I need to see the records of an SS officer who had some interaction with my family. I was hoping you could help me locate information about Lieutenant Ernst Maurer and also find my sister Herta, who was taken away by the Ustashe.

Savic searched Sylvia’s face. He understood, as she had previously shared how the SS had rounded up her family. Yes, Sylvia, I would love to help you locate Herta, but we have not yet found the files on children taken to the camps.

Sadly, she shook her head slowly while looking down at the floor.

We should have that information soon, I hope. Savic put his hands together on his lap, then paused. Lieutenant Mauer’s name has come up before, and I think I can help you there.

Sylvia’s eyes focused intently on the Partisan commander as he continued talking.

But you must keep this information to yourself, Savic continued, as the Communist authorities have targeted this particular German for war crimes and want no interference.

I understand.

Savic walked to the back of the office, unlocked a file drawer, and handed Sylvia a folder to review. Sitting quietly, her eyes brightened as she turned the first page and scanned the Nazi’s personal data:

Lt. Ernst Maurer is from a farm in Bavaria just outside the town of Vilshofen, along the Danube River…

Savic added. I will find the children’s files, trust me.

Copying the information, Sylvia smiled at the officer, her eyes upturned as she quietly spoke: Thank you.

•

Pinpointing her target, Sylvia packed the Carcano 1891 rifle and cartridges that she’d picked up from Italian soldiers who had abandoned their posts along the Dalmatian Coast after the announcement of Italy’s surrender.

As a displaced person, she could travel easily on trains, with free food and lodging available throughout Europe. Anticipation and fear accompanied her as she started her journey to Bavaria, but the trip took longer than expected, as many of the railroad tracks had been badly damaged by the war. Leaving Zagreb, her initial stop was Graz, where the train spent two days in the station, waiting for the tracks to Vienna to be cleared of broken railcars. Visible from the train was the Graz airfield that had been bombed early in the war, during the Allies’ first attack in Austria. Collapsed hangers, destroyed Junker aircraft, and bombed-out runways filled the view spanning the right side of the tracks. Stopping in Vienna, she spent three days awaiting another train to continue on to Bavaria. Staying most nights at train stations, she joined that group of people who had no place to sleep, nor family to stay with. The extensive destruction to homes and buildings visible from the railcar windows muted some of the hope and freedom Sylvia felt as she prepared for her initial attempt at vengeance.

Her dark eyes, set in deep sockets, bore the shadows of life’s pain. Eyes that, at one time in her short life, had crinkled up in a smile; eyes that had once flashed happiness and greeted those she loved. But that time had passed, and she carried a determined countenance, the look of someone on a mission to finish a job, to finalize an action, and perhaps repair her wounded soul.

Sylvia arrived at Vilshofen at 2:00 a.m. on the morning of June 24. Benches outside the platform were filled with desperate refugees attempting to sleep amongst others ravaged by the war. Finding a place against a wall, she managed to curl up with her sack of clothing, hugging her rifle close to her body.

The sounds of so many people arising with the sunlight stirred Sylvia, yet she kept her eyes closed and feigned sleep to avoid having to talk with anyone. Clutching Lt. Maurer’s address in her right hand, she was ready to find her prey. Evening would be best.

•

No light welcomed this visitor as she crouched beneath the bushes growing up along the right side of Maurer’s home.

Oh God, there is someone else here in a uniform, but he looks British. He has a pistol, and he’s coming around the house toward me…

CHAPTER 2

VILSHOFEN, BAVARIA

August 2, 1945

Martin jumped back as a rustling sound from the bushes adjacent to the cabin startled him. Grasping the Luger, a weapon he’d taken from the SS guard he had killed during the Auschwitz revolt in October 1944, he hid behind the wide spruce tree just twenty paces from the front door. Slow down your breathing, easy now, easy…

The full moon cast light over his right shoulder onto the grounds, allowing an almost day-like view of the area in front of him. Cautiously, he peeked around the tree trunk and saw the same bushes move next to the house. Were there guards here protecting this Nazi officer?

Crossing back to the left, in the shade of the trees, he circled around the cabin, staying lower than the windows, and slid along the backside to peer out at the area where he had seen activity. Crouched low in the bushes underneath a beech tree was a dark, thin figure holding a rifle. Moving silently and quickly, he jammed his pistol into the back of this person hiding and, with his left hand, simultaneously covered the mouth of his target.

