Authors: Georg Rauch
Unlikely Warrior (2 page)
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.
Marching to battle
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 here 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.
Regardless of where I might turn up in my civilian clothes, as an obviously healthy young man I would immediately be asked for my papers. Men between the ages of eighteen and sixty and out of uniform were practically nonexistent. World War II had snatched up every man who might possibly be able to carry a weapon.
On the day I reported for duty to the
Kaserne
(barracks) in Vienna, I filled out all the forms, listing my education in a technical school as well as six years of instruction in French and my hobbies, such as radio building. I also indicated my familiarity with Morse code, at that time the only means of wireless communication.
As a result, the Germans permitted me to choose the branch of service I preferred. I chose the infantry, thereby proving my complete idiocy as far as my friends and family members were concerned. After all, most other branches of the service were cleaner and more comfortable: the air force, the navy, and even the tank corps.
Although I was well aware that soldiers in the infantry had to endure great hardships, my instinctive decision was based on one essential fact: in an all-out war such as this one, I didn’t want to be caught sitting helplessly in any kind of iron box, expecting it to explode from a grenade, torpedo, or mine hit. The ground, where a fellow could run or hide, seemed a lot more secure to me. If I could dig fast enough and deep enough, I still might have a chance, if worse came to worst.
The camp on the outskirts of Vienna where I received my basic training as a telegraphist, or
Funker
, was an ugly complex of three-storied gray buildings that looked as though they hadn’t been painted or renovated since the days of the monarchy. We sweated through most of our first weeks on the parade ground, mastering the fine art of Prussian drilling from dawn to sunset.
Soon we were so well-trained that we carried out most commands more or less automatically, and we began to spend more time on our specialization: the installation and use of shortwave sets and telephones. The training came easily to me, as I enjoyed anything having to do with electrical apparatus.
My transition from playful adolescent to disciplined soldier was far from simple, though. The offspring of doctors and architects, I had grown up with the assurance that my opinion would always be heard and at least considered. I found it particularly difficult, therefore, to follow orders that often seemed illogical, serving only to produce a completely submissive subject who could be depended upon to obey without the slightest objection. One of our training officer’s favorite sayings was “Leave the thinking to the horses. They have larger heads.”
On three separate occasions I was locked up for minor offenses: failure to salute an officer, unauthorized absence from the barracks, and going back to bed while the others were out huffing and puffing on the drill grounds. But something a little more serious occurred during one of our weekly field exercises.
That lovely May morning, two companies from my camp took the red and white Viennese streetcars to a small mountain north of the city, the Bisamberg. Carrying our spades and rifles, bedecked with all the other equipment and gadgets, and wearing our gas masks, we were hounded, sweating and panting, up one side of the mountain. On the summit, without even having had a chance to catch our breath, those of us in Company Red were ordered to begin fighting Company Blue, which came rushing at us from the opposite side.
Through beautiful spring meadows filled with tender flowers and grasses reaching to our hips, we stormed the other company’s position, fell back, and attacked again. Back and forth we went, bullied by constant shouts of “Hit the dirt! Get up! Crawl! Attack!” until noon, when we flopped down, exhausted, to wait for the next assault command.