Sobibor Concentration Camp Revolt | Part 2: Escaping Hell

It's 1943 at the Sobibor extermination camp in occupied Poland.

In the ramshackle barracks of Camp 2, exhausted prisoners chat amongst themselves, scheming

and plotting.

They were used to hard work, brutally hard work, but the last few days had been something

else.

A new capo had been put in charge of them, a sycophantic, groveling German Jew they'd

nicknamed Berliner.

Brought into the Nazi propaganda hook, line and sinker.

He was Jewish, but he idolised Hitler.

He told his fellow Jews the Fuhrer was a national hero, and that he wasn't a blame

for the genocide of the Jewish race.

No, that was the fault of his advisors.

All that talk the prisoners could live with, let the fool believe his lies.

But the capo had worked them beyond the point of exhaustion.

When they collapsed from fatigue or heatstroke he would whip them bloody and shout in their

faces.

What's wrong?

You want a break?

Are you tired?

Even as Nazi overlords were impressed, this man got results and seemed to hate Jews as

much as they did.

They'd promoted Berliner and given him his own set of black leather boots.

He ate the finest foods and he had a ready supply of vodka and women.

In return he snitched on every prisoner he could.

Scores of good men had gone to the gas chambers because of him.

Tonight it was time to even the score, regardless of the consequences.

Moments later the pudgy little henchmen strutted into the barracks.

His knee-high leather boots looked as ridiculous as ever, and a confident smirk spread across

his face as he uncoiled his whip.

Well now, who lies down?

He chuckled to the room.

Everyone stared back silently in hatred.

Before capo Pazicci grabbed him by the collar and shoved him onto an empty bunk, you butcher

lie down.

You're joking, Berliner laughed nervously, but as a lynch mob moved around him he knew

no one was joking.

Shaking Berliner did as he was told.

All at once people pummeled him with fists, belts, bars, whatever they had.

The capo wailed and pleaded but no one stopped.

At first those on the other side of the room tried to pretend they didn't know what was

happening, but realising that this may be their only chance for any retribution they

joined in.

Capo Pazicci peeked outside to make sure no one was around before directing the assailants

to the man's stomach.

He had already planned for the murder to look like an accident.

They couldn't leave any marks.

The man who had been arbiter of life and death sobbed hysterically, thrashing his legs he

begged for mercy as his stomach turned an awful shade of purple.

Mercy?

Did you have mercy on us?

One of the Jews screamed into his face.

As man after man pounded they hated Overseer, they repeated the speeches back at him.

Are you tired?

Have you had enough?

Do you want a rest?.....

My name's Elliot Gates and you're listening to the Anthology of Heroes podcast, the podcast

sharing stories of heroism and defiance from across the ages.

Anthology of Heroes is part of the Evergreen podcast network and this is the Sobibor

Concentration Camp Revolt, Part 2, Escaping Hell.

From wherever you're listening in the world, welcome back to Anthology of Heroes.

You've tuned in to Part 2 of a podcast about the Sobibor Concentration Camp Revolt.

In Part 1 we followed the story of two teenage Polish Jews, Shlomo Szmajzner and Toiwi Blat.

We walked through Toiwi's life growing up in his hometown of Izbika and detailed the

spiraling barbarity that he and other Jews were forced to live under during Nazi occupation.

We saw Toiwi and Shlomo arrive at Sobibor.

Both boys were selected for survival by the enormous Nazi brute Gustav Wagner while their

families were sent to the gas chambers.

We discussed the unique challenges that Shlomo faced.

As a camp's only goldsmith, he was in high demand, having to juggle requests from Nazi

guards all at once, all of whom were ready to kill him for any reason whatsoever.

We talked a little about how the Holocaust came to be, tracing it back to its beginnings

as a Nazi policy for forcibly euthanizing any German citizen with a perceived mental

defect and how through trial and error it was perfected into a horrifically sleek killing

machine complete with quotas and kill capacities.

We saw Heinrich Himmler tour Sobiborpersonally and give his approval to scale up the kill

rate.

As Shlomo said, levy after levy of Jews were devoured at hallucinating rhythm.

Much of the episode was spent detailing the rigors of life in the camp, hard labour interspersed

with gruel, beatings and executions.

This is one of these ones where you'll want to listen to part one first because most of

the character development happened there.

This episode will focus on the planning and the revolt itself and the next and final episode

will focus on what happened after the escape.

We'll also touch base with Toevi and Shlomo who come face to face with one of their jailers

40 years after the revolt.

Let me give you a quick recap on our main characters before we get the ball rolling.

There's Toevi Blatt, a 15 year old polished Jew, small and blonde he looked younger than

his years.

Toevi was curious by nature and even at his young age had survived several very very close

calls with death.

Then there's Shlomo Szmajzner, another 15 year old polished Jew.

Shlomo was an accomplished goldsmith.

His little bag of pliers, files and brass burners had saved him from the gas chambers.

Cunning and measured, Shlomo enjoyed a degree of privilege not afforded to many others at

Sobibor, having his own workshop away from the eyes of the guards.

But he too had many brushes with death, having been almost mauled to death by a guard dog

for not smelting jewelry quick enough.

We've also got Gustav Wagner, one of the most senior Nazi guards at Sobibor and

probably the most cruel.

Wagner was a classic sadist who took pleasure in personally humiliating and torturing anyone

who caught his eye.

Enormously strong and equally devious, all survivors said that Wagner's cruelty knew

no bounds.

But finally, Leon Fellhändler, the son of a rabbi and something of a philanthropist

before his imprisonment, Leon's calm voice and guidance was one of the only small comforts

for the prisoners at Sobibor.

If the Jews looked to anyone as a leader, it was him.

Our last episode finished with the surprise arrival of Russian POWs.

These guys weren't the skinny usual Jews rounded up from the ghettos, they were strong, tall

red army soldiers, and their arrival was about to change everything.

Just like in the last episode, this episode has descriptions of strong violence.

So enough talk, let's get going.

Part 2 of the Sobibor Concentration camp revolt.

By 1943 there was a noticeable change in the air at Sobibor.

In the past, people had arrived around the clock.

By the time one trainload of Jews had been ushered into the gas chambers, another group

was arriving at the station.

But now, days would pass between arrivals.

And fewer people were being sent to the gas chambers once they arrived.

Instead, they were being put to work in the newly crafted ammunition workshops.

The tide of war was beginning to shift.

