Unlikely Warrior Read online

  In my dress uniform in Vienna before departing for Russia.

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  To Phyllis

  For steering me away from mediocrity

  and sharing forty years of dreams

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  List of Illustrations

  Foreword

  Major Events on the Eastern Front

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One

  Secrets in the Attic

  The Journey East

  Introduction to the Trenches

  The Hardest Thing

  Marianovka—The First Battle

  According to Haas

  A True Russian Winter

  Into Romania

  Long Hot Summer on the Dniester

  Romanian Respite

  The Iron Cross

  The Last Battle

  Part Two

  In Russian Hands

  The Events at Balti

  Kiev—Pushkin’s Request

  Encounter with a Spoon

  The Reluctant Spy

  The German Plot

  Part Three

  Homeward

  Vienna

  End of the Odyssey

  Author’s Note

  Glossary of German Words

  Glossary of Russian/Ukrainian Words

  About the Translator

  Copyright

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  All drawings by the author are from his wartime letters, unless otherwise noted.

  In Vienna before departure to Russia

  Map of Campaigns and Captivity

  “Marching to battle” (drawing by the author)

  The author shortly before being drafted

  With fellow recruits

  The author’s mother at seventeen

  The author with Mutti in 1933

  The author’s great-great-grandfather

  Luise Tauber, Moses’s daughter and author’s great-grandmother

  Luise Tauber and husband, Josef Samuel Tauber

  Melanie Tauber with her two sisters in Vienna

  Author’s grandmother Melanie Amalie Tauber

  Melanie Tauber Wieser with author’s mother in 1891

  Maximilian Rauch, “Papi”

  Map of the Ukraine, hand-drawn by author’s father

  “Russian village hut interior” (drawing by the author)

  “Two socks, two holes” (drawing by the author)

  “A holiday in Russia” (drawing by the author)

  The communications squad

  Konrad, Baby Schmidt, and the author

  “Endless journey” (drawing by the author)

  “Prisoners’ march” (drawing by the author)

  “Sleeping methods” at a POW camp (drawing by the author)

  “Self-portrait” (drawing by the author)

  “Marching west” (drawing by the author)

  “Man with bird” (drawing by the author, 1989)

  FOREWORD

  In 1984, exactly forty years after my husband’s Russian experience, he began writing this memoir. A chance event led to Georg’s opening the letters that he had written to his mother all those years before. Soon thereafter, Georg left his art studio (a rare event) and began to write. He wrote seven days a week, by hand on yellow legal pads, and read each day’s pages to me as we sat on the terrace of our home in Mexico, overlooking Lake Chapala, every afternoon. The next day I translated them into English.

  Georg was a total extrovert who loved to laugh and joke. He was a tireless raconteur and easily the center of attention at most social gatherings. Some of his war experiences also figured in his dinner party stories. I had heard the tale related in the early chapter “The Hardest Thing” a number of times before. But the afternoon he read this part of the book aloud to me on the terrace, he began to sob. It may have been the only time I ever saw him cry.

  Obviously, the ten years he spent after the war creating expressionist paintings featuring sad men, clowns, and harlequins had not quite achieved the cathartic results he had believed. There were still memories as well as feelings of grief, shame, guilt, and despair to be confronted and dealt with—this time not on a canvas, but in words. Only in retrospect do I understand that Georg’s intense days of writing were not just another example of his disciplined nature. He had to get it out. And he had to get it over with.

  Had I understood this more fully, I might not have chafed so much under his constant demands to see the English translation. Although I am fluent in German, I purchased two fat German dictionaries in order to deal with a completely new vocabulary, words about battles and weapons, uniforms and ranks. It was slogging, intense work, and sometimes we quarreled when he told me I wasn’t translating fast enough. Now, more than thirty years later, I understand much better what was fueling his demands.

  Georg sometimes gave an additional explanation for why he wrote the book. Many of his art collectors were Jewish. When we met these people, conversations often led to Georg’s history. He sensed that some people were perplexed, or worse, when they heard that he had been in Hitler’s army. He said he hoped by writing the book, he could set the record straight. Georg identified as Jewish. He knew and often quoted the fact that Jews adhere to the maternal line—which in his case was unbroken. His family members were treated as second-class citizens, and it was only the fact of his Aryan father’s prior war service that kept him and his mother out of the camps.

  The book in manuscript form was passed on to scores of friends and visitors to our B&B in Mexico. Many told us that Georg’s story needed telling more widely. We finally agreed, and in July of 2006, twenty-two years after he wrote the manuscript, we self-published a first edition of it ourselves. Georg lived another four months, until November.

