Ring of Steel

by Alexander Watson

  4

  The War of Defence

  INVASION

  ‘The German people may honestly say once more in this hour that it did not want this war . . . But it will not allow the soil of the Fatherland to be overrun and devastated by Russian regiments.’1 With these defiant words, the Reich’s foremost liberal newspaper, the Berliner Tageblatt, had explained on the outbreak of hostilities why so many ordinary Germans believed that they had no option but to fight. In the last years of peace, the conviction of an inevitable clash with the despotic empire to the east had grown within both Austria-Hungary and Germany. Russia’s frantic rearmament, her belligerence in the Balkans, the forceful assertion of semi-official claims to eastern Galicia in her pan-Slavic press, Orthodox proselytizing in the Crownland, and a surge of enemy spies all raised fears of her hostile intent. In August 1914 the nightmare of invasion became reality. Tsarist troops charged over the Central Powers’ frontiers, bringing mayhem and panic to the invaded provinces, the Reich’s East Prussia and Habsburg Galicia. The first year of Germany’s and Austria-Hungary’s war on the Eastern Front would be dominated by invasion, atrocities and a desperate struggle to liberate lost territories and repel a mortal threat.2

  The Tsar’s army deployed at the start of the First World War according to ‘Plan 19’, a scheme conceived in 1910 as defensive but which by war’s outbreak had developed into an ambitious plan of attack. Russia’s forces in Europe were divided into two ‘Fronts’. The North-West Front, composed of the First and Second Armies with 16 infantry divisions, 8½ cavalry divisions and 1,230 guns, was tasked with breaking into East Prussia. Its offensive was to begin early, by the fifteenth day after mobilization, in order to draw German units away from the western campaign quickly, and thus alleviate pressure on Russia’s ally France. The South-West Front, comprising the Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth Armies, which by the end of August fielded 45 infantry and 18½ cavalry divisions, was charged with the annihilation of Habsburg forces in the Austrian Crownland of Galicia. The capture of East Prussia and Galicia, both of which jutted into Tsarist territory, sandwiching Russian Poland between them, would secure the Russian army’s right and left flanks, preparing the way for an invasion into the heart of Germany. Once war began, the Russian High Command, Stavka, discovered that its enemies had sent more units to other theatres than predicted, unexpectedly leaving their eastern borders weakly defended. A further change was therefore made to the deployment. Confident of their superiority in both north and south, and acting on anguished French demands for urgent aid, the Russians formed a new force, the Ninth Army, in their centre. With this, they would be immediately ready, once the North-West and South-West Fronts fulfilled their missions, to outflank the Germans’ formidable Vistula River defences and attack Posen, opening, the Tsar himself said, ‘as quickly as possible the road to Berlin’.3

  Few historians today recognize the danger posed by the Russians to the Central Powers in 1914. The Tsarist army’s first assault on East Prussia in August and September, although poorly executed and quickly repelled, briefly overran two-thirds of the province and was intended as the preliminary step for an invasion deep into Germany. In Galicia, the Russians won spectacular early victories, capturing the Crownland’s capital, Lwów, forcing the Habsburg army into general retreat, and encircling Austria-Hungary’s defensive keystone, the fortress of Przemyśl. At the start of November, when Russian forces advanced to the outskirts of Cracow and a new army, the Tenth under General Sievers, launched a second invasion of East Prussia, German commanders briefly panicked. For a short time, before the Russians were halted in the north and pushed back in Galicia, it appeared that Posen, the gateway of the main invasion route into the Reich, faced imminent siege.4 The stakes were high, for Russia’s rulers and army quickly developed extensive territorial ambitions. Influential voices in St Petersburg were pressing for the permanent annexation of at least the northerly parts of East Prussia by the autumn of 1914. For Galicia, Russian plans extended far beyond mere conquest. The Tsarist army regarded this campaign as a war for racial unity, and it formulated radical plans to remake the east of the territory into what would be not only politically but also ethnically Russian land; this dream looked forward to the bloody racial design, the Generalplan Ost, which the Nazis would embark upon in the same region only a quarter of a century later. While Tsarist plans did not share the Nazis’ genocidal intent, they placed racial considerations at the centre of the region’s future, contravened international law, and caused tremendous suffering to hundreds of thousands of people in 1914–15.5