The Nazi Blitzkrieg was grinding to a halt.

America had joined the Allies, the famed Nazi General Erwin Rommel, the Desert Rat, was

being chased out of Africa, and Hitler's ill-advised invasion of Russia was not going

well.

The Nazis were far from beaten, but the easy victories of 1939 and 1940 were behind them.

And the guards at Sobibor knew it.

They were drinking more, and the sounds from their orgies in the officers' quarters were

disgustingly common, and they'd become meaner.

It was no longer enough to discipline the prisoners, ritualised humiliation became part

of their daily lives.

Each guard had a prisoner he picked on the most.

There was no rhyme or reason as to why they were selected, but once they decided on someone,

that was it.

There was a particularly tall prisoner who was commanded by an officer to act like his

dog every moment of every day.

Forced to crawl on all fours, bark and fetch, a survivor remarked at the sickening sight

of the man hunched over with his knees and hands cut up from all the gravel.

Red Cake, the same man who had set his dog on Szlomo in episode one, also chose his next

victim.

He was a small, nondescript older man whose job it was to sort out clothes of gas victims.

He was just your run-of-the-mill guy, nothing made him stand out, he kept to himself and

tried to survive one day to the next.

But for whatever reason, Red Cake singled him out.

Nicknaming him Lumpin Canig, king of the rags, Red Cake would bring his friends round and

together they'd forced the man to eat and drink all manner of disgusting concoctions.

Soap, cream, huge pots of grease, medicines and perfume, they laughed hysterically as

he vomited or passed out.

Tears streaming down his face as he begged, shoot me, I don't want to live.

But Red Cake refused, splashing water on his face every time he lost consciousness.

Guards would routinely order a passing Jew to balance an object on his head, and they'd

practice their aim trying to shoot it off until they got bored or missed.

Work bands would be ordered to sing classical songs that the Nazis had ad-libbed words to.

Marching in unisism, they'd sing humiliating, degrading songs about the Jewish people.

One went like this, I am a Jew with a long nose, O God, we pray to thee, listen to our

plea, to the Jews put an end, to the rest, peace send.

In the past there had been some semblance of order.

Prisoners could learn the temperament of a guard and try to work around him.

But the cruel games and the psychological torture drove men to literal madness.

One man couldn't stop giggling during a marching drill.

Even after Wagner slashed his face in two with a whip he laughed and laughed.

In another instance, in the middle of the night one prisoner rose from his bunk, walked

over to the nearest wall and smashed his skull over and over against the concrete.

His bunkmates pulled him back, but he shoved them aside and ran back to the wall, continuing

until he died.

When one prisoner refused to whip another, Wagner would make an example of him.

One of the survivors recalls Wagner stomping on a man's face so hard with metal cleats

the bones in his skull were visible.

Afterward, he held his whip out to the prisoners asking, who can whip harder?

One that strapped forward and flogged to their fellow Jew would be rewarded with food

or a promotion to Capo.

One of these men was a chubby middle-aged German Jew named Herbert Naftaniel, who everyone

called Berliner because of his place of birth.

Berliner was a sycophantic brown-noser who cherished his role as head Capo.

Somehow he had bought into Nazi propaganda.

He believed Hitler to be a great man and that his genocide of the Jewish race was actually

due to his advisers.

He blathered on about how Hitler wasn't as bad as they all thought and how he was misunderstood.

This kind of BS propaganda was expected by the Capos when SS guys were present, but Berliner

was different.

He believed it.

And for that, he was despised more than Wagner or any other Nazi it's so before.

As Schlomo says, our hate for Berliner grew every day because he was just like the Germans.

As he was a Jew we craved for killing him even more than we wanted to kill the Nazi scoundrels.

On a cool autumn day in London in the early 1940s, British war ministers gathered around

a small desk inside one of the interior offices.

Sitting in the middle of the desk was an old-looking brass key about as big as your palm.

One man stepped forward and, taking the key with both hands, bent it as if trying to break

it.

The key popped open, revealing a hidden chamber within its hollow body.

Sliding out of it came a tiny roll of film about half as long as a matchstick.

Loading the tiny film cartridge in a projector, the images came to life.

Some pictures showed thin-looking people dressed in rags, assembling next to a train station.

Others showed dead or dying bodies outside a synagogue.

Next in amongst them were pictures of Nazi documents, logistical reports about the capacity

of various camps and supply limits.

The film came with a message.

In this tragic moment my people are struggling not only for their existence but all that

they hold wholly.

They do not want revenge but justice.

They are not asking for material and diplomatic help for they know such help could only reach

them in small measure, but they beg for a voice that points to the evil which clearly

and strongly condemns those who are at the centre of this evil.

The contents of this film had been painstakingly gathered by a Polish operative named Jan Karski,

who at risk of his own life had gathered everything he could to unequivocally prove that the Germans

were at this moment orchestrating the genocide of the Jewish people.

He'd been to the Warsaw Ghetto, he'd been to his beaker and the note he attached was

from the president of the Polish government in exile.

The film's arrival in London was a miracle in itself, smuggled through countless countries

and couriers.

Karski's hope was that with this evidence Pope Pius XII would publicly condemn the Nazi

regime and that Hitler, a baptised Catholic, may step back from the policy.

Failing that, perhaps the outrage of the German public might force his hand.

Karski's heroic effort ultimately failed.

Even with everything in the microfilm and the report that he collated to go with it,

Western leaders took little interest, labelling it quote, atrocity propaganda.

In other words, clickbait of the 20th century.

The Pope's Christmas speech, which Karski hoped would call out Hitler explicitly, was

just as weak.

After a 45 minute speech about the usual peace and harmony, he concluded with a vague debt

that humanity owes, quote.

To the hundreds of thousands of people who, through no fault of their own, sometimes only

owing to nationality or dissent, are doomed to death or to a slow decline.

That was it.

No mention of Hitler, no mention of genocide, he didn't even say the word Jews.

The Vatican's involvement with the Nazis would extend long after the conclusion of

the war, but that's another story.

Even though Karski didn't get the result he wanted, word was spreading.

Jews arriving at Sobibor now were not fooled by the kindly welcomed speech, brass band

or flower pots.

Even when the Nazis went the extra mile and handed out luggage tags for the prisoners

to retrieve their belongings after their shower, the new arrivals were openly defiant.

A group of Polish women, upon seeing the dark cement entrance to the showers, just jumped

on the Ukrainian guards and began tearing into them.

