by Georg Rauch
The main building materials were sun-dried mud bricks to which a little chopped straw had been added. The ceilings consisted of thick, often sagging, smoke-blackened beams, over which boards were nailed. Outside the roofs were covered with straw and very steeply pitched so that the blankets of winter snow could slide off easily. The straw roofs, as well as the unbaked bricks, provided the perfect insulation against the harsh winters.
The wooden doors were so low that we average-sized Western Europeans always had to duck our heads upon entering. Windows were sparse and very small, but this aspect and the low ceilings were well thought out for keeping the houses pleasantly warm with only a minimum of heating materials, even during the bitterest of Russian winters.
Most of the huts had almost identical room arrangements. One entered a small vestibule through a door facing the square or street. Doors on the left and right of this hall led to the two main rooms. One of these served as living room/kitchen, with the large heating stove occupying one-quarter of the room space. The second, usually unheated room, which contained beds and a chest of drawers, was also used for storing clothing, tools, and seeds for the next planting season.
Russian village hut interior.
A ladder or very steep set of stairs rose from the entryway up to the attic, which often provided winter shelter for the chickens. A back door opened to the courtyard behind the house, where the horses, cows, pigs, and goats were quartered. The courtyard usually contained a deep well with a long rope and wooden bucket, a corncrib built on stilts to protect it from mice and dampness, and artfully piled stacks of straw and hay. Towering mounds of dried sunflower stems and cornstalks served as the only source of heating and cooking fuel, since neither wood nor coal was available in the immediate area.
At the back of the courtyard lay the vegetable garden, fenced in to protect it from the chickens and other thieves. Beyond this the fields stretched off onto the endless Ukrainian plain.
The spacious four-by-five-meter main room and the giant stove were the hub of the house, especially in winter. A bed, a few wooden trunks, a large rustic wooden table flanked by simple benches, and a number of low stools for accommodating tired feet or little children made up the humble furnishings.
The brick stove was very complicated and a wonder of heating and cooking technology. It jutted out from the walls by about two and a half meters on each side and had a main platform about sixty centimeters above the floor. Concentric, removable iron rings for the cooking pots and tea kettle lay on this surface, toward the center of the room, and iron bars formed a grill on some of the models. Sufficient platform space was still left over near the walls for sitting and warming one’s frozen bones after coming in from the cold on a wintry day.
A separate, higher masonry sleeping platform, back in the farthest corner of the stove against the wall and bedecked with feather coverlets, served as a bed for grandparents or whoever in the family might be ill. An iron door at floor level opened for the removal of ashes. Another door, slightly higher up, received the foot-long pieces of sunflower stalks used as fuel. A door to the bake-oven was the largest of all.
One or two massive columns rose up through ceiling and roof, ending outside as squat chimneys. An extremely complicated labyrinth of draft channels manipulated the smoke, taking advantage of and conserving the last little bit of warmth. Finally this radiating giant performed as a clothes dryer. Diapers, wet coats, and shoes were hung to dry on strings and poles running between the stove and the carved posts that supported the sagging roof beams.
The floor, of either tamped dirt or wooden planks, was covered with straw. The mud we brought in on our shoes could be swept out with the old straw and the floor freshly strewn, but though clean, the straw also provided the perfect breeding ground for fleas.
Small, heavily smoking oil lamps that illuminated poorly and blackened the faces of all present provided the only evening light. Nonetheless, it was easy to imagine how cozy such a room might have been in its original state, sheltering a small family group.
In wartime, however, these buildings with their rising chimney smoke were perfect targets for the Russian mortars. When you considered the shelling, the vermin, the rank smell of six or more dirty soldiers cooped up for days, plus the wailing of old folks and babies, a well-furnished bunker was often much to be preferred.
At night, when the firing was particularly heavy, we descended to the damp earthen cellars in the courtyards. There, in spite of rats and the pungent smell of sour beets and pickles, we felt less vulnerable and sleep came more easily.
Russia, December 29, 1943
Dear Mutti,
Outside everything is white, deep white. When I look outside I see nothing but white. Besides that, it is freezing cold. Such an icy wind roars through the region and hurls ice crystals into our faces. The breath of the men and horses looks as though it were coming from a steam engine.
We are completely outfitted now, and we look like snowmen. When we go outside, we put on over our regular uniform a kind of ski jacket, snow white.
When you turn it inside out it is camouflage material with padding in between. The pants are just as white and warm all the way down, just like long ski pants, and tied at the bottoms. In addition, a pair of felt boots, mittens, everything white on white. The whole thing serves as combination camouflage and protection from the cold.
Meanwhile I have become a skilled telephone operator. I take my turn at the switchboard, go out fixing breaks in the lines, repair telephones. I’m not on the wireless because there’s no available equipment. There are constant breaks in the phone lines, though, either from artillery hits, from mortars, or torn up by some vehicle or other. We at the switchboard have to make a line check every half hour—that is, all the participants call in to make certain everything is still functioning.