  The ordeals of the Central Powers’ peoples in the eastern invasions at the beginning of the First World War are today forgotten, obliterated by memories of the far greater horrors perpetrated in the same lands in the mid-twentieth century. Yet at the time, the invasions were recognized as a defining experience; no other event did more to shape central Europeans’ understanding of what was at stake in this war, or the ability of their states to fight it. The shock of invasion reverberated far beyond the battlefield. News of the Russian attack and atrocities in East Prussia horrified and mobilized the population of the whole Reich. Both Central Powers, but most acutely Austria-Hungary, faced humanitarian crises as floods of refugees swept westwards. Yet the people who remained in the invaded areas suffered most. The Tsarist army’s jarringly modern ambition not merely to conquer but to remould the population of Galicia impacted in ways ranging from obtrusive cultural assimilation to mass deportation. Its spy fear and security paranoia generated a brutality towards civilians which, in contrast to the very rapid dissipation of German violence in the west, radicalized throughout the campaign, producing ever more violent actions and suffering. Moreover, invasion was always traumatic, even under the best of circumstances where it was brief and the invaders behaved well. Long after occupying troops had departed, powerful emotions of fear, anger and humiliation lingered. A close look at one East Prussian city, Allenstein, during the Russians’ August invasion illustrates how deep these scars could run.

  ALLENSTEIN

  The city of Allenstein, with 33,000 inhabitants, was what passed in agricultural East Prussia for a major conurbation. Founded by the Teutonic Knights in the mid-fourteenth century, it had a long history of sieges, sackings and occupation. The town’s most famous resident, the astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus, had taken time away from his studies to organize its defence during the Polish-Teutonic War of 1519–21. Allenstein had been captured and half burned to the ground by marauding Swedes at the start of the eighteenth century and occupied by Russian troops during the Seven Years War of 1756–63. The French too had taken the town, mercilessly plundering it in 1807. Napoleon narrowly escaped assassination in its marketplace.6 Yet for the remainder of the nineteenth century, Allenstein had experienced an unaccustomedly long period of peace and, in its final decades, rapid development. The town became a busy rail junction and its population expanded quickly, quadrupling from 4,800 in 1864 to 19,136 in 1890 and then nearly doubling again over the following twenty years. By the early twentieth century, there could be no doubt that Allenstein was on the rise. In 1905 it became a regional capital, it was designated a self-governing city in 1910, and the Prussian military chose it as the base of the newly established XX Army Corps in 1912. When war broke out two years later, the city was engaged in the building of a grand town hall, designed appropriately in the architectural style of the German Renaissance, to symbolize its new importance.7

  Lying only 50 kilometres from East Prussia’s south-eastern border, Allenstein was certain to be an early victim in any Russian invasion of Germany. Its citizens, aware of their vulnerability, had followed the international crisis in July with deep apprehension, and news of hostilities between Austria-Hungary and Serbia prompted a few of the most cautious to leave.8 Once Germany declared war against Russia on 1 August, others also decided to seek safety. The rich, with the funds to travel and social connections beyond East Prussia, were the first to go. A rumour invented a
nd spread by the wife of a Second Lieutenant in the garrison, that officers of the XX Army Corps had been ordered to send their families into the interior as the army was to withdraw behind the Vistula River, well to Allenstein’s west, hastened their departure. The majority of the city’s population, the working and middle classes, stayed put, however, until in the middle of the month traumatized refugees arrived from the border districts with stories of terrifying Russian atrocities. Farms and villages had been burned by rampaging Cossacks, towns laid waste by rapidly approaching Tsarist armies. There was talk of murder, rape and sadistic brutality: women, for example, were supposed to have been nailed to barn doors or forced to watch as their children were crucified.9 The population’s uncertainty and anxiety increased. Many more Allensteiners now packed their bags and headed west by rail, on horse-drawn buggies, with bicycles or even on foot. Concerned at the swelling exodus, the city’s mayor issued a poster on 22 August dismissing the ‘foolish rumours’ and appealing for calm. ‘As I have ascertained from the responsible authorities, our situation is entirely favourable,’ he reassured citizens. ‘There is no cause for alarm.’10