They bit, scratched and clawed, screaming curses as their young children watched.

In another instance, an old man arrived at Sobibor.

He was so weak from the journey that the guards threw him into an old mining car to just cart

him away.

Summoning up the last of his strength, the old man crawled out of the car, scooped up

a handful of sand and crawling over to a guard, told him,

You see how I'm scattering this slowly, grain by grain?

That's what will happen to your great Reich.

It will vanish like flying dust and passing smoke.

Rising to his feet, he prayed aloud, Here, O Israel, the Lord is one.

When he finished his prayer, he met the Nazis' gaze and slapped him hard across the face.

Inside the camp, too, things had taken a turn.

The Red Army troopers bought with them a new dynamic.

These were professional, hardened soldiers.

Captured from the front lines, they had real combat experience.

They'd taken a life before.

From the time his boots touched the ground at Sobibor, their commander had already started

planning his escape.

His name was Alexander Pachersky, but everyone called him Sasha, which is what we'll go

with.

Sasha was a Russian first and a Jew second.

By that I mean his loyalty was to the state, to Stalin.

He just happened to be Jewish.

Sasha was the son of a lawyer, who was born in a place called Kremlinchuk, today part

of Ukraine, but then part of the USSR.

In his old life, Sasha worked as an account manager for amateur musicians.

In his downtime, he liked reading classical Russian literature with his wife and infant

daughter.

But when the war broke out, Stalin's conscription order scooped him up and he was sent to the

front line.

He was undoubtedly a brave man, one of those people that just seemed to rise to the occasion.

After a daring mission to save his wounded commander being captured by the Germans, a

fellow officer remarked,

Sasha, if what you've done doesn't make you a hero, I don't know who is.

But he didn't receive any medals.

The Soviet Union was more tolerant of Jews than Nazi Germany, but that certainly didn't

mean they were accepted.

As the Nazis pushed deeper and deeper into the Red Heart of Russia, Sasha fought at

the Battle of Moscow, where he was captured and sent to a POW camp in modern-day Belarus.

During his medical examination, the camp doctor discovered Sasha was circumcised, giving away

that he was Jewish.

The Russian was thrown into a dungeon nicknamed the Jewish Grave, where he sat for ten days

in complete darkness.

Soon, he found himself aboard a cramped boxcar on board to the extermination camp.

As a pack train rattled into the station, he wrote,

How many circles of hell were there in Dante's Inferno?

It seems there were nine.

How many have already passed?

Things surrounded being captured, camps in Vyazma, Smolensk, Borosov, Minsk, and finally

I am here.

What's next?

His entrance into Sobibor was the lowest point of his life.

But for the other inmates, it was the most inspiring thing they'd seen since they'd arrived.

Hungry hope filled their eyes, and they followed his every movement.

Strong, tall soldier Jews, unbroken and proud, heads held high as they took to their duties

without complaint.

Leon Fell-Hendler and a few close friends had recently began meeting in the dead of night

outside the barracks.

Over a game of chess, they slowly, quietly began to theorise what an escape from Sobibor

might look like.

How would it take place?

The group became known as the Organisation.

For obvious reasons, membership was kept to an absolute minimum, less than ten people.

And all were excited, inspired by the arrival of Sasha.

It was perfect to help them plan.

But Leon was apprehensive.

He didn't know anything about the Russian.

If they let him in, he could just as easily sell them out for an extra slice of bread or

a bottle of vodka.

Leon agreed that Sasha's skills would be really useful, but they'd have to wait and

see.

As Sasha and his Russians arose for their first day of work, they learnt that they would be

carting coal from the train station to the barracks.

The man in charge of the work group was a man named Karl Frenzel.

Frenzel had replaced Wagner, the beast who was on vacation.

Frenzel was a failed carpenter and a part-time butcher before the war.

He was large, savage and, like Wagner, completely indoctrinated by Nazi propaganda.

A man of little importance in his old life, he now held the lives of thousands of people

in his hands.

He was a vain man whose greatest desire was to rise up through the SS and impress his superiors.

He wore these ridiculous white leather gloves that made him look like a horrible character

of a butler.

Though perhaps he matched Wagner in cruelty, he was much less intelligent and easy enough

to fool.

Today, as he led the Colbragate back for lunch, he was in a particularly irritable mood.

There was still a good deal of coal to be moved, and Frenzel wanted to have a beer in

his hands back at the officer's quarters by sunset.

To that end, he ordered the cook to serve six hundred plates of soup in twenty minutes.

The task was literally impossible.

The poor man's hand moved at triple speed, scolding himself with each scoop as the ladle

sloshed from the pot to the bowl and back.

Soup splashed everywhere as Frenzel yelled in his ear,

Move, move, hurry it up, go, go, faster!

Fifteen minutes later, only half the people had been served.

Frenzel in a fury ordered him, outside, now.

The cook followed him outside and was ordered to sit cross-legged with his hands in his

lap.

Frenzel uncoiled his whip and lashed the man across the face.

Over and over, the whip cracked against the man's face.

He sat as still as he could, moaning and quivering as blood dripped down from his eyes and face,

pooling in his lap.

Sasha watched, raging silently.

After everything he'd endured, he felt the man's fury, his humiliation.

He was starving and hadn't eaten since last night, but at that moment he couldn't bring

himself to eat the watery soup.

He looked down and saw only a bowl full of blood.

In an act of open defiance, Sasha poured his soup out onto the ground and his fellow

Russians followed suit.

From his own work detail, Leon Feldhendler watched the act.

Risking antagonising a man like Frenzel was reckless and foolish, but he couldn't help

it smile.

He'd seen all he needed to.

He knew from the time he laid eyes upon Sasha that if anyone could get them out of this

hell it would be him.

That night, under the pretext of a date, a pretty young 18-year-old named Luca led

Sasha by the hand behind the barracks where Leon was waiting.

Trists between male and female prisoners were common and unless the Nazi guard was feeling

particularly mean, they usually couldn't be bothered following a couple into a dark alley

away from the barracks.

Sexual was only there to provide a cover for Sasha, but over time they developed a relationship.

We know virtually nothing about her.

Whoever she was, she managed to crack the Russian stony heart.

I had a hard time figuring out the nature of their relationship, whether it was sexual

or whether it was more like father and daughter, Sasha being about 18 years old senior.