  Seven years later, on the exact date of his passing, I was lighting the candles on my Mexican Day of the Dead altar, when the phone rang. It was my amazing, indefatigable literary agent, Emmanuelle Morgen. I heard her voice for the first time as she said, “I have some news for you.” I replied, “It has to be good.” Thus I learned that thanks to Emmanuelle, my thirty-year dream had come true. Our book was on its way to the world and the readership it deserved. My affection for my editor, Wesley Adams, began with his wholehearted (and continuing) enthusiasm for Georg’s book. I have come to appreciate his perfectionism, but also his willingness to compromise. He is a true gentleman, but best of all, he makes me smile. Could an author be any luckier?

  Georg Rauch believed that as long as you could laugh at something, its power to harm you was reduced. In his letters home from Russia, he often tried to find the funny side of things in what were, in reality, very unfunny situations. He takes the same approach in these pages, and the result is a unique tale of one clever, multitalented nineteen-year-old who rose above his situations, put his many wits to use, and survived to tell it all.

  —Phyllis Rauch

  MAJOR EVENTS ON THE EASTERN FRONT

  June 22, 1941

  Germans launch three-pronged attack on Russia; more than 3 million soldiers and 3,300 tanks cross Russian border; Luftwaffe (German air force) destroys more than 2,000 Russian air force planes.

  June 1941

  Germans take Minsk and Smolensk (on direct route to Moscow).

  September 1941

  Kiev falls to the Germans; 650,000 Russian soldiers captured.

  November
–December 1941

  Germans push toward Moscow, come to within 32 kilometers of city before being delayed by order from Hitler.

  January 1942

  Russians retake Kiev.

  May 1942

  240,000 Russians captured at Kharkov, in the eastern Ukraine.

  August 1942–February 1943

  Battle of Stalingrad; bloodiest battle in history, with more than 1.5 million casualties; tide turns in the war.

  July 1943

  Largest tank battle in history at Kursk, with about 2,700 German and 4,000 Russian tanks in action; Russians mount counteroffensive, driving German armies back toward their border.

  December 1943–July 1944

  Battles for control of the Ukraine intensify.

  • Georg Rauch arrives at front in battle near Znamenka, 240 kilometers southeast of Kiev, December 5.

  • Eight-day battle at Marianovka, south of Kiev, starting December 15.

  • Rout of Germans at Pervomaysk, on the river Bug, March 22.

  • River Dniester crossing and return to front lines, followed by period of quiet, April–July.

  June–August 1944

  German Army Group Center and German Army Group South destroyed in the Ukraine.

  July 1944

  Siege on Leningrad lifted; German Army Group North cut off in Baltic.

  August 1944

  Romania defeated, becomes Russian ally.

  • Georg Rauch receives Iron Cross following attack, mid-August.

  • Georg Rauch captured following second Russian attack, August 23.

  May 7, 1945

  Germany surrenders.

  PROLOGUE

  Our right hands stiffly raised, we repeated the words of the oath as they were pronounced: “And I solemnly swear to defend Führer, Volk, and Vaterland…”

  The morning of February 26, 1943, was bitter cold. Individual ice crystals dropped silently from the leaden, low-lying sky. It was too cold to snow.

  On a large barracks parade ground just outside Vienna, six hundred teenagers stood at attention, three abreast in a long column. We must have looked like oversized tin soldiers placed there for some child’s fantasy. Our boot heels were squeezed together; left palms were pressed to the seams of our trousers; chests were puffed out, stomachs sucked in, eyes staring straight ahead. We were smartly outfitted in the parade uniforms of the German Wehrmacht.

  The German soldier, Prussia’s pride and invention, was expected to be “tough as leather, hard as Krupp steel, and fleet as a greyhound,” but after only three weeks of basic training, we weren’t exactly the perfect prototypes.

  I can imagine that had he been there, Hitler wouldn’t have been very gratified to catch sight of me, since I definitely didn’t conform to his ideal type. I measured only five feet ten inches tall, and my hair was a wild tangle of black curls. My eyes looked green or gray, depending upon the light, and the rest of my features were decidedly non-Aryan. My physique boasted no broad shoulders or other impressive details, though I was slim and well-built for my size.

  On this particular day my large and curving nose was also red and runny, and my head was aching under the unaccustomed weight of the heavy iron helmet. My thoughts were no less heavy either. It wasn’t one of the happier moments of my young life.

  The small group of German officers administering the oath stood facing us on the snow-covered ground. Oberstleutnant Kraus, the commanding officer of the communications training section, had just completed his speech, raving about the inevitable victory of the German forces over capitalism and communism.

  We were all aware that Stalingrad had fallen and that Allied bombers were making cocky daylight raids on major German cities. I don’t believe any of us expected the outcome of the war could be changed by a miracle such as the Wunderwaffe, Hitler’s long-promised mystery missile that would ensure Germany’s victory. Inevitably, the ever more powerful Allied forces would finally bring Germany to its knees.

  Oberstleutnant Kraus, evidently having refused to recognize these facts, reminded us of our duty and described in glowing terms how thrilling it would be when we finally got the chance to split a Russian skull with our spades.

