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Rolf sits atop a steel toolbox in the back of an Opel Maultier truck. He looks down at his boots, and then at his MP-40. He slides back the action to check for debris – any small piece of dirt or grime being the difference between life and death. The steel-stamped submachine gun was a trusty arm for Germans rolling through Belgium, but in the swampy, Russian countryside amidst the infamous Rasputitsa, it’s a futile machine – more adept as a blunt instrument than a firearm.
Slavic women and children throw rocks at the convoy as they pass through their quaint village. They scream “Уходи!” Go away! And “Сдохните, свиньи!” Die, you pigs! At the soldiers with open roofs. Initially, the officers chalked off their verbal rebellion by drawing comparison to the pacification of Gaul. But as the campaign continued, they grew further infuriated by their discontent. It was no longer uncommon for one of Rolf’s superiors to stop the convoy, and execute the villagers for their mockery. He was often relieved to come upon a village razed by the Red Army, or rooted with mines, rather than be met with the inevitable massacre of civilians – which he would take no part of.
Rolf, despite being in the Wehrmacht through three campaigns, kept a monumental secret. It wasn’t that he’d never actually killed anybody, nor that he found Adolf Hitler an incompetent leader. It was that – despite his status in the German army – he was Jewish. In fact, his name wasn’t even Rolf – it was Radowit Chosak.
He had assumed Rolf’s identity during a German hunt in his family’s village outside of Warsaw. Rolf, an SS Lieutenant, had gone into Radowit’s cousin’s house to check for Jewish fugitives. All went well until Radowit’s sister – an infant – began crying beneath the floorboards. But his cousin had been prepared for this. A swift shot to the skull from a suppressed Nagant 1895 revolver made short work of Lieutenant Rolf. The problem was, within his pocket lay a deployment redirection order. Lieutenant Rolf was to regroup with German Heeresgruppe Nord, where they would head an assault towards Moscow. It was unlikely that they would ignore a Lieutenant gone AWOL. So, Radowit hailing from Berlin, agreed to don the Lieutenant’s disguise. He knew this was unlikely to end in his favor, so he carefully assembled a plan.
Now, as Radowit sits in the back of the Opel transport he checks his watch – careful not to reveal the number further up his forearm. Fifteen minutes until his corp enters Shlisselburg to reinforce Heeresgruppe Nord. He stands up and carefully examines his surroundings. The convoy is flanked on either side by dense, swampy treelines. With every wheel rotation of the Opel, he swears to see shifting in the bushes, and the reflection of rifles in the sun-exposed patches.
“Ich kann’s kaum erwarten, ein paar bolschewistische Judenfreunde abzuknallen.” Can’t wait to kill some Jew-loving Bolsheviks, says the Sergeant next to Radowit. The men around the Opel begin to laugh, and a private chimes in, “Nächsten Sommer wird die Landschaft nach Auschwitz riechen.” Next summer, the landscape will smell of Auschwitz. The men chuckle again, but the Sergeant interjects, “Verbrannte Juden? Mir wär’ Bratwurst lieber.” Burnt Jews? I prefer the smell of bratwurst. The men give out a final laugh, then a sigh of relief. Radowit stands above them, glaring at the Sergeant – whose face is still gleaming with joy. The Sergeant scans around to gauge everyone’s reaction, then makes contact with Radowit.
“Was ist los, Herr Leutnant? War Ihre Mutter Jüdin?” What’s the matter, Lieutenant? Was your mother a Jew? Radowit remains stoic, shakes his head, and sits down. The Sergeant pulls out a cigarette from his breast pocket, lights it, and inhales. As the smoke stacks escape his mouth, he begins to speak once more.
“Leutnant Rolf, wenn ich so darüber nachdenke, kann ich mich nicht erinnern, Sie jemals Ihr Schweinefleisch essen gesehen zu haben.” Lieutenant Rolf, come to think of it, I can’t remember you ever eating your pork rations. Radowit gives him a side-eyed glare and feels his foot around the floor for the MP-40. He responds, “Ich bin der Sohn eines Rindfleischbauern. Ich habe nie Gefallen an Schweinefleisch gefunden, Herr Feldwebel.” I am the son of a beef farmer. I’ve never enjoyed pork, Sergeant. The officer flicks his cigarette to the side, then perches it between his lips. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bundle of folded papers.