But in this occasion she returned to the barracks and let the men talk.

Standing down over a chessboard, Leon told him that he'd made quite an impression around

the camp.

Leon meant it as a compliment, but Sasha just nodded sternly.

The Russian kept his cards close to his chest, he better skip the small talk.

Leon continued.

Listen, I know you're planning something, but what do you think will happen to the rest

of us if you escape?

Standing up abruptly, Sasha entered the conversation asking, what makes you think I'm planning

anything?

But Leon calmed him down, hey don't rush off, listen to me, I've been here for a year,

why don't you think we've escaped, people have tried, there have been attempts.

We have a small group of partisans who are at this moment planning something.

Join us, lead us, you're a soldier, you know things we don't, but we know how the camp

runs, we know the guards and their routine.

Sasha nodded noncommittally.

Leon had no way of knowing, but Sasha had already talked a group of his Russian soldiers

away from an escape plan that very afternoon.

Just think about it, Leon called after him quietly as Sasha walked back towards the barracks.

Sasha didn't need to think about it, without a doubt this man and his organization were

his best bet of escape.

As the days dragged on, Sasha's little acts of defiance made waves around camp.

On his third day, he and his Russians were on stump duty, splitting and removing tree

stumps from the ground.

Frenzel as usual was in a foul mood, and as the men sweated it out, pounding their axes

into the stump with all their might, he barked in their ear, Schnell, Schnell, faster, faster.

The weakest man in the crew was a skinny Dutch Jew who was clearly not used to his kind of

labor.

Limply, raising his axe over and over, he missed every second blow, and the ones that

landed had just bounced off.

Schnell, Frenzel, boomed as he whipped the man across the neck.

He picked up the pace, but he just wasn't strong enough to cut through the stump.

So Frenzel started pummeling him.

Sasha stopped and lent on his axe and watched.

He knew this could incur the wrath of Frenzel, but if he didn't, he was letting him win.

This Nazi wanted everyone to just accept the brutality that was happening right next to

them.

Sure enough, Frenzel noticed, and he beckoned Sasha over as he kicked the Dutchman into

the dirt.

You don't like the way I punish this idiot?

Sasha stood straight and tall as Frenzel continued.

You have exactly five minutes to split his stump.

If you do it, I'll give you a pack of cigarettes.

If you fail, you get 25 lashes.

Begin.

Like a man possessed, Sasha grabbed the axe and pounded the stump into oblivion.

Sweat poured off the Russian as the workgroup stopped to watch.

Imagining it was Frenzel's face, he landed the axe over and over until there was nothing

left.

Four and a half minutes.

Frenzel was disappointed, but acknowledging his effort produced a pack of cigarettes holding

it out to him, but Sasha wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Thanks, but I don't smoke, he told him, as he turned his back on him and began splitting

his own stump again.

Over the course of the next few days, Sasha and Leon took every opportunity they could

to meet and plan.

Throughout his workday, the Russian took in every detail about camp he could.

The number of guard towers, the spacing between them, the thickness of the barbed wire, and

the timings of the guard shift changes.

Sasha then met the other members of the organisation.

All of them had roles that gave them access to parts of the camp that were not accessible

by normal prisoners.

There was Hirsh Paziki, a capo who the Nazis trusted who was able to float between different

workgroups without arousing suspicion.

There was a young errand boy who routinely entered and exited the officer's quarters.

There was an electrician who maintained the camp's power supply, and there was Shlomo,

the gold smith with the golden tongue, who could summon SS Guardsmen into a small private

space with just the promise of a new ring.

Over a game of midnight chess, Sasha revealed to Leon his plan.

Snuffing out his cigarette, he said, listen, the mechanic shop is only 15 feet from the

first fence.

I have a man who's a miner.

He reckons in 15 days we can have a tunnel built.

It'll be tight, but over the course of the night our group can escape through it.

Leon's disappointment was written plainly on his face.

The organisation had already thought of a tunnel, but the ground was too sandy to support

anything a fully grown man could fit through, and keeping a tunnel secret for 15 minutes

was hard enough, let alone 15 days.

Shlomo piped in that the supervisor at the mechanic shop was also completely untrustworthy.

There was no way he wouldn't sell them out.

The plan was dead in the water, and it was back to the drawing board.

By mid-1943, the mood at the camp had shifted.

Pleasantly warm days and cool nights had made the prisoners more active, or was as if everyone

thought about escape.

Sasha soon ran into a Ukrainian guard that he recognised from his time in the Red Army.

As he lit his cigarette, he told Sasha of another uprising that had taken place at the

Treblinka extermination camp.

He reckoned that the Nazi High Command were planning to liquidate that camp, and the order

for Sobbybord to do the same would probably soon follow.

The rumour lit a fire under Sasha.

Since he arrived he had only thought of how to escape, but now there was a burning platform,

he had to get things moving fast.

The war was not going well for the Nazis.

Emerging from the depths of Stalingrad, the enormous Red Army was now lurching west.

All the atrocities that the Germans had committed against the Russian people would be paid back

threefold, as the Reich braced for the Red Storm.

The Jews chatted excitedly about the possibility of being liberated.

Perhaps any day now the Red Army would break down the gates and free them.

But Sasha dashed their hopes.

Ever the realist he said that before an army even got close to Sobbybord, Nazi command

would destroy everything and hide the evidence.

Hope that someone was going to save them was useless, if they wanted to get out it was

up to them.

It was not just the organisation that planned these escape attempts.

Other groups had tried and failed.

Usually they were short-sighted, spur-of-the-moment plans, and with each attempt and failure

the Nazis patched the whole.

Fences got higher, guard presence was increased, and worst of all, a minefield was added.

Now even if the prisoners got through the fences they'd have to cross that.

Some of the escape plans were easily foiled, but some were a bit of a mystery.

How did the Nazis always seem to know?

Soon a constant emerged.

Berliner.

The self-important capo had a knack for finding out the details of escape plans and dobbing

on his fellow Jews in exchange for little treats.

A shiny new jacket, new boots, a stacked plate of meat, Berliner was living large in the

blood of his countrymen, and the prisoners hated him more than they had at any other

Nazi.

He drilled his work group to the point of collapse.

Even when they were giving 100% he whipped them mercilessly, yelling at them, getting

tired, was like a rest, maybe this is too hard.

Even the Nazi guards were impressed, a few even copied the insults he heaped upon the

prisoners.