But sometimes it happens, especially at night, that the guy at the command post falls asleep instead of standing watch. He doesn’t hear the phone when we call, and then a repair crew has to tramp the two or three kilometers through the snow to check things out. That’s not always so easy, as it is usually terribly dark, often foggy besides, and since there are no orientation points in this godforsaken countryside, all of a sudden you are lost! There you stand, knowing neither the hour nor the direction, surrounded by snow, snow, and more snow, freezing and thinking of your happy youth.
That’s just exactly what happened to me on the twenty-fifth of December. It must have been about 3:00 a.m. There were two of us, each armed only with a pistol, and as we stood there, not knowing where or what, suddenly a group of people came out of the nothingness. We yelled, “Hello, password?” and were answered with an icy stillness, filled only by the whistling of the wind. We were standing about fifteen meters across from each other, and then we heard some Russian word!
At that we made an about-face and took off like a flash in the opposite direction for about thirty meters. A few shots rang out. Voices shouting. We threw ourselves down in the snow, rolled around a bit, and waited. I think we were invisible in our camouflage suits, for they—it must have been a Russian patrol—passed by quite closely and in some agitation.
We stuck to the same spot, walking back and forth until dawn, not daring to stray from there for fear of landing behind the Russian lines. When it became light, it wasn’t hard at all to find our way back.
And so you keep having new experiences here. Each time a little excitement, and in a few moments it’s all over. You laugh about it and tell it to the others in the accents of a hero.
Right now I’m stuffed so full that nothing else could tempt me. Perhaps a good apple, but nothing else. The Christmas rations were fantastic. Then we all shared in the contents of the many packages from home. In addition, there are special packages, such as the “major battle day” packages, packages from the “comrades stationed in Paris,” from the members of the National Socialist Party in Silesia (I’m in a Silesian division) or parcels “from girls to unknown soldiers.”
In this way a lot of the soldiers begin exchanges of letters, and it can happen that these fellows receive eight to ten letters or packages from as many different girls in one day. Then when they go on furlough, they check the girls out one by one. I don’t think that’s my sort of thing. (Daughters of butchers or delicatessen store owners are especially popular.)
Otherwise things haven’t changed much. The daily life—eating, sleeping, grenades. I still haven’t received any mail from you, but I think something has to arrive pretty soon. If you are able to find something anywhere that works against lice or scabies, please send it to me, as I’m suffering quite a bit from these. They don’t give us anything here.
Don’t think unhealthy thoughts. Everything’s great. Greetings to all and tell them I’m fine. 100,000 kisses from your Georg
On January 1, we were sent to search a nearby woods and the adjacent village for partisans. The village had been evacuated sometime previously. We found nothing in the woods, and then we were ordered to search each house in the village thoroughly. I checked each one assigned to me, going first into the room on the left, then the one on the right, and finally the attic.
In the fourth house I found a young man, about seventeen years old, in civilian clothing and cowering in a corner of the attic. I gave him a sign to come out and follow me, which he did without hesitation. A few officers were standing outside in the square. I brought the man to Hauptmann Winter, the battalion commander, and reported. Then I received the order I shall never forget.
“Go with the man over there and shoot him. He is a partisan.”
I stood paralyzed.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Carry out my order. Dismissed.”
I was nineteen years old, three weeks on the front, and now I was supposed to shoot a young, unarmed person. I had already studied his face. It was handsome and filled with fear, the features still almost those of a child. Maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to go to war, just like me, and had hidden himself when it came time to be a soldier. Or maybe he had still been too young.
I marched away with him, not knowing where I was going or what I should do. I knew I couldn’t just shoot him. But was I certain of that? If I didn’t do it, what would happen? Refusal to obey a direct order meant court-martial, with an automatic sentence of death. Those were the rules farther to the rear.
Here in the front lines, perhaps it would depend on the mood of the officer. He could have me shot immediately to set an example or have me ordered to a minesweeping unit. I knew from hearsay that this was also a death sentence. The young man would be shot either way, whether I did it or someone else did. On that point nothing could be changed.
Haas came around the corner. He must have sensed my dilemma. Desperate, I turned to him for advice. He already knew me well enough to see right off that mine wasn’t one of those smaller problems, something that one just wasn’t in the mood for doing. I must have been very pale.
Haas was certainly not a bad person, but thanks to his years at the front he was hardened, rational. He said, “I’ll do it for you.”
He led the boy away. In all of the war, there was never again a shot more painful for me than the one that shortly rang out over the quiet village. I will hear it the rest of my life.
This was one of the stories that I didn’t write home to my mother. In fact, I had made up my mind at the beginning to write only reassuring letters, but I soon found out that it wasn’t possible. She wouldn’t have believed me, anyway, because of something that I didn’t know at the time. She was taking my letters to her sister-in-law, Rhoda Wieser, one of the most highly respected graphologists in Germany. Together the two women regularly analyzed my handwriting in order to ascertain my true mental and emotional state.