  The shock was therefore all the greater when, during the night of Sunday, 23 August, civilian state officials suddenly left Allenstein. For the population, this act of betrayal both signalled that the Russians were close and lent further credence to the stories of their barbarity. Panic broke out as people scrambled to leave. ‘Thousands of families are storming with their belongings to the railway station,’ recorded a local teacher, Herr Rittel, in his diary. ‘Very many stand day and night on the overcrowded platforms without managing to depart.’11 His neighbours were so anxious to get away that they abandoned their frail ninety-four-year-old grandmother locked in their apartment. Early on the morning of Tuesday, 25 August, the military too announced its intention to leave the city. It warned residents not to shoot at the enemy and comfortingly claimed that its withdrawal would avoid any risk of a fire-fight and allow them to remain at home, where they were ‘best off’.12 Hardly anyone was prepared to believe it. When, a few hours later, at 10.45 a.m., the final evacuation train provided for the public departed Allenstein, it was a disturbing sight: ‘an immensely long train composed of coaches, cattle trucks and goods wagons, crammed full with people who even stood on the sideboards, wagon roofs and in the brake houses’. The passengers thought themselves lucky, but false reports of a victory led to their train being stopped 90 kilometres down the line and ordered to turn back. The exhausted refugees were decanted in Allenstein on Wednesday morning, just in time to witness the first Russian troops enter the city.13

  By this point, Allenstein had almost emptied. No more than 3,000 people, fewer than a tenth of the residents, remained.14 Among them were some of the poorest, who, once the station had been evacuated on the Tuesday, grasped the opportunity to pillage first its refreshment rooms and goods shed, then nearby shops and apartments.15 The remainder waited tensely in their homes; ‘an eerie stillness’ ruled in the city centre that evening.16 Yet still the city’s fate remained unclear. Optimists were encouraged on Wednesday morning by rumours of great Russian defeats and by the return of the refugees to the railway station. The city’s trams resumed service, contributing to an air of normality.17 Many residents nonetheless prepared for the worst. Paul Hirschberg, a well-off hotelier and city councillor, buried his account books and insurance policies in his wine cellar.18 Rittel’s wife, who, unwilling to expose her children to the hardships of flight, had decided to remain with her husband, bought two bottles of cheap sparkling wine, sausage and ham, and laid this food and drink out in her front room in the hope of pacifying rampaging Russian soldiers.19 The senior municipal officials who had chosen not to evacuate also planned for the enemy’s arrival. In the best Prussian tradition of public-spiritedness and paternalism, Mayor Zülch and his deputy, Herr Schwarz, the senior Catholic and Protestant clergymen, Father Weichsel and Superintendent Hassenstein, and the police chief had all resolved to stay with their beleaguered citizens. These men would play a critical role in ensuring that Allenstein and its inhabitants passed through the coming forty-eight hours of danger largely unscathed.

  The first Russians to enter Allenstein were a cavalry patrol of three men and an officer who rode into the city at around five o’clock on the afternoon of Wednesday, 26 August. They were nervous. One of them called out in Polish that nobody should do anything to them; they would not harm anyone. After looking around the centre for any sign of German soldiers, the riders turned back but were then surrounded by a crowd of civilians, some of whom were drunk. Stones were thrown at the patrol and one of the troopers raised his rifle, but he was stopped from firing by his officer. The confrontation was diffused by the city police chief, who fortunately had seen the horsemen ride past his window and rushed after them with some of his men. They cleared the crowd quickly and the Russians departed, only to be followed on their way out of the city by a roving force of German Uhlans, who shot the officer off his horse and took him prisoner.20 This first contact could have been disastrous for Allenstein. Had the Russians concluded that francs tireurs were present, or even just that the city possessed an alert defence, reprisals or bombardment could have followed. Yet both sides acted sensibly and with moderation. Unsure of how strongly garrisoned the city was, the Russians waited until morning before sending out further patrols. Meanwhile, the municipal authorities strove to avoid any further confrontation. Stray German soldiers, who had resolved individually or in small groups to undertake a hopeless defence of the city, were rounded up that evening by Allenstein’s police chief and set marching westwards. Citizens were reminded to surrender any pieces of military uniform or firearms in their possession and were ordered under no circumstances to shoot at or otherwise harass enemy troops. Early on Thursday, when Russian horsemen returned, police in plain clothes were posted on the bridge to the south to tell them that no single German soldier remained in the city.21

