Unlikely Warrior (24 page)

Now and then he hummed a few bars of a song, and if it was one I knew, I played it. At one point he gave his orderly a command, and the latter left the room. He returned shortly with a mess kit full of food and a large piece of bread that he placed, oh wonder, in front of me. Motioning with his spoon and a corresponding movement of his head, the officer told me to eat. It was my first cooked meal in many days, and I ate reverently and slowly, soaking up the final drops with the last little piece of bread.

I was taken back to the barn, where I sat down next to a young infantryman who was dressed in a ragged bloody jacket and had a wet, bloodstained bandage around his neck. Pointing to his neck, I asked, “Is it very bad?”

“It’s not so much the pain as the loss of blood that worries me,” he answered weakly. By the way he twisted his whole upper body in my direction I could tell that his neck was very stiff. His white-blond hair was also sticky with dried blood. I could read in his eyes the same fear that we all knew so well by now: the fear that a life that hadn’t even really begun was about to come to an end.

Fresh blood ran from the wet gauze down his neck and into his jacket. Carefully I began to remove the bandage, exposing a large wound. I could see no splintered bone, however, nor the strong gushing that would have indicated rapid and extreme blood loss. It looked like a flesh wound to one side of the spine, near the shoulder. Some of the other soldiers glanced almost shyly over at us, but no one spoke a word. Bright red blood flowing from an open wound produced a respectful silence.

But then one of the others called softly, “Hey.” When I looked in his direction he tossed me an unopened package of gauze. It was soaked with river water and thereby assuredly no longer sterile, but by using it and the old bandage, I was able to apply an improvised pressure dressing.

When I had finished, the young soldier lay down on his side and asked in a heavy Berlin accent, “What did they want with you inside?”

“They wanted me to play the harmonica for the captain while he was eating,” I answered, purposely failing to mention what I had received as a reward. I noticed that the wound had stopped bleeding.

The next morning we set out. Russian soldiers, who usually rode on small horses and were never without a submachine gun in their hands, organized our departure. We were completely searched again and again, and everything but family photos and German money was taken away. Most of those who still had boots were also relieved of them. I wore only a lightweight blue jacket and a torn pair of pants.

Only a few hundred of us marched away at first, a column of weary, barefoot men, five to a row, many with wounds of varying degrees that had not been properly bandaged. Russian soldiers rode at both sides of the column, their weapons ready to fire.

Slowly we wound our way along a hot and dusty country road that curved through gentle hills. Another column of a few hundred was added to the first some hours later. In the course of the day, this sad procession of defeated warriors continued to grow until it numbered at least two thousand. The guards, constantly riding up and down the lines, would not tolerate the slightest disorder in our ranks. Whoever stepped out of line was immediately thrust back with a blow from the butt end of a rifle.

The hills in this eastern part of Romania were completely overgrown with corn, grapevines, and trees still laden with fruit. The houses appearing from time to time along the side of the road were surrounded by lush vegetable gardens. When we trudged through the town of Iasi, the people came out to watch. Many spit at us, and some threw stones. I couldn’t blame them.

Around noon the guards directed us into a cornfield and permitted us to pull off a few half-ripe ears. We drank water, like cattle, from a muddy pond.

I was limping because my left heel had festered under the thick and hardened skin. The boy with the neck wound was walking next to me. I called him simply Berliner, and he addressed me as Austrian. It was simpler that way. Why should we introduce ourselves with complete names when we probably would lose sight of each other again within a few hours or days?

“Why are you limping, Austrian?” he asked.

“I have an infection under the callus on my heel. Walking on it hurts.”

The Berliner pulled a straight pin from his jacket collar and offered it to me. “Pierce the skin and let the pus out. You’ll see, it won’t hurt so much when the pressure is released.”

The hours seemed to drag out longer and longer. From time to time I used the needle to release the pus. Each time I stopped the Berliner stayed with me, and we ended up toward the rear of the column. I could already see the end, consisting mostly of the wounded who couldn’t walk any faster.

I happened to look back just as one of them collapsed. He cowered in a curve in the road. Next to him a Russian stood holding his horse by the reins. We had already rounded another curve when I heard the brief burst from a submachine gun. Soon the Russian soldier came galloping to catch up with us.

Prisoners’ march. Three hundred kilometers without shoes or proper food.

“So, that will be our fate when we can’t go on anymore,” I murmured. “I’m taking off.”

A minute or two later the Berliner replied, “I’m coming, too.”

We studied the landscape, the mounted guard, and the road, which was paved now and was winding and slightly ascending. The slopes, covered with corn and fruit trees, offered good possibilities for cover. The Berliner moved ahead of me into the right-hand row of the column. We saw a deep cement-lined hole next to us on the roadside. Perhaps we could jump down and hide in the thick pipe intended for directing the rainwater to the other side of the road. But the guard was right behind us. We passed by a second such cavity and then another, but the Russian remained in the same location, just to our rear. I kept expecting that each drainage hole would be the last. Up ahead I could see the landscape flattening out.

The next of the cement depressions appeared, and we were just coming up beside it when the Russian soldier galloped past us, yelling loudly to a prisoner who had stepped out of the line. At the same moment we jumped. The Berliner crawled ahead of me into the pipe, which was just slightly wider than our chests. I followed and lay flat with my head in the direction from which we had come. I could hear the soldiers walking overhead and feel the vibrations.

Suddenly a Russian soldier jumped down from the road into the cement cavity, blocking the light at the entrance to the pipe. I closed my eyes and waited for the round of shots, but all I heard was the rattle of a tin can that the guard had picked up and was examining. A moment later he dropped the can and disappeared again.