If any escape plan had a chance of success, Berliner had to die.

The next day at lunch, Toi-vi-lei in his bunk bed absolutely exhausted.

There had been a recent heatwave at camp, which coincided with the arrival of a group

of Dutch Jews.

As usual, Berliner, wanting to impress his Nazi masters, had made the prisoners run

with the luggage of the new arrivals on their backs, ferrying the luggage to the sorting

point and sprinting back together another bag.

Non-stop for hours in the sweltering heat, men collapsed from heatstroke, and Berliner

beat them bloody.

What's wrong, too tired?

Get up, move!

Only Jews, collective hatred of him, finally bubbled over.

As Toi-vi-lei in bed half-conscious, he listened to the clandestine plan forming.

Capo Pazicchi, one of the members of the organisation, and a few others talked in hushed whispers

before one of the little delivery boys rushed out of the barracks.

Pazicchi told him, go find Berliner, he'll be in the women's barracks, as usual.

The boy returned a few minutes later saying Berliner wouldn't come, he was eating.

Pazicchi rolled his eyes and told him to go back and tell him that there's someone who

needed their arse beat.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the pudgy little henchman came waltzing in into Toi-vi's

barracks.

As he stomped inside with his big leather boots, a grin on his face and his whip uncoiled,

he asked, well now, who lies down?

From behind, Pazicchi grabbed him by the collar and whispered in his ear, you butcher, lie

down.

You're joking, he suggested nervously, but as a crowd of Jews formed around them, he

knew no one was joking.

Sobbing and shaking, Berliner did as he was told.

Toi-vi watched in bewildered amazement, as seemingly everyone took turns pummeling him.

At first, Jews from the other side of the bunks pretended they didn't know what was

happening, but realising that this may be their only chance for retribution they joined

in on the lynching.

The man who had been the arbiter of life and death sobbed hysterically, begging for mercy

as the blows became harder.

Did you have mercy on us?

One of the Jews screamed in his face.

As man after man pummeled their despised overseer, they repeated his speeches back at him.

Are you tired?

Do you want to have a rest?

Capo Pazicchi kept watch directing the carnage to Berliner's stomach area.

Already, he was planning to make this look like a sickness.

He wanted to rupture the man's internal organs and leave no marks on his body should

anyone want to investigate.

Soon, Berliner was unconscious.

His mid had turned to horrific blue-purple shade from the punches.

The damage was definitely done.

Capo Pazicchi, icy cold as usual, reported at the roll call that Berliner was unwell

and resting up.

No one questioned it.

By morning, the deed was done, Berliner was dead and the first true act of rebellion

had been committed.

The killing of Berliner gave the organization a little more confidence in themselves.

With the right amount of planning and trust in the right people, it was they who kept

this place running.

Perhaps escape was possible.

Sasha and Leon were now almost joined at the hip.

Trust had formed and the two men had been working on a new plan.

The idea of a tunnel was put to bed, as was the idea of a small, isolated breakout.

The Nazis would find out about the plan eventually, so it was best for everyone to be prepared

to fight once they did.

They were going to crack the whole camp wide open and brute force their way out the front

door.

It was no longer an escape, but a revolt.

And for that, they needed weapons, lots of them.

The guns at the camp were under strict lock and key, besides, few Jews knew how to actually

fire them.

Crude or simpler weapons were better.

Shlomo was their man.

He used every bit of free time he had, crafting knives and hatchets from old metal that he

was provided.

They weren't pretty, but they were sharp.

Little weapon caches were hidden throughout the camp, and all the places the Nazis would

never think to look.

Moments before the plan was sprung, the leaders would hand out these covertly to every Jew

they could find.

Would they use them?

Maybe, maybe not, but at least they had the option.

Members of the organization began to hoard valuables.

The wealth that filtered through Sobibor was immense.

The doomed arrivals would regularly stash away scores of wealth somewhere in their belongings.

Diamonds, gold, jewelry, bullion, paper, money.

There were brigades of Jews that were tasked just with sifting through the belongings and

keeping an eye out for false bottoms or extra stitches.

In Sobibor, there was no point stealing this.

Had no value and it would only get them killed, but outside Sobibor, this money, this might

be the difference between life and death.

In preparation, Tovi had hidden on his person probably well over $100,000 of diamonds, paper

money and easy to conceal jewelry.

On the 10th of October, Sasha and the organization met for the final time.

The plan was as good as it was ever going to get.

A date was set.

Three days from now on the 13th of October 1943, they would escape their hell or die

in the attempt.

The plan was to start just before afternoon roll call.

In phase one, between 3.30 and 4.00 pm, the assault teams would be prepared.

Schlöhmann's weapons would be handed out to those who were most likely to use them.

In phase two, between 4.00 and 5.00 pm, the delivery boys would lure Nazi officers into

small spaces one at a time where a hit squad would be waiting.

The officer would be killed quietly and the body hidden.

This hour window was crucial because only at this time were SS guardsmen permitted to

leave their work group.

In other words, if Jews were unattended, it wouldn't raise suspicions.

If any Jews threatened to snitch or seemed like they were going to snitch, all agreed

that they must be killed for the greater good.

And finally, phase three.

Their electrician with access to the generator would sabotage the camp.

Spotlight, telephone, generators, sobie ball would be cut off.

Capo Pazicchi would then blow his whistle and lead Jews out the front gate.

Hopefully, with the key Nazis dead, the remaining guards would assume the Capos were leading

them away for a standard work assignment.

But if not, it was every man for himself, and the Jews with axes and knives would need

to make use of them.

It was a good plan.

It wasn't perfect, but it was the best they had.

Fellhenle stressed that it was absolutely crucial that everything must look as normal as possible

during phase one and two.

The Capos must lead their groups in and out of gates as usual, line up for lunch as usual,

and whip and beat their prisoners as usual.

The energy around camp was electric, though only a handful of Jews were in on it.

Many must have suspected that something was up.

There was a feeling of hope, and that was dangerous.

It was only a matter of time before the Nazis noticed, or someone told them.

On the night of the 12th, none of the organization slept.

As wrapped in diamonds and boots stuffed with extra paddings, they awoke for the most

important day of their lives.

The day started off as usual, but at around midday, whistles and shouting were heard.

Sasha and Leon were terrified, their plan had been found out, somehow.

The organization began to panic, until they heard the drunken laughter and shouting from

the officers' quarters.