  At half past ten that morning, the Russian XIII Corps, part of General Samsonov’s Second Army, began its entry into Allenstein.22 This was no victory parade but rather a cautious advance into territory clearly perceived as potentially hostile. Horsemen spread out and moved towards the city centre, keeping each other in sight. The advance guard, a troop of thirty cavalrymen, arrived in the marketplace around noon, and its captain demanded to see the mayor. Negotiations ensued, during which the city’s representatives were assured that international law would be obeyed. This promise was later publicly repeated by a staff officer, along with the admonition that civilians must not shoot. At three o’clock that afternoon, the main Russian force, perhaps 40,000 men in total, marched through Allenstein. The infantry came first, ‘sturdy, stalwart figures wearing yellow-grey uniforms mostly completely soaked through with sweat and dirt’, followed by cavalrymen riding on powerful horses, and then artillery and supply columns.23 German onlookers were impressed with their discipline. Outside almost every shop, sentries were posted in order to prevent plundering, and alcohol was placed off-limits to the army. When soldiers wanted something, they were polite and paid in cash. The reception they received from the population was also not unfriendly. Eager to pacify their conquerors, residents made gifts of food, tea and cigarettes, and brought out stools for the sentries to sit on. Much to the police’s disapproval, some women even flirted with the soldiers. Nonetheless, tension and suspicion persisted. Paul Hirschberg, who served lunch in his hotel to Russian General Staff officers, was repeatedly ordered to drink the refreshments he had prepared for them in order to prove that they were not poisoned.24

  That afternoon, Mayor Zülch, his deputy and six other city worthies were called to the central hotel, where the Russian commanding general Major General Kluyev and his staff had established their headquarters. After introductions, a Russian colonel explained in broken German that the troops urgently required supplies. The city was ordered to deliver, by eight o’clock on the following morning, 120,000 kilograms of bread, 6,000 kilogram
s of sugar, 5,000 kilograms of salt, 3,000 kilograms of tea, 15,000 kilograms of grits or rice and 160 kilograms of pepper.25 Failure to meet this demand would result in punishment.26 For the mayor and his companions, gathering this enormous quantity of food was a daunting prospect. The city itself had only flour and salt in its stores, so the other goods would have to be taken from shops and warehouses abandoned by their owners. Hirschberg was put in charge of the task, and the mayor appealed for volunteers to help him, warning them of the Russians’ threat of reprisals: ‘my dear fellow citizens,’ he pleaded, ‘help me in the most difficult hour of my life’.27 It quickly proved to be a hazardous endeavour. Russian sentries had orders to stop plundering, and intervened when they saw goods being removed from shuttered shops by German civilians. One policeman had a bayonet pointed at his chest by soldiers who thought that he was looting. Other helpers were taken by the Russians to supplement their transport as wagon drivers; two municipal workers who assisted Hirschberg that evening were commandeered and never seen again. Yet with the fear of requisitions or reprisals hanging over their city, the volunteers had little choice but to continue the search until at half past two in the morning word unexpectedly came through that the Russians had decided enough had been collected.28

  It was the demand for bread that caused the city the greatest difficulty. The weight laid down by the Russians was equivalent to around 60,000 loaves, an extraordinary amount to have to find in under twenty-four hours. Moreover, unlike the other goods, they insisted that the full quota be delivered. Some was taken from shops. People were sent door to door, pleading with residents to give up what they had. Private apartments were even broken into and searched. The shortfall nonetheless remained enormous. To satisfy the Russians, citizens therefore had to bake. Locked-up bakeries were forced open and volunteers found to staff them. Herr Rittel participated in this civic effort, running two bakeries near his home with the help of other locals, his wife and daughter among them, and four soldiers sent by the Russians. As most of Allenstein’s bakers had fled, it took time to find someone who knew how to switch on the steam ovens. Finally, around midnight both were in operation, but their first loaves proved to be, in Rittel’s words, ‘scarcely edible’ due to lack of yeast or sourdough. With the assistance of an armed Russian escort, some was found in a station goods shed, and, now with all the necessary ingredients, production could move into full swing. Through the night, Allenstein’s girls and women kneaded dough, relieving each other at hourly intervals. Others baked in their own ovens at home. The fresh bread was then piled high alongside the other goods at the city’s fire brigade depot, where the mayor awaited the Russians.29