The end of the column drew near and passed overhead. The noise from thousands of shuffling feet slowly became fainter, and then all was still. We waited a few minutes longer, and then, very carefully, we crawled out of the pipe, peered down the road, and crept away.

That night, the following day, and the next night we spent in the fields near a small creek. We ate fruit and corn and slept in a haystack. I rested with my foot propped up high as much as possible, continuing to puncture the scab from time to time. I had a fever and felt miserable.

The second morning we heard noises—tank motors, many voices, and rifle shots. We moved to the top of a hill covered with trees from which we could see a tightly closed chain of soldiers and tanks spread out over the countryside, heading in our direction. The Russians were systematically combing the territory for remaining German soldiers. Much later I found out that the Romanians had freed themselves at this time from the German grip and gone over to the Russians, enabling them to enclose and capture an entire army. Many thousands of men had already been taken prisoner in this area, but scores were still running around free.

We immediately realized how senseless it would be to run away. In fact, it seemed absolutely imperative that we not flee, since a runaway would be shot at. We inched a little way on our hill to a bare spot with no trees or bushes where we could be seen from a distance, stood up straight with our hands above our heads, and waited for the Russians. Soon we were walking with a small group of prisoners toward the next village and from there, in an ever-increasing column of several thousand, once more headed for our unknown destination.

My limp was becoming noticeably worse. Now I could step only on the ball of my foot, and even that caused severe pain. The fever had also weakened me considerably, and I fell back in the column, where I was overcome by panicky fantasies when I saw the tail of the column once more close at hand.

The end for those who couldn’t keep up was now generally known. Also, because of a few incidents, the guards were becoming stricter. One soldier who stepped out of the column simply to pick up a corncob was shot. He lay, bleeding to death, as we passed by. The late August days were indescribably hot, and we walked in a constant cloud of dust. Our only thought or desire was for water. I had always imagined that lack of food was the worst deprivation until I learned on this march what it is to be thirsty.

I dragged myself along, limping on the right edge of the column. A young Russian guard, holding his horse by the reins, walked not too far from me. It became more and more obvious that I couldn’t continue much longer. My strength was diminishing by the minute, and my vision was increasingly blurred and hazy.

On the edge of the road and a few yards up ahead lay an empty gas mask canister. Everyone saw it. Everyone would have given anything to have it. A container with a well-fitting lid and shoulder belt could be filled with three or four liters of water each time we stopped to drink and then carried along for later.

As the young Russian passed the canister, he gave it a kick with his boot, and it rolled closer to the column of prisoners. No one dared bend over to pick it up. That might be considered a provocation. The Russian remained standing there near the can and, as I staggered past, he looked me directly in the eye and made a gesture with his head. Somehow I managed to pick up the canister and hang it over my shoulder. Within a few seconds a powerfully built German pushed himself next to me from the left, and another giant came from the back to my right side. They put my arms over their shoulders and carried me for the rest of that day and the next. We shared the water with the Berliner, who was still ahead of us. With a kick on a can, a young Russian soldier had taken pity on his prisoner and saved my life.

THE EVENTS AT BALTI

On the afternoon of the next day we reached an improvised camp where several hundred prisoners had already gathered. It was no more than an uncultivated field containing a few half-destroyed houses, enclosed by a barbed-wire fence. Machine guns pointed menacingly inward at the corners of the field, and mounted soldiers rode guard outside the perimeter.

Here, for the first time, the Russians gave us an official meal: kasha, or buckwheat cooked in water, with a few added pieces of cabbage and potato. I was grateful, not only to have something warm in my stomach, but even more for the reassurance that evidently they intended to treat us as human beings, to try to keep us alive.

Later I got into the long line of sick and wounded that had formed outside one of the buildings. After hours of waiting, I had my foot disinfected and bandaged. Since I was running a high temperature, I was given an old potato sack to hang around me. We slept on the bare ground out in the open, but, since it was only the beginning of September, it was still fairly warm.

During the days that followed, many more columns, each numbering several thousand prisoners, dragged into the camp. The dismal procession never varied: weary, dust-covered men, wounded and tattered, in barely recognizable German uniforms.

On the fourth day a group of Russian officers, including a female doctor, went through the camp and ordered the sick and wounded to stand in a designated area near the gate. Many who were not really sick at all sneaked themselves into this group, hoping for better treatment, but later the doctors returned to narrow down the selection. They ordered those of us who were chosen to wait outside the gate, explaining that we were to be taken to the train station. Supposedly from there a train would transport us to a hospital in the next town.

Soon thereafter we marched away, accompanied by a minimum of guards. Those who remained behind watched us go, their eyes filled with envy. The Berliner, who had also been selected, walked next to me through a pretty landscape that was slowly becoming autumnal. It was peaceful, with grazing cows and butterflies weaving lazy patterns in the air, seeming to declare that nothing had changed in their pastoral world.

In the afternoon we arrived at a small burned-out building near a railway track. A few hours passed during which absolutely nothing happened. No train went by; no people came to wait. Finally the guards informed us that the train wouldn’t be coming after all. We would have to walk to the next station.

Weary and dull, the column began moving once more. My foot was hurting a great deal, and beads of perspiration stood on my forehead. The Berliner wasn’t in much better shape. The prisoners straggled, and the column began stretching out in length. The guards no longer even attempted to keep the ragged line together. I neither wanted nor was able to go on. Also, I had little faith that there was any more likelihood of a train being in the next station than in the one we had left behind.