It turned out a group of guards from another camp had arrived at Sobibor for a tour, which

meant the amount of Nazis on duty had tripled in the space of hours.

There was no way they could go through with it.

Sasha and Leon gave the word, the revolt was postponed.

Tomorrow on the 14th of October, it would take place, though, no matter what.

The morning sun rose over Sobibor on October the 14th, 1943.

It was a warm day, that was good.

Each conspirator arose and went about their routine like usual.

Tovi dressed in his warmest jacket, with double socks.

Full of gold and jewelry, he was almost jingling with each step.

Five months and sixteen days he'd been trapped here.

Shlomo gathered up his brothers and cousins.

Shlomo's role was going to be particularly dangerous.

Dashing around camp to caches of weapons, he was at most at risk of being caught.

He knew more than likely he would die that day, but he'd made peace with it.

What mattered now, was that he gave everything he had to the cause.

He wrote about the rebellion, we would try and do everything in our power or above it

to teach those that had humiliated and killed millions of Jews an unforgettable lesson.

We would perform superhuman deeds to show them that we were also men, and not dirty,

lazy, human rags, as they used to call us.

Breaking the news to his family, Nojek, his deeply religious cousin, received it solemnly.

As a man of faith, perhaps he felt like the outcome had already been decided.

But his young nephew, Junkus, was terrified on his behalf.

He told him it was suicide and asked what would happen to him once he'd been killed.

Shlomo did his best to try and comfort them all.

Together they'd been imprisoned at Sobibor for 17 months, vastly longer than most.

Shlomo told Junkus there was no other way, that he had to avenge the millions of Jews

who had died while they lived.

Giving each of them a bag of jewels, he told Nojek to take care of them.

He was the oldest, it was his job now.

The 14 ages said they're goodbyes and hugged, Shlomo would never see any of them again.

Sasha spent his final days with Luka, though originally just a decoy for him to meet up

with the organization, the two had become inseparable leading up to the escape.

To Sasha, she was a tiny light of purity and hope in such a desolate place.

But for whatever reason, he just couldn't bring himself to fully trust her.

She knew something big was planned for the day, but it seems like Sasha never explicitly

told her.

It was the Russian's nature to be guarded and secretive, but why he couldn't bring

himself to trust her was a decision that would haunt him long after he left Sobibor.

As he prepared for work duty, Luka appeared unannounced, carrying with her a men's shirt

she'd sewed.

She insisted that the shirt was lucky and that Sasha had to put it on then and there.

Sasha brushed it off, he didn't believe in luck, there wasn't time for this, but

Luka was insistent, so he quickly changed into the new shirt.

Their final goodbye was brief, and though Sasha didn't tell her explicitly what was

coming, it seems like he told her to rug up and be ready.

Sasha had been at Sobibor for a little over three weeks.

Just like clockwork the day began, all went about their duties as normal.

The Nazis supervised, the Capos whipped, and the prisoners worked, but at 2pm, something

went awry.

Capo Pazicchi was supposed to lead Sasha and the other conspirators on a special assignment

away from their work groups, dropping them off at the pre-picked murder spots, but from

the workshops, Leon, Sasha and the others watched an alarm as Pazicchi marched through

the front gates, away from them.

At the last second he'd been reassigned to watch over a workgroup of woodcutters.

He obviously couldn't refuse an order, but he also had no way of letting his conspirators

know what happened.

As he marched out of the gates, the organization whispered, had Pazicchi betrayed them, should

they call it off again?

But Felhenla was firm, they must continue with the plan.

If Pazicchi had betrayed them, then they were dead already, they had nothing to lose by

continuing.

Thankfully, they had another Capo, Bunio, who led the men where they needed to go, and

by 3.30pm they were back on track.

Frenzel, the brute with the white gloves, entered one of the workshops by chance.

One of the Jews working there, in preparation for escape, had dressed himself up in extra

warm new clothes.

Frenzel looked him up and down and joked, is there going to be a wedding here while

you all dressed up?

If Frenzel was to go missing now, it would surely be noticed.

The hit squad chuckled dismissively and fobbed off the question.

After their clothes all had hatchets and shives tucked away.

If he pushed the point, they would have to kill him.

If it was Wagner, he wouldn't have let it go, but Frenzel wasn't too bright and left

as soon as he'd come in.

The Jews breathed the sigh of relief.

In a tailor shop nearby, Johann Niemen, Untersturmführer, burst through the door with an air of arrogance.

As Untersturmführer, he was effectively commander of all Sobibor.

He was a busy man and he'd only come in because one of the delivery boys insisted that the

tailor had found a stunning leather jacket that was absolutely perfect for him.

Mundek, the tailor, guided him inside with all the grace and elegance reserved for a

man of Niemen's stature.

Nonchalantly he threw his harness pistol on the table as he dusted his clothes off.

Pulling a fine leather jacket off the racks, he helped him into it.

Kneeling down in front of the man, he marked the altercations with chalk.

As he watched two Jews sneak up from behind.

With a hammer blow, they brought down the axe directly into Niemen's skull.

The Nazi's body dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Shaking with anxiety, the murderer dropped his axe and stared at his hands, drenched

in blood.

But the other assistant, in a fit, picked up a pair of kitchen scissors and began stabbing

Niemen's lifeless body maniacally.

Sobbing, he screamed out the names of his father, wife and children, working himself

into such a state the others were forced to bind and gag him to avoid alerting anyone

else.

As Mundek cleaned up the blood and pushed Niemen's body to the back of the room, the

delivery boy snatched up the pistol and ran it over to Sascha.

There was no going back now.

The Untershturm Führer's death was a fantastic start.

The most senior Nazi at Sobibor was dead, but there was plenty more to go and little time

to do it.

At the Cobblers, just next door, Ober Schwatzführer Siegfried Gratius pushed through the workshop

door.

The Cobbler sat him down and retrieved a lovely pair of knee-high black leather boots from

the top shelf.

Siegfried nodded and the Cobbler pulled up his leg onto a chair, keeping him firmly in

place as the conspirators tiptoed up from behind and crushed the man's skull with an

axe.

But seconds later, Siegfried's deputy entered without warning, just as he spied the pool

of blood the conspirators jumped on him and killed him with knives.

The two highest-ranking Nazis at Sobibor now lay dead and no one was the wiser.

Throughout the extermination camp, the Jews slowly, silently took their revenge.

Capobunio reused the same trick with the jacket.

