The Accidental Anarchist (9 page)

Suddenly, Glasnik gagged, and spit out his mouthful, accidentally splashing one of the nearby customers. I saw now that all of them had been waiting for an opportunity to start a fight. They crowded us into a corner. As I reached for my revolver, the owner of the restaurant forced himself between us and seemed to warn the others we were armed.

I suggested to Glasnik that we leave. My typically meek friend said not until he had beaten up the Chinaman who had started the fight. But I had seen the flash of knives in the dimly lit room, and managed to convince him that some of those people were probably bandits, and we’d be lucky to get out of there alive. We edged back towards the door like cowboys, holding our revolvers pointed at the crowd.

Outside, in the smudged gray dawn, I saw some Russian-looking men at the end of the street, and ran toward them. They took one look at us and turned to run away. We had to chase them for several blocks before I could corner them and ask if they knew of a synagogue in town.

One of the men replied in Yiddish that he didn’t know about a synagogue, but a Jewish-owned restaurant was not far away; we could inquire there.

Glasnik and I brightened at the thought of a hot Jewish meal after the fast or before if, as he insisted, I was wrong about the date. We raced in the direction the man had indicated.

Before we found a restaurant, we came upon a building that was unmistakably a synagogue. We were just in time to see the cantor mount the pulpit and hoarsely announce that he had caught cold, and therefore his prayers would not be up to their usual standard. When he started to sing, I suspected that he would not have done much better without a cold. Still, he was the
shaliach tzibur
, the “intermediary of the community,” and if the words that came groaning out of his mouth satisfied the Almighty, who was I to complain?

Starved, exhausted, and muddy as we were, we had achieved our goal. It made all of the hardships of the night before worthwhile. Heaven surely would take note of the trouble to which we had gone. That was when I felt Glasnik nudging me, guiding my eye.

I looked around and saw no sign of Avrohom. But there were at least one hundred soldiers from our regiment. Instead of setting out blindly the night before, they had arrived just ahead of us, clean, well-rested, with a good dinner under their belts, proper authorization, and even a guide to show them the way. Glasnik gave me a ferocious look.

I felt no envy at their neat, unruffled appearance, for when the moment came to cry out to the Almighty that I stood before Him, crushed and confounded, “having gone astray and led astray,” no tears in all of Manchuria could have been more wholehearted than mine.

Chapter 8.
Banzai
!

By now it was deep winter, probably close to
Chanukah
. After a mere three months in the bitter Manchurian wilderness, our regiment had lost more than three-quarters of its men. There was no longer a front line to speak of. It seemed as though the Japanese were everywhere. Even our officers were eager to pull us back.

But that was not so simple. Though our company had tried not to end up as the Rear Guard, we now came under steady bombardment. Defensive actions had to be taken to protect the main body, or what was left of it. This time, enemy fire killed many officers. I suppose, having always been pampered, they found it difficult to cower and grovel in muddy holes and trenches like the rest of us.

Luckily for us, the enemy, acting out of some crazy Japanese notion of neatness, had paused to reorganize instead of staying on our backs and finishing us off.

Replacements belatedly started to arrive from Harbin. Among them was Vasiliev, our new company commander. He was a tall and handsome Muscovite landowner, who appeared to take it as a personal affront that a good percentage of the men in his company were Jewish. He was in no position to transfer us, but we soon found out he had other ways of reducing the burden we placed upon his tolerance.

One of our new commander’s first official acts was to place me in charge of a post in a desolate stretch of forest where, several times in the past, the Japanese had crept up in the darkness, and killed and mutilated our sleepy, half-starved sentries. With me, he sent three other Jews and one new Russian boy, presumably to keep us from talking too freely.

I could see already what we had here, and I wasted no breath complaining. I did, however, ask him for a machine gun to help keep us from being overrun in a surprise attack.

He gave me a condescending look and said, “Just go and do what you’re told.”

“I need a machine gun. If you’ll come with us, I can show you why.”

“You think I’ve nothing better to do? I know you Jews. You’ll fall asleep and we’ll lose the gun.”

I tried to control my voice. “Without the gun, you may lose five men.”

“Four less of you to deal with after the war,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

This confirmed my suspicion that we didn’t have a friend in this new
Vanya
, but what he said was nothing more than government policy at the time. For some reason, it didn’t occur to this genius that if we were killed, the entire camp would be endangered.

After supper, we proceeded to our isolated post, holding on to each other’s belts in the darkness. Our spirits were not exactly glowing. We knew that if we ran into trouble, we would be entirely on our own. But at least our shift was only for two hours.

We settled in with our meager five rifles poised on rotting sandbags. Seeing my look of disgust, Glasnik said, “Just wait until the next time the whole company comes under attack. One of us will see to it that our captain dies a hero’s death.”

I told him sharply in Yiddish to shut up; there was a
Vanya
among us. The new boy promptly answered in Yiddish, “I’m as much of a
Vanya
as you are.”

I was doubtful. Many Russian peasants were fluent in Yiddish. I asked him to show me his tzitzis, the biblically commanded fringes that, during the war, were often worn even by non-observant Jews, if only to identify their bodies for a Jewish burial. He opened two buttons on his tunic, and we all relaxed.

The new boy told us he had known this officer for the last three months. He always sent his Jewish soldiers to the point of greatest danger, and with the same friendly explanation he had given me.

I looked at Glasnik. “Just wait,” he said with a wink. It was probably idle talk, but I felt comforted. Although I didn’t know if I could do it myself, I had no doubt that this type of officer deserved to be killed out of pure self-defense because he was clearly prepared, night after night, to give the Jews under his command the most dangerous assignments until he was rid of us all.