The East, January 5, 1944
Dear Mutti,
Today I am more or less on my feet again. For the last five days I’ve had a fever that was constantly between thirty-eight and forty. In addition I had terrible headaches and was vomiting all the time. I was completely wiped out. At sick bay they took my temperature and then informed me that they couldn’t do anything for me. “Everybody has that sometime.” Not even an aspirin. Today I have no more fever, but I can hardly stand up. My mood is below zero; that’s why I’ll write when it’s better again. I still haven’t caught sight of any mail. I hope at least that you are receiving my letters, since they usually leave with soldiers going on furlough to Germany. Till next time, kisses,
Your Georg
MARIANOVKA—THE FIRST BATTLE
A surprise command to pull out of the village came shortly after nightfall on January 7. In the middle of a snowstorm, given the brief time we were allotted, it was utterly impossible to roll in all the telephone cable we had laid out. What’s more, way too few wagons or horses were available for loading. A great deal of equipment had to be left behind.
Heavily burdened with arms, ammunition, and, for those of us in the signal squad, the wireless and telephone equipment, we struggled that whole night against the storm, wearily placing one foot ahead of the other in the deep powder snow.
We continued thus for a week, marching through nights of bitter cold and doing our best to repulse the pursuing Russians by day. Finally we arrived at Marianovka, a small town surrounded by snow-covered hills. Marianovka itself was not of any great importance, but it happened to lie at the narrow opening of an enormous pocket of land, from which an entire German division was attempting to escape to avoid encirclement. We learned the Führer had given a direct order: “The village must be defended to the last man!”
The signal squad was assigned to a dirt cellar, and from there we laid cables out to the last houses on the southern perimeter of the town. The rest of the troops kept busy digging trenches and dragging crates of ammunition.
That afternoon, as I was returning to the cellar for another roll of cable, Haas turned up with two mess kits full of a steaming goulash. Handing one of them to me, he said, “Best wishes from the firm. Keep up the good work! When you get hungry again, the kitchen is four huts down the street.”
He pointed toward the south. “There happen to be tons of Russians sitting behind those hills, in case you’re interested.” Then he added, as though just in passing, “Oh, I almost forgot. These just arrived for you.” And he pulled two letters from his inside jacket pocket.
Russia, January 15, 1944
My dear Mutti,
I’m in a most unpleasant position, which we’ve been commanded to hold “by order of the Führer,” but in spite of that, everything is beautiful for the moment because today I received my very first mail from you! Both of your letters were like new, in perfect condition, and they made me so happy. I had felt so forsaken.
For the rest, be well and don’t worry. Every bullet doesn’t find its mark, and I have a very secure feeling. A Viennese doesn’t go under so easily!
Many loving kisses for you both, good old begetters of,
Your Boy
The next morning the Russians began bombarding Marianovka with mortar fire. For several hours we sat in our cellar counting up to one hundred hits per minute. They kept raining down, even during the night, evidently in an attempt to keep us from sleeping and to stretch our already taut nerves to their limits.
We took turns going out to repair the shot-up cables and connections. After two days, barely any snow remained in the village. It had either turned black from the powder or been blown away by the force of the shelling. Many of the houses were burning; the kitchen had received a direct hit.
The first Russian infantry attack began in the early morning hours. I happened to be in one of the foremost
houses, replacing a telephone that had been shot to pieces. The Russians, hundreds of black dots on the surrounding hills, stormed down the slopes, roaring fiercely as they ran. The German machine guns fired among the masses, and I could see them falling. Enemy artillery continued to cover the entire village with heavy fire, and new waves of Russian infantry poured down the hills.
When the attack finally halted, the ground was spread with dead and wounded Russians. Soon thereafter they put their antitank guns into action. These fast and low-shooting weapons could draw a bead on each separate man, on every house, on every hole with a German inside. This knowledge had a horrible psychological effect on our troops. The Russian guns produced very high casualties.
All day long new waves of Russians rained down the hill. The Germans drove them back, but each time it was more difficult, and they were coming closer.
The next day began with a bombardment of heavy artillery, after which not a single house remained intact. One of our team, out fixing a cable, was killed. A hit blasted the wooden door to the cellar, where we sat huddled around the switchboard.
Then, incredibly, the waves of Russians began streaming down again. It was a bloodbath, and our ammunition was becoming scarce. The wounded stumbled or were dragged, bleeding, to the rear. At noon the Russians took the front lines and the first row of ruins. This time we in the communications squad were also called on for the counterattack. Once more we succeeded in driving them back, but with very heavy losses. We began hearing reports of self-inflicted wounds. Others were trying to desert, but there was no way out. There was that order from the Führer—“to the last man”—and he meant it. A row of MPs armed with pistols stood at the rear of the village and stopped everyone. It was either back to the front or be shot on the spot.
The Germans rushed in more men, but our lines were becoming visibly sparse and ragged. The Russians kept coming all day. Morale had sunk to the lowest possible point, and all were close to exhaustion. In our cellar, I couldn’t stop shivering, and it wasn’t from the cold.