Directing another Nazi into the same tailor shop where Niemen's corpse was stashed, he

entered and barked at the Jews, attention, help the Untershturm Führer with his coat.

Soon, his corpse was piled atop Niemen's.

Everything was going to plan until Ober-Schwarzführer Rudolf Beckmann was called in for his jacket.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he looked in the window of the warehouse where the conspirators

waited.

With his hand on the doorknob, he paused before turning back and heading into his office.

Did he know somehow?

Did he suspect?

How could he?

Whatever he was thinking, it wasn't good.

Feldhendler, though, was ready for this eventuality.

A group of reserves were on hand just for this.

One of the men was Keim Engel, who was itching for his turn murdering a Nazi.

Keim, Feldhendler, and Pazicke quickly followed Beckmann inside his office.

Pazicke knocked on the door, requesting clarification for a job.

Beckmann nodded him in, and the other two followed.

As soon as the door was closed, Pazicke grabbed Beckmann's arm and bent it behind his back,

holding him in place.

Keim rushed forward and stabbed him furiously.

Blood spurted from the Nazi as Keim stabbed repeatedly.

The knife slipped and cut his hands, but he didn't notice.

Stabbing and thrusting, he yelled into Beckmann's dying eyes, for my father, for my brother,

for all the Jews.

The Nazi's eyes widened like saucers before he collapsed.

Breathing raggedly, Keim dropped the blade, and the three men shoved the body behind the

desk.

It was a tiny room, there was no way to hide this huge pool of blood.

In the office next door, Schwarzfuhrer Stubels ears pricked up.

He thought he'd heard yelling.

But before he'd even processed the thought, the three burst into his door, before he could

call for help, he was stabbed to death.

By 5pm, the Nazi High Command had been decimated, six of the top ranking officers were dead.

But where was Frenzel?

Wagner's white-gloved replacement had not been seen all day.

Sasha and his Russian hit squad had searched up and down for him.

Floorboards had even been removed from a workshop where they planned to stash him, but it was

no good it was if he'd vanished.

Besides Frenzel, Phase 1 had been largely successful.

The rhythm of the camp hummed along and the guards patrolled the grounds, unaware that

meters away from him, their commanding officers lay butchered under a pile of coats.

Shlomo walked with a forced air of calm towards the Ukrainian guards' barracks.

There was less than 30 minutes until the whistle blew, he knew he had to be quick.

He passed by Toivy Blatt, who heard him repeating under his breath,

Today is the day, today is the day, today is the day.

Carrying a big metal pipe under his arm, Shlomo was well known as a handyman, so none

of the guards questioned him as he headed towards the barracks.

Two young boys were inside, but apart from that it was empty.

For a couple of minutes Shlomo busied himself next to the furnace, pretending he was repairing

it, hoping that the kids would leave.

When they didn't, he had no choice but to force him into his plan.

Walking over to the cabinet where the rifles were kept, Shlomo grabbed five of them, the

children gasped, and Shlomo commanded them to help him.

When they refused out of fear, he pulled out a knife, telling them,

Help me, or I'll kill you.

The boys helped him steal the rifles and a couple of boxes of ammunition.

But when he tried to fit the rifles in the metal pipe he'd bought, he was shocked to

find that they wouldn't fit.

Thinking on his feet, Shlomo instead wrapped the guns in an old blanket, and peered out

the front door.

Listening intently, he heard what he was waiting for, singing.

The Nazis always made the prisoners sing when they marched back from work duty.

He had a better chance of sneaking past them when everyone was arriving back in camp at

the same time.

Heart racing he left the children behind him, if they snitched on him it didn't matter.

Within minutes, none of it would matter.

Shlomo arrived back at Sasha's hideout and dropped the five precious rifles and boxes

of ammunition on the floor.

Sasha's soldiers grinned and snatched them up, but Shlomo was quicker.

He insisted he was keeping one for himself.

The Russian soldiers scoffed at him, he was just a kid, didn't even know how to load

them.

But Shlomo insisted he wasn't giving them up, so one soldier gave him a crash course

on how to aim and fire it.

Shibaev, the electrician, entered and reported that he too had been successful.

The telephone line was cut, sobbie ball was on its own.

Over in the main square, Kapo Pazicci returned from work duty.

He had been out of contact with everyone in the organisation thanks to his last minute

reassignment.

All he could do now was hope that everyone had done their job.

Walking past a workshop, a man from the organisation ran to catch up with Unter Schwatzführer Galstith,

telling him that there was an issue with the bunk beds and asking for some clarification.

Galstith nodded and was led away, but as he headed into the building, another Kapo, who

wasn't on the plan, went to follow him.

In a flash, Pazicci was behind him.

Poking a knife into his back, he whispered in his ear, stay away, don't mix in.

The man nodded to show he understood.

It was 5.30pm, some of the guards had already began gathering.

A bad sign, because it was at this point where people would start noticing how many

were missing.

The Jews too had begun to assemble.

The news of the escape had now spread like wildfire.

It was as if everyone knew something, even if they didn't know what.

Some prisoners had draped themselves in forbidden prayer shawls, and under their breath they

chanted Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead.

Everyone was talking about the escape.

An elderly man moaned to his friend, what did we need this for, we could have lived

for another few weeks, now this will be the end.

Friends cried and embraced, saying their goodbyes, others darted around asking where they could

get a knife from.

This was bad.

Even with the main guards dead, there was no way the grunts would have noticed this.

It was 15 minutes early, but they couldn't wait any longer, the whole camp was about

to explode.

Pazicci put the whistle to his lips, and blew.

The shrill whistle cut through the chatter, the signal had been given.

The chief capo, who had replaced Berliner, stomped angrily over to Pazicci, and went

ballistic.

What are you stupid, it's 15 minutes early, I'm gonna…

Pazicci moved close to him and put the knife against his chest, and the man quietened immediately.

Sasha, Shlomo, Toyvi, Felhenla, and all the others began to assemble.

Lining up behind Pazicci, they readied themselves to march out the front gate for their special

work assignment.

But before they could begin, the unmistakable sounds of gunshots were heard from the officers'

barracks.

Something had gone wrong.

Over in the officers' quarters, SS officer Eric Bauer was returning to camp.

Along with Wagner and Frenzel, Bauer had been at the top of Sasha's hit list for

the day.

Lucky for him, he'd been on day leave.