“Ich erinnere mich an diese Geschichte, Herr Leutnant. Aber sehen Sie, Ihre Papiere haben mich daran erinnert, dass Sie aus Berlin kommen. ” I remember this story, Lieutenant. But, you see, your papers reminded me that you come from Berlin. The Sergeant leans forward, reading Rolf’s papers, and continues.
“Als SS-Feldwebel habe ich mich mit den Gegebenheiten in der Umgebung von Berlin vertraut gemacht.” As an SS Sergeant, I familiarized myself with the conditions in the Berlin area. He pulls out a personal notebook of his, which holds a small map of the Berlin region.
“Sie, Leutnant, sind von hier” You, Lieutenant, are from here. Radowit becomes tense. The Sergeant points to Kreuzberg, Berlin. His finger glides south, “Und die nächstgelegene Rinderfarm liegt… dreißig Kilometer weiter südlich.” And the nearest cattle farm is… thirty kilometers further south. Radowit looks to the officer, nods his head, and frowns, saying “Ich lebe nicht bei meinen Eltern, Herr Feldwebel, weil sie vor zwei Wintern gestorben sind.” I don’t live with my parents, Sergeant, because they died two winters ago. The officer returns the frown and slowly nods toward Radowit. He takes one long puff from his cigarette, expending it to the butt, and flicks it off the truck.
“Ich entschuldige mich, Herr Leutnant. Ich tue nur meine Pflicht, um sicherzustellen, dass jeder Deutsche leidenschaftlich der Vision des Führers folgt.” I apologize, Lieutenant. I am only doing my duty to ensure that every German passionately follows the Führer’s vision. Says the Sergeant. He puts the papers back into his coat pocket and continues.
“Es ist vermessen von mir, einem Offizier gegenüber skeptisch zu sein. der fast fünf Dutzend Juden auf dem Kerbholz hat.” It’s wrong for me to be skeptical of an officer. Especially one who has almost five dozen Jews on his hands. Radowit’s spine tingles, and his face flushes with angered blood.
Flashes of his time in Auschwitz come upon him. The daily screams of his people as they burned in the ‘showers.’ The nauseating smell of cooked flesh and charcoal garnished with hatred made for his daily meals. The skin and bones of his friends, family, and colleagues being mocked by the Schutzstaffel. The endless, back-breaking labor, the hundreds who climbed the fences, knowing their only freedom was a German bullet.
He grasps his forearm tightly, reminding himself of the tattoo – the mark that will forever denote him as a Jew. If only he could make them bear such a mark, force their identity into vulnerability. But such a return would mean they’d be granted life alongside him. No, that won’t be happening. Not today. He looks to the Sergeant, who is reaching into his pack. He pulls out a small dessert tin and offers it to Radowit.
“Da wir gerade davon sprechen.” Speaking of which… The Sergeant begins. He takes out his Walther P38 pistol, and begins to dissasemble it.
“Ihr Ruf eilt Ihnen als erfahrener Judenjäger voraus. Aber ich muss zugeben, dass ich noch keine Beweise gesehen habe, die eine solche Behauptung stützen.” Your reputation as an experienced Jew hunter precedes you. But I must admit that I have yet to see any evidence to support such a claim. He slides the barrel from its handle, and points it toward the sky. He peaks inside with one eye and blows into the tube.
“Ich kann mich mit kaum einem Viertel eurer Abschüsse brüsten.” I barely carry a quarter of your kills. He pauses, takes a white cloth stick from his pack, and swabs the barrel.
“Und doch…” And yet… He pulls the swab out, revealing a now-blackened cloth.
“… ist eine Walther mit Dreck gefüllt.” My Walther is filled with dirt. He looks to Radowit with a conspicuous brow and concludes.
“Ich habe noch nicht gesehen, dass Sie Ihre Waffe reinigen oder einen Bolschewiken töten.” I have yet to see you clean your gun or kill a Bolshevik. Radowit lasers his focus toward the Sergeant. He clutches his knees and tenses his entire body, He can feel the warm blood rushing toward his face.