Stay quiet or I’ll shoot…Give me your rifle! whispered Martin, and slowly he turned his captive around and saw the face of a young woman, perhaps a Partisan. What…? Why are you here, and who are you?

Martin looked into the young lady’s face—she seemed tired but determined. Her left eye was twitching and dark circles stood out beneath both eyes. Her long, dark hair just touched her shoulders as she stood in front of him.

Mumbling through her covered mouth, she spoke out. Don’t shoot, I was just looking for my…lost child. The war, all is so messed up. I thought she might have been taken here.

Slowly shaking his head, Martin whispered, I don’t believe you, dressed as you are with a rifle. Just what are you doing, hiding outside this cabin? He removed his hand from her face, but still kept the pistol pointed at her.

Eyeing the man with the gun, Sylvia recognized that he was more a boy than a man. Few whiskers were evident, and blond hair was sneaking out from his military cap. She saw the British uniform and exhaled slowly. I am Sylvia, Sylvia Harvitz from Croatia. I am here, just looking—looking for the man who sent my family to their death.

Martin was unconvinced; he needed to know more.

I am with the resistance, she continued. Tito’s Partisans, and our war is not over. This man, in this house, Colonel Maurer, sent my mother and father to their deaths at Auschwitz and imprisoned me in a Croatian concentration camp. Looking straight into Martin’s eyes, she continued. I am here to exact some revenge.

Martin knew about the Partisans, one of the most effective resistance groups in all of Europe. But women? He hadn’t heard…But you are a woman, not a fighter—I did not know…

She interrupted before he finished. Yes, and there were many of us—some old, some young. We learned to fight alongside our men.

Convinced, he offered his hand. Martin Brosky, Jewish Brigade.

Her eyes briefly brightened as Martin put his finger to his lips.

We must be quiet, his voice barely a murmur. This man, this SS, Colonel Maurer, is responsible for your parents’ deaths?

Yes, she said, her eyes now staring at the ground.

Have you heard of us, the Jewish Brigade? Martin whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on the front door.

No, not really. But I did hear that there were Jewish soldiers in the British army helping displaced Jews get to Israel. But revenge killings, well…that’s good.

The sound of an approaching vehicle instantly halted their conversation, and they both crouched lower. It stopped outside the front door and two men got out, looked around, and entered the house.

The older man must be Colonel Maurer. Martin rubbed his hands together, not necessarily to warm them. He is the one I came to see and deliver a final message to, probably similar to the message you wish to give him.

Sylvia’s eyes fixed on the front door. That’s the bastard; it’s him, she whispered.

Concealed by the foliage, they quietly listened.

Let’s get some beer and sit and talk, said the younger man as his friend opened the door.

Yes, that’s him, Martin said. Yes, that is Maurer—I recognize that scar on his right cheek; his papers say it came from fencing.

Sylvia started to get up, but Martin held her back. I have an approach that usually works well. Just stay here and keep your rifle ready. I’ve done this many times.

Cautiously waiting a few minutes for the Germans to settle in, Martin approached the front door, giving it two swift knocks. No answer. Two more knocks, harder. Colonel Maurer, this is the British military police, please open up.

Hearing footsteps come toward the door, Martin took one step back, his hand on his holster.

Yes, what can I do for you…Sergeant? The German had opened the door, and Martin could see the other man sitting in front of the fireplace.

I am Sergeant Brosky, of the British military police, and we need you to come to our station for questioning. Martin’s eyes were fixed on his prey.

But this is…unusual. I was questioned repeatedly three months ago by your officers. But now, again? The other man got up and walked to the door.

What’s going on, Henreid? What does this soldier want at this late hour? said Dominick Kessler, a former Major in the German Air Force.

Who is this man? demanded Martin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sylvia aiming her rifle, ready to shoot.

Just a friend, that’s all. Martin could see Dominick reaching for a bulge along his right lower leg…but he was ready. The German was lifting his pant leg and grasping for a gun…Martin unsnapped his holster and fired three rounds into the former airman’s chest, dropping him quickly to the floor. The Colonel