We watched, and listened, and waited. After three hours, no one had come to relieve us. Somehow, I was not surprised. But it was too dangerous to send one man back to seek our replacements, and more dangerous to leave only one man on guard. For all of us to go would have meant deserting our post, which might have been what our company commander was counting on. Finally, well past midnight, some shadows appeared. Upon being challenged, they gruffly gave us the password. Our replacements were Russian. They had a machine gun.

Too tired to go back to camp, we fell asleep in a nearby trench. A while later, we were awakened by sharp automatic fire. Our relief, it seemed, had all fallen asleep and one of them had been stabbed to death. But the attack consisted of only three Japanese, one of whom was killed by the machine gun; the second was wounded, and the third had surrendered. At daybreak, we marched back to camp with the two captives.

The wounded man gestured and pleaded pitiably. He seemed to be offering to tell us anything we wanted to know if only we would let him live. Someone went looking for an interpreter.

Meanwhile, our commander arrived on horseback, flashing his drawn saber and grinning like a sportsman at the two Japanese, who sank to the ground and started to plead. Vasiliev asked for volunteers to behead the captives. Most of the Jewish boys turned away in disgust. But the response was so enthusiastic from the other soldiers that the only solution would have been to draw lots. In the end, the commander decided he wanted to do the job, himself.

A stake was driven into the ground and the captives were tied to it in a manner that left their heads exposed. They were no longer pleading, but all my nerve endings could feel the hatred in their eyes.

Our commander drew back far enough to give his horse a running start. Now, with a shout of joy, he came galloping toward the stake. One slash and both heads plopped to the ground. Some of the men started a make-believe football game with one of the heads, while the other was retrieved by a group doing a Cossack dance, while skillfully tossing the head from hand to hand.

I turned away, not wanting to watch any more. But I could tell that I had already become hardened because I felt no more than a mild twinge of disgust.

The next morning our retreat continued, although I was no longer sure we were heading in the right direction. Day and night, the sky was so thick with clouds of snow that we had neither sun nor stars to guide us. Nothing but our officers’ doubtful ability to read their maps and compasses.

Though in retreat, we were still under orders to stop and fight, even counterattack, whenever conditions were favorable, to slow the enemy’s advance toward Mukden. Even now our company commander acted as though we were heading into battle instead of running away from it. For days no one had mentioned killing him. We were far too tired, and he was far too alert.

Glasnik reported the latest rumor. Alexei Kuropatkin, our Minister of War, himself, was standing on one of the nearby hills to make a firsthand survey of the situation. It was said that he might take personal charge of coordinating our strategy. Strategy! I didn't know who was more foolish, our own proud General Zasulich, who was willing to suffer huge losses rather than retreat in time, or Kuropatkin with his policy: “No battle before we are in superior force.” That would have suited me fine, except that the Japanese refused to cooperate, even though we outnumbered them four to one.

By the next day, the Japanese had finished regrouping and came after us in full force. Their artillery had found our range, which meant their forward observers must have been quite close, yet we never spotted them.

Since our group was closest to the enemy, we had to run the fastest. But I could see that our commander was looking for terrain on which he could halt us to stage a heroic Rear Guard action. Apparently, he feared he might never again get as good an opportunity to make a name for himself.

Even as darkness fell, the accurate shelling of the Japanese didn’t let up. We kept running. Toward dawn, a messenger rode up with an order from headquarters: Stop and make a stand.

Our company commander was justly angry. Here the terrain was flat and almost indefensible. The ground was also icy and rocky – impossible conditions for digging trenches. We had passed up far better positions, to which it was now too late to return. But headquarters was adamant. The enemy was advancing too quickly. Time had to be gained to reinforce Mukden. We were ordered to build ramparts out of frozen corpses, the only material in abundant supply.

During the night, while small, Japanese units leapfrogged toward us in quick, terrifying spurts, the trench wall in front of me unexpectedly collapsed. It seemed that one of the frozen bodies was not yet dead, and had moved his legs.

Before we could think of repairing the breach, our commander ordered us to counterattack. If we had been fresh troops, properly equipped with normal artillery support, reserves, and enough ammunition, we might well have been able to give the enemy a bloody nose. But most of us were totally spent, and wanted no part of this mad scheme.

Seeing this, a sensible officer would have pulled in his horns. It was dead plain that we were in no condition to be inspired or threatened. But our commander was not one to take “No” for an answer. He worked himself into an almost insane fury, and began firing his revolver at those who made no move to get into position.

Several men were hit, and the rest jumped to obey. Glasnik whispered, “We should have shot him during the last bombardment.”

I, just as angry, vowed, “He’ll never see Russia again.”

The Japanese were now firmly entrenched behind our own abandoned line of barbed wire. By the time we were set to counterattack, it was daybreak. When the sun came up, it would be directly in our eyes, casting a blinding spotlight on us. The whole enterprise was sheer lunacy, and I foolishly assumed that even our commander would have sense enough to call it off.

He wouldn’t dream of it. What’s more, he now ordered me to take five men with wire cutters and open a breach in the barbed wire.

I told him, “It’s too light already. We’ll never reach the barbed wire.”

He reloaded his revolver, waved it in my face, and shouted, “Go on, Jew, before I make an example of you.” It was either obey or get shot.

I looked at the other soldiers. Like sheep, they were ready to go, more afraid of his revolver than of the Japanese machine guns. I blindly picked five men, and led the way without even bothering to see if they were following me.

My prediction turned out to have been too pessimistic. By inching forward on my stomach, I reached the barbed wire, but I knew that the moment I rose up to cut it, I’d be an easy target. Still, now that I was here, what else should I do?