“Sind Sie wahnsinnig geworden, in einem solch anklagenden Ton mit einem hohen Offizier zu sprechen?! Ich habe auf dieser Reise mehr Bolschewiken getötet, als jeder von Ihnen in einem ganzen Leben im Dienst des Führers!” Have you gone mad speaking in such an accusatory tone to a senior officer?! I have killed more Bolsheviks on this journey than any of you in a lifetime in the Führer’s service! Radowit reaches toward his holster, whips out his Walther, and disassembles it in an instant. He takes a cotton swab from his pocket, coats it in oil and stuffs it down the short pistol barrel. After two swabs the white cotton ball comes out nearly untainted in color.
“Ich habe dem Führer von Paris bis Warschau gedient. Wenn es eine Sache gibt, die ein guter Offizier wissen sollte, dann ist es, seine Waffe am Ende eines jeden Tages zu reinigen.” I served the Führer from Paris to Warsaw. If there’s one thing a good officer should know, it’s to clean his weapon at the end of every day. Says Radowit. He quickly reassembles his weapon and loads a round into the chamber.
“Wenn du nicht so sehr damit beschäftigt wärst, jede Nacht deine Tittenheftchen anzustarren, hättest du vielleicht meine gewohnheitsmäßigen Waffenreinigungen bemerkt.” If you weren’t so busy staring at porn every night, you might have noticed my habitual gun cleanings. Concludes Radowit. The men laugh, but the Sergeant remains unamused. Despite this small victory, Radowit continues.
“Und zu dem törichten Vorwurf meiner Feigheit? Ich finde es nicht amüsant, unbewaffnete Zivilisten zu töten, weil sie Steine geworfen haben. Es ist auch nicht wirtschaftlich, gute Kugeln zu verschwenden, wenn man unsere unterbrochenen Nachschublinien bedenkt.” And the foolish accusation of my cowardice? I don’t find it amusing to kill unarmed civilians for throwing stones. Nor is it economical to waste good bullets, considering our disrupted supply lines. Radowit leans toward the Sergeant and murmurs.
“Wenn du also das nächste Mal deinen Leutnant hinterfragst, solltest du dich vielleicht an deine eigene Unwissenheit in Sachen Kriegsstrategie erinnern.” So the next time you question your lieutenant, perhaps you should remember your own ignorance of war strategy.
“Herr Leutnant. Ich entschuldige mich für die Beleidigung eines höheren Offiziers.” Lieutenant. I apologize for insulting a senior officer. Says the Sergeant, with an apologetic face. Radowit reaches into his trouser pocket, retrieves a cigarette, lights it, inhales deeply, pauses, and then exhales a plume of smoke. He flicks the ash towards the Sergeant, reaches down for his MP-40, places it upon his lap, and then turns his head toward the officer.
“Es sei Ihnen verziehen, Herr Feldwebel. Sie haben sich übrigens falsch ausgedrückt.” You are forgiven, Sergeant. By the way, you expressed yourself incorrectly. Says Radowit.
The Sergeant gives him a confused look, then asks, “Nochmals Entschuldigung, Herr Leutnant. Habe ich Sie wegen etwas anderem beschuldigt??” I apologize again, Lieutenant. Did I accuse you of something else?
Radowit frowns, then nods his head. “Ich habe keine fünf Dutzend Juden auf meinem Kerbholz.” I don’t have five dozen Jews on my hands. Says Radowit. He looks around the back of the Opel, eyeing to see if the soldiers are still listening. A few have dozed off, but the ones nearby are awake and attentive. Radowit pulls out his combat knife and shows it to the Sergeant.
“Beschreiben Sie mir das Aussehen dieses Messers.” Describe the appearance of this knife to me. Says Radowit. The Sergeant closely examines the knife, running his finger along the edges, and rubbing his index against the bloodstains and rust.
“Das Messer hat weit mehr als fünfzig Männer gesehen. Trotzdem wird es gut gepflegt.” The knife has seen far more than fifty men. Nevertheless, it is well cared for. Says the Sergeant. Radowit smiles at him, and nods his head in approval.
“Dem Zustand nach zu urteilen, wer ist wohl dem Messