by Georg Rauch
It had finally caught up with me, after all. I had no idea whether my chance of survival was any better here in the infirmary than at Balti, where so many had died. My body wasn’t in the best condition for withstanding a serious illness. I hadn’t the slightest bit of fat under my skin, and my bones jutted out sharply all over. In any event, I didn’t intend to give up easily, now that I was finally in an organized camp with no more shooting, where my only obligation was to survive until the time came to send me home!
The orderly took me back to the small room. The beds had iron frames. On these, three boards bent or sagging in different degrees and directions supported a thin and lumpy cotton mattress. The German orderly tried to find three boards curved more or less to the same degree for my bed. Then, to the general astonishment of the other patients, he laid two mattresses on top and gave me two relatively serviceable blankets. All the others lay two to a bed and shared one blanket. It must help to know a captain, I thought.
The other patients didn’t speak to me, and the atmosphere was tense and strange. I felt so terrible that I really didn’t care. I was dozing in my almost comfortable bed, when suddenly a man in a white apron appeared beside me. It was the cook from the camp kitchen. He looked down at me and asked, “What do you want to eat?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I said. “Is it some kind of bad joke, or what?”
“I have orders to bring to you anything that is in the kitchen, at any time of day, in any amount, prepared any way you wish.”
That hit like a bomb. I glanced helplessly around the room, taking in all the amazed expressions. After a few seconds I recovered and said quietly, “Oatmeal with milk would be wonderful.”
The cook didn’t seem particularly happy about my exceptional position. He left abruptly, and half an hour later a different aproned person brought what I had requested. I ate it with a guilty conscience. The mood in the little room was very heavy and still. Then I fell asleep.
When I woke up I thought at first I must have dreamed it all. But there, next to me, stood the empty porridge bowl. Was this unusual treatment only because I had worked for two weeks for Captain Pushkin? I recalled our many conversations in his office.
Once he had asked me, “Why, with your Jewish blood, did you become a soldier in the German army?”
“I couldn’t find any way out, any way of not becoming a soldier,” I had replied. “A city boy, nineteen years old, with no money, where could I have gone?”
“Why didn’t you come over to our side?”
“We were told that you took no prisoners, that all who surrendered would be shot.”
“But you are now a prisoner, and we didn’t shoot you.”
“I didn’t know that then.”
Another time we had almost gotten into an argument because we disagreed about which museum contained a particular painting by Brueghel.
Perhaps he simply valued me as a person, regardless of my age, nationality, or status as the enemy, and that’s why he was bringing his influence as a Russian officer to bear on my situation.
It had only cost him a few words, the three minutes he had spoken with the head doctor. I let it go at that and decided not to think about it anymore. An old Jewish saying came to mind: “If you are offered something, then take it. If something is taken from you, then yell!”
The days passed, and my condition remained the same, with fever, pain, and dark blood in my stool. I could barely get down a spoonful of what I ordered to eat, so the doctor prescribed a large daily injection of glucose and vitamin pills. All of these special medications originated in the United States of America, as well as a hypodermic syringe with cracked glass. It had only one needle, which had to be boiled over and over again.
I became accustomed to my preferential treatment, and the other patients cautiously began including me in their conversations. They ate their cabbage soup, millet gruel, and gluey black bread while I continued to receive my light and special diet, the only one in the entire camp to the best of my knowledge.
When I began to feel somewhat better, I ordered considerably more than I was able to eat myself and shared it with the others in the room. They thought I was a distant relation of the captain’s Austrian wife, and I neither corrected nor confirmed that impression. On the twenty-fourth of December, the orderlies brought in a little pine tree and set it up near the door leading to the doctors’ room. They decorated it with pieces of colored paper and attached a few of the empty glass glucose ampoules. These, filled with sunflower oil and lit, took the place of the traditional candles.
When evening fell the candles were lit, and a group of prisoners strolled from room to room singing German Christmas carols. I felt my throat tighten, pulled my blankets over my head, and sobbed into my pillow. Would I ever be able to spend another Christmas at home?
Why was Christmas such a special day for me? No one in my family went to church or to a synagogue. Not even my grandmother had been a practicing Jew, as far as I knew. We observed neither the Christian nor the Jewish holidays. But in spite of that, the twenty-fourth of December had been the day that we all looked forward to from earliest childhood.
Was it because of the presents? Or was it all the mysterious goings-on until, at dusk, our parents finally led us into the parlor that had been locked all day long and we stood, wide-eyed, singing “Silent Night” in front of the enormous fir tree blazing with two hundred real candles? It was certainly the day when families got together if at all possible, a family celebration.
Even though my mother did not attend any church, she wasn’t an unbeliever. She believed in something that she could define only for herself, for which there existed no dogma, no rituals in church or synagogue. She studied many theological books and was fascinated by the great physicists such as Werner Heisenberg and Max Planck who, with their findings, seemed to come so close to the connection between science and religion.
Now, in my wobbly bed in Russia, I would have given a great deal to have one of those books that she had always recommended to me but I had never read. I had preferred going out to paint another tree or invent a still more complicated alarm system. I thought all this over while the voices of the carolers became fainter as they moved on to more distant rooms.
A few days after Christmas I was provided with rather different reading material when Captain Pushkin brought me some books by Lenin, Marx, and Engels, as well as a few issues of the German newspaper printed in Russia, Freies Deutschland.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked. “You look as though the worst is already behind you.”
“I still feel very weak,” I answered, “but I am much better. The fever and the pains are both gone.”
“Do you feel strong enough to come to my office tomorrow?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll send a soldier over for you tomorrow morning at ten.”
The soldier arrived punctually the next day and accompanied me to where the captain and two other high-ranking officers were waiting. One of them told me to sit down, and he began reading from a piece of paper while Captain Pushkin translated for me.
“Your name is Georg Rauch? You are an Austrian of Jewish descent and twenty years old?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
“During your basic training you worked for a few months at the automobile factory in Chemnitz?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
“According to the information I have received concerning you, I believe that you are qualified to work for Russia, to help us end the war as soon as possible. This is an offer, and you have two days to think it over. If you decide to accept, we shall see to it that you become well again as soon as possible and then we will send you home.
“We will inform you at a later date what you can do for us when you are back in Vienna. Primarily it will concern certain information that we need in order to coordinate our activities. We will expect your answer the day after tomorrow, at the same hour. That is
all for today.”
Captain Pushkin smiled at me kindly, and I returned to my bed to do some heavy thinking. Spies are people who betray their fatherland, who are eventually caught and shot. That much I knew from German books and movies. I had never thought much about it, but my intuition told me that everything to do with espionage was nasty, dangerous, deceitful, and generally unpleasant! What’s more, I had the impression that once one had become mixed up in such things, it was impossible ever to get out again.
Suddenly it became all too clear to me why I had received such very special treatment. My services were required. The only thing I couldn’t understand was why me in particular, the only one in thousands? But was I the only one? At any rate, I didn’t know any others who received diet on demand or glucose injections. I was flattered, but very uncertain whether I really wanted this honor.
By now I had been able to observe that most of the sick men in the hospital didn’t ever recover. Most of them died after a few weeks, especially those who developed bloody stools or spit up blood when they coughed.
I didn’t have to be a doctor to see that most of the patients simply starved to death. They could no more digest the sticky, sour black bread than they could the coarse cabbage soup. They got nutritional edema, water in the legs, which slowly ascended higher in their bodies until it finally filled their chests and squeezed their hearts. I could hear them rattling in the night.
Extra medicine didn’t seem available for anyone else, either. Not that I thought they would let me die on purpose, but after all, Russia had a war to win and needed medicine for her own people, especially if they had so little that they had to get the most basic medicines, and even vitamin pills, from the United States.
There had obviously been plans to recruit me as a spy for some time. Captain Pushkin was the one who had provided higher officials with the details. From the moment I was delivered to the hospital, I had been allotted special treatment—the double mattresses and blankets, the special diet, medicines, the books and newspapers.
What if I refused the offer? All of the special treatment surely would be discontinued immediately, and in a few weeks I would kick the bucket, just like all the rest. But what if I said yes? The newspapers I was reading were full of the continuing Russian victories and the successful advances of the Allied invasion. How much longer could the war go on? How long would it be until the Germans were crushed in their own country by the hard-pressing superior forces?
By the time I could be brought back to health, had completed something like basic spy training, and had been smuggled behind the German lines, surely it would all be over anyway. And I would be alive. To say no obviously meant to be dead. What’s more, I didn’t want the Germans to win the war anyway.
I thought of the Jews in the attic and of what my mother would say when her son returned as a spy. That is, if she were still alive after all those devastating bomb attacks. I remembered again the banner slogan, “Might comes before Right,” that had made my mother so angry. What was right must always come before anything else, she had said. In this sense it wasn’t even a disgrace to help out as a spy in order to bring an end to the National Socialistic system as soon as possible.
Two days later, on December 30, I told the secret service officer that I had decided to accept the offer.
“Karascho,” he replied, as though he had never expected that I would decide otherwise. Then he continued, “For the time being you will remain lying in the same room, and your first mission, if you want to interpret it that way, will be to find out which of the other patients in your room were members of the Nazi Party. Your cover will be ‘Flussman.’ In a little while—let’s say two weeks—when someone comes up and addresses you by that name, you will tell him what you have discovered. Nothing in writing, please. You may go now.”
ENCOUNTER WITH A SPOON
New Year’s Day we had to walk across the icy courtyard from the hospital to the sauna. We wrapped our blankets around our shoulders but were barefoot. The following day I was running a fever again, and the day after that it hurt to breathe. The doctor informed me that I had pneumonia. An hour later I overheard from the adjoining room a loud discussion between him and Captain Pushkin. “Why wasn’t he given shoes before going to the sauna?” Pushkin demanded. “Why is his room so cold?”
Within the hour orderlies brought extra coal and heated up the little oven until it glowed. The next day I was taken by car to the main prisoner-of-war hospital in Kiev. It was a three-story building with real windows and large tile stoves in each room.
Captain Pushkin came the same day, bringing with him a white-haired civilian. Dr. Petrovsky was an internist who gave me an examination, complete with all possible tapping, thumping, pressing, and listening. The Russian head doctor from the hospital and two German doctors stood next to my bed while the nineteen other patients watched, astonished at all the excitement and fuss being made over the health of one prisoner.
Dr. Petrovsky prescribed banki, and a Russian nurse brought these shortly after everyone else had left. On a tray next to a Bunsen burner lay fifteen hollow balls made of thick glass, about the size of small apples. Each had an opening approximately one and a half inches in diameter.
I was told to lie on my stomach. The nurse held each glass ball for a few seconds over the flame of the burner until the air inside became hot. Then she pressed it against my back, holding it there until the air inside had cooled somewhat, making a vacuum and sucking my skin inside. Blood was drawn to the surface for a supposedly therapeutic effect. It was a painful procedure.
After fifteen minutes the balls were pulled off, and this was no less painful as the air filled the vacuum with a smacking sound. I was covered with blue and purple splotches, plus blisters wherever the edges of the glasses had been a few degrees too hot when they made contact with my skin. The whole procedure was repeated each afternoon for ten days.
Evidently a report of my unusual status had traveled with me to the new hospital, for soon after my arrival the cook came asking what he could do for me in the kitchen. Again, the others in the room were struck dumb, but this time I was in such bad shape with fever and pain that I only took note of such minor details at the periphery of my general misery.
The mood in the room was very oppressive, above all because most of the men were seriously ill. Every day one or two of them died. Some of the patients moaned and complained unceasingly. Others whimpered quietly. A few drank water by the liter, and when water wasn’t available, they drank their own urine in order to still the burning thirst produced by the dysentery and their inflamed intestines.
Physically, I wasn’t one bit better off than the others. The mere act of breathing led to stabbing pains in my chest. I was too weak to attend to the calls of nature without help, and the flies crawled shamelessly over my face and into my mouth when I opened it. I was delirious for long periods, had no appetite and could barely eat, and still suffered heavy diarrhea. The glucose injections provided my main nourishment.
Perhaps it was my periodic fever fantasies that led to the idea of trying to make my mind the object of an experiment in self-distraction. With my eyes closed, in order to shut out the noise of the others, I went “inside.”
Since my childhood I had possessed this wonderful place of escape to which I could retreat whenever I found my surroundings or a particular situation unsatisfying. Now, in Russia, I retreated to that special place in order to find out whether it could provide me with distraction and alleviation of my pains. With the nonphysical part of me, I left my poor miserable body and went, like a guest, to visit myself. The importance and happiness of this state came from the realization that no one, absolutely no one, could follow me there. In my place of retreat I was not subservient to any rules. No one could give me orders or attempt to influence my thoughts—a wonderful thing when one considers that in my life up until then, I had always been expected to carry out the commands of others.
As a child my complete obedience had b
een expected as a matter of course. Later, in addition to my parents’ expectations, I had those of the school, where there was the eternal threat of having to repeat a year. This was followed by military service and new, more radical demands, including the demand to kill other human beings. And in the prison camp, my last little scrap of independence and freedom had been taken away. I was now reduced to a pitiful bundle of humanity, in a bed of pain, without the slightest physical or mental freedom. Or, perhaps not?
When I gazed inward, I usually could perceive a room. In the room I envisioned myself as a completely healthy being. Directly in front of me was a light-colored wall upon which I could project a relatively clear image of a particular landscape or some person or thing. I could build complicated pieces of machinery in my mind, let them run, and then correct their mistakes. Once, as a five-year-old, after hours of such mental fantasizing, I had marched to my Matador building set and proceeded to build an automat that popped out a sugar cube when a small coin was inserted. My mental constructions usually functioned perfectly.
By analyzing, I discovered that the light in my imaginary room always came from above. It was as though the ceiling consisted of milky glass through which the light streamed. There were no walls to the left and right, but rather slightly darkened areas in which abstract cupboards containing all that I had hitherto experienced in my life were located. Whenever necessary, I could draw from there whatever constructive thoughts I needed regarding experiences, data, and feelings. The most important implements seemed always to come from the left side of the room, and for this reason I regarded the right side as the darker one.
Additional rooms under me related to my past life. They seemed to build a tower of dark walls, with one room placed on top of the next but no connecting stairways. In the same manner, I sensed a room above, but I had no idea what it was like or when I would be able to move up. That I would eventually get there, however, seemed a certainty. Up there, in my mental room, there was no pain and seldom a disappointment. In those dark days of my need and weakness, I was able to create a certain small amount of strength just by ascending into my little room to observe with great interest my own emaciated body. “Just how long will that poor devil down there be able to hold out?” was a favorite question, one without the slightest feeling of fear that suddenly the poor devil’s heart might stop beating and everything would be all over.