  The military band played “Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles,” and small clouds of steam from the musical instruments drifted skyward. A review company presented arms. As we were repeating the last words of the oath (“to defend Führer, Volk, and Vaterland, unto the death”) I noticed that two of the soldiers ahead of me had the index and middle fingers of their left hands crossed, just the way I did. I hoped that none of the officers were patrolling behind us, recording for future punishment the names of those taking refuge in that ancient childhood trick. We were adolescents, still playing at the game of war, but after just a few more months of training we would be expected to perform as men, to take the lives of strangers, on command, unquestioningly.

  PART 1

  Marching to battle

  SECRETS IN THE ATTIC

  I shined my boots to a mirror finish and polished my belt buckle. Then I rubbed gasoline on a tiny grease spot I had noticed on my uniform jacket. I was nervous. The other soldiers in the room had no idea of what I intended, why I was making such a fuss over my appearance when we were only scheduled to attend rifle practice on the shooting range.

  My heart thumping faster than usual, I left the barracks at five minutes before nine and marched across the enormous exercise grounds toward one of the administration buildings. The November fog hung in the leafless chestnut trees; a bell in one of the neighboring churches began to toll the hour.

  I had an appointment with the division commander, Oberstleutnant Poppinger, a man distinguished by his red nose swollen from French cognac and the gleaming Iron Cross that always hung around his fat neck. Considering what a tiny cog I represented in the gears of the huge German military machine, my request to see Poppinger was somewhat similar to demanding an audience with God himself.

  At 9:00 a.m. on November 10, 1943, I stood in front of Poppinger’s desk, facing both him and the large portrait of Adolf Hitler that hung on the wall at his back. My boot heels clicked smartly together, my right hand snapped a lightning salute to the edge of my cap, and, in the overloud voice decreed by the German army, I yelled at Poppinger, “Funker Rauch reporting, sir!”

  “At ease. And what does he have on his mind?” Poppinger lounged behind his desk, regarding me with an expression that could almost be described as benevolent.

  Thereupon I bellowed the sentence that I had been framing in my mind for weeks. “Funker Rauch wishes to be permitted to report that he cannot be an officer in the German Wehrmacht.”

  With an astonished, almost idiotic expression on his face, the lieutenant colonel sputtered, “Are you crazy? Did I hear you correctly?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant!”

  Poppinger, who was almost a head taller than I, stood up. His face was becoming crimson. He came around the desk to stand directly in front of me and snarled, “We decide who will be an officer in the German Wehrmacht. Whoever refuses to serve his fatherland as an officer, once we have deemed him acceptable, is a traitor.”

  Turning toward the door where the orderly was standing, he said, as though seeking support, “The man isn’t in his right mind. Denial of his abilities to serve his country as an officer—that’s high treason!”

  By this time, his voice had risen almost to a screech. With a visible attempt to regain control of himself, he returned to his chair, sat down, took a drink of water, and continued in a more factual tone, “I demand an explanation.”

  Again I clicked my heels together. As though charged by an electric shock, I pressed my hands flat against my thighs and shouted once again, “I don’t feel able to become an officer in the German army because I have Jewish blood.”

  Poppinger sprang up, his face almost purple, and blurted out, “What did he say?”

  “I have a Jewish grandmother.”

  “Mensch, how did you get her
e in the first place? Jewish grandmother! You must be completely mad.”

  He motioned the orderly to his side and, after a few whispered sentences, turned again to me and said simply, “Dismissed.”

  The orderly took me to his office, where I explained in a considerably calmer atmosphere that I had included the fact of my having a Jewish ancestor in the personal data I had submitted when I was drafted. He dismissed me then, and I returned to my barracks.

  When I reentered my room, it was empty. The bunk beds were all perfectly spread. The straw mattresses had been shaken; on each bed two gray blankets were folded as though with a measuring tape and carefully laid over the rough, tightly stretched sheets, and all pillows were positioned in exactly the correct spot at the exact specified angle. The smell of Lysol was pervasive.

  I had no idea what would happen next as a result of my interview with Poppinger; nonetheless, I felt relieved. I climbed up to my bunk and stretched out, deciding to enjoy the unexpected bonus of a few free hours to myself until the rest of my bunkmates returned from exercises.

  * * *

  Lying there, I reviewed the events of my military existence up until now. How utterly hopeless I had felt the day that a draft notice finally appeared in our mailbox! Though I was used to enjoying the deep, dreamless sleep of the young, that night I lay awake for long hours thinking of where I could hide myself so I would not have to become a German soldier.

  I knew it was hopeless. Hadn’t I already gnawed at the problem for a whole year while pedaling my bicycle hundreds of kilometers through the Austrian Alps? That perfect place where I could be taken in, fed, and kept warm and safe while all of Europe tried to annihilate itself did not, unfortunately, exist.

  On one of those summer trips in the Austrian Alps, still hoping to find a way to evade the draft.