Plunder by Menachem Kaiser (english novels for students txt) 📕

They were respected, had a history of discoveries big (entrances, shafts, etc.) and small (World War II–era firearms, typewriters, currency, etc.), and had the necessary equipment, know-how, determination, physical ability, chutzpah, time, and obsessiveness for what was, I was quickly learning, something considerably bigger than a weekend hobby.

Andrzej announced that it was time to see Sobon.

Maia and Jason went with Joanna in her Land Rover and I, at Joanna’s urging, went with Andrzej and Janek in Andrzej’s Land Rover. They didn’t speak English and I don’t speak Polish, but Andrzej knew a smattering of German and I’d taken four semesters of Yiddish in college, which meant we could pretend we were communicating. Andrzej said many things about the landscape that I’m sure were very interesting. The interior of the car was as expeditionary as the exterior, full of high-end, well-used gear—​helmets, ropes, harnesses, belay devices, tents, lanterns, clothing, electric generator, a couple of axes, a couple of metal detectors. I was taking in the treasure hunter aesthetic—​military, unpretentious, utilitarian, tough. Explorers yes but not of the foppy gentlemanly variety. Indiana Jones but more commando. More perplexing were the various very authentic-seeming Nazi tchotchkes scattered about, such as the Reichsadler badge—​the imperial eagle gripping a swastika in its talons—​pinned right beneath the A/C controls. I was less offended than curious; I imagined (I hoped) it meant something very different to Andrzej than it did to me. I didn’t ask about it because, one, Andrzej and I didn’t have a common language, and, two, I would have no idea how to articulate a question like that to a person like this.

We turned off the highway onto a steep unpaved road, which we followed for about half a mile before turning onto another road—​ignoring multiple no entry signs—​that was less a road than a narrow muddy path. The Land Rovers were making more and more of a case for themselves. It was all hilly woods; the path was strewn with rocks and logs and riven by deep ditches. We came to a small clearing and parked. I got out of the car and searched for any hint—​a hole, say, or unnaturally flat ground—​of the underground complex. But as far as I could see we were in a spot of uninterrupted forest. It was beautiful, serene, forest-quiet and -cool: totally unsuspicious (and thus, I suppose, totally suspicious); no Nazi tunnels anywhere.

Joanna pulled up beside us. Maia and Jason got out of the car and, just like I did, tried to espy the tunnel.

Three bumbling American Jews vainly scanning the forest in search of a secret Nazi tunnel: Andrzej and Joanna, enjoying our cluelessness, let us stay bewildered for a few minutes. Then they led us maybe fifteen meters in and with unmistakable pride—​they were Silesians; this was their mystery—​pointed out the tunnel entrance. Of course we’d missed it: we’d been looking for a subway entrance; this was hardly more than an air duct, and it was angled, the top reaching barely to my calf, which made it seem even smaller. From a standing position, it looked like a shadow, maybe an alcove. I could have passed this a thousand times without suspecting anything.

We returned to the Land Rovers and geared up. From the back of hers Joanna fetched two pairs of rubber overalls, one for myself and one for Jason, and a couple of military-grade flashlights. (Maia, chary of confined spaces, would stay aboveground with Joanna.) Andrzej and Janek, from the back of their Land Rover, got rubber boots, headlamps, and pullovers. Then Andrzej clipped to his belt a pink stained-glass lantern, which seemed bizarrely out of place, but everything that day was bizarre and out of place; I didn’t give it a second thought.

We huddled together and Andrzej delivered a short safety speech: stay together, Andrzej stays in front, Janek stays in back, don’t wander off. Capeesh? Capeesh. Andrzej then showed us a map of the complex.

Our route was straightforward: we’d enter the tunnel at entrance 2, go straight down the corridor until we could go no farther—​about 170 meters—​then turn around and come back out.

The entrance was low enough and narrow enough that to enter you had to lie flat on your back, feet poking in, and drag yourself forward and downward—​immediately there’s an incline—​until your feet touch flat ground. Andrzej went first; he wormed his way in briskly and with dust-raising gusto. Jason, not a small man, rested his Leica on his chest and maneuvered his way in. Then me, then Janek.

And we were inside Complex Sobon. How can I describe it? In the most immediate, material sense it was as you might imagine. What I mean to say is that it was extremely tunnel-like: dank, cold, dark, just wide enough to walk in pairs and low enough that I could reach up and touch the ceiling, which was, along with the walls, unsmooth rock; the tunnel was unreinforced, unfinished. A deep mountain cavity. We walked up a small slope and then down a small slope and then through a puddle that went up to my navel. Here I had my first shiver of experience of what Andrzej and Janek and Joanna and all the other explorers and treasure hunters were hooked on: there is no way not to feel a real ringing thrill as you’re wading through navel-high water inside a hidden tunnel, the weight of the water hugging your waist inside your overalls, the hole of daylight behind you shrinking away. We climbed out of the puddle, made our way deeper in. Even to my untrained eye it was easy to see that construction had been aborted suddenly: remnants from the drilling and blasting were everywhere—​holes in which sticks of dynamite had been thrust; rebar sticking out of the walls and ceiling awaiting concrete that never came; here and there rail tracks bolted to the ground, presumably to cart out the rubble. As we walked Andrzej offered commentary that Jason, with his rudimentary Polish, haltingly translated. We