Walking into Beckman's office, he found him dead in a pool of blood, and the man in

the office next door, the same.

Figuring out that a revolt had started, he grabbed a machine gun and opened fire on two

Jews nearby.

They'd been found out.

Sasha never needed to be told.

Jumping atop a table, he spoke loudly and clearly, with a remarkable amount of calm.

Looking into the eyes of the terrified prisoners, he told them,

The majority of the officers have been killed by us.

There will be no mercy or path back for anyone here.

As they began to wail and sob, the Russian continued, telling them,

Outside of Sobibor, a terrible war was ravaging their world, and that each person standing

here today was part of that struggle.

Rising tall, he told them what they needed to hear.

That dead or alive, all that stood here today would be avenged.

The tragedy of humanity that occurred within these walls would never be forgotten.

For anyone that survived the next few hours, that it was their duty to make sure everyone

knew what happened here.

Raising his rifle, he yelled, Comrades, forward, death to the fascists.

Behind them, charged the inmates of Sobibor.

Man, woman, young and old, clutching whatever weapon they had, the tide of humanity split

into two groups.

One went straight for the walls.

With shovels, hatchets and knives, they began to batter and shake the structure.

Like a medieval siege, they threw planks of wood against a barbed wire and charged over

the ramparts.

The other group surged towards the main gates.

Two guards on bicycles exited a building to find a group of Jews barreling towards them.

You sons of bitches, didn't you hear the whistle?

Before he had time to reach for his weapon, he was knocked to the ground and bludgeoned

to death.

Sasha and his Russians beelined for the armory.

Inside were more rifles, and if they were lucky, machine guns.

As they ran through the deserted streets, they came face to face with Karl Frenzel.

The executioner had reappeared.

His white gloves now wrapped around the handle of a machine gun, as he and a few Ukrainian

spat bullets at the advancing Russians.

Retreating around the back, Sasha found another entrance inside, where they found a guardsman

cleaning the rifles.

To their dismay, the man was doing a routine clean of the weapons.

Most of the guns were lying disassembled, and there was no time to put them back together.

The first few gunshots had triggered the guardsmen in the sentry towers to realise something

was very wrong.

But Feldhendler and Sasha had assigned snipers to keep a watch on each of the towers.

A few were killed before they could open fire, but they couldn't get them all.

By this point, the prisoners had cut through the first and second layer of the fences.

As the third and final barrier shook like a leaf in the wind, the guardsmen opened fire.

Men and women fell in droves, those caught up in the barbed wire with the first targets.

Toivi Blat was one of the dozens who were making for the main gate.

Behind him, still in the assembly area, was the last time he saw Leon Feldhendler.

In a frenzy, Feldhendler shook and slapped the Jews that were still sitting placidly in the

assembly area.

Screaming and shaking them, the rabbi's son tried to pull them up and get them moving.

What are you waiting for?

Run!

But these prisoners, so devoid of hope, had decided to stay put.

Perhaps then the Nazis would spare them.

Toivi wasn't one of them, his group charged towards the main gate.

Two Germans who had tried to stop them had literally been trampled to death, crushed

by the stampede.

Here the barrier was just a single barbed fence.

As the prisoners chopped and hacked at the thing, he found himself shoulder to shoulder

with Sascha and Schlomo.

He noticed how calm Schlomo was and watched him breathe deeply as he aimed his rifle

at one of the guard towers, managing to drop one of the guards.

30 minutes ago, he'd never held a rifle before.

As the hole in the fence took shape, the first few men of the other group had made it through.

The barbed wire of Sobbyball was behind them as they ran.

They charged towards the safety of the forest.

Mines exploded on mass.

The first few Jews were blown to bits.

Scrambling out of the ditches, the mines claimed scores of people.

The remaining Nazis had now shaken off the surprise of the attack and were rallying.

It was just a matter of time before they bought forward the machine guns.

The wall of noise was incredible.

All around them, the moans of the dying, the boom of the exploding mines, set against the

gunfire that grew more rapid by the second.

As Schlomo dropped the guardsman, he was one of the last to make a run for it across.

Thinking of his family and relatives, he sprinted over the corpses of the dead and the dying.

Vaulting over a bit of downed fence, he passed Toivi.

Toivi's big leather jacket he'd worn specifically for the escape had been caught up in the barbed wire.

The 15-year-old wriggled desperately, trying to pull himself out of it.

He thought to himself, is this the end?

I don't want to die.

Twisting himself, he managed to squirm out of the jacket and left it behind.

By now, the noise was dying down, as the last few escapees disappeared into the forest on

the other side of the minefield.

On the edge of the concentration camp in eastern Poland, 300 Jews searched for each other.

The reality quickly set in for those who made it and for those who didn't.

Nojek, Moses and Jankos, the last of Schlomo's family, lay dead somewhere in the minefield.

Hirsch-Posecchi, the brave, cool-headed capo who'd been the timekeeper of the revolt,

lay dead, tangled up in the barbed wire.

Luca, Sasha's love who sewed a lucky shirt from, had it made it.

Hundreds of others had died too.

After Sasha had told them, each of them had played their part in one of the most incredible

revolts in history.

Every prisoner that day showed superhuman courage.

The Nazis had constructed a fortress to keep them inside, keep them subdued, weak and placid.

Toivi would later say that, never in his wildest dreams did he expect to escape.

His only desire was to destroy the camp and kill as many of the Nazis as he could before

dying in battle.

They had been treated worse than animals.

Expendable labor, human rags to be humiliated, hurt or killed at their whim.

Cut off from the rest of the world their torturers thought that they were untouchable.

But as Schlomo said, they thought they were the brave owners of the world.

However, they terrified the impetus of the badly armed Jewish legions.

Whatever happened next, nothing the Nazis did could take that away from them.

Dobby Ball was behind them, but what now?

They were in the middle of Nazi occupied Poland.

The countryside was teeming with anti-Semitic locals.

The Nazis would soon be on them and that was to say nothing about what they could eat or

drink.

300 exhausted, hungry Jews looked towards Sasha Pechersky to tell them what to do next.

This was just the beginning.

And that is where we call it for today.

We'll be back in two weeks for the conclusion.

We're now on to our fifth season of Anthology of Heroes.

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I'd like to thank the show's patrons, Claudia, Tom, Caleb, Malcolm, Alex, Seth, Angus, Phil,

Lisa and Jim.

You guys are great.

Thanks for tuning in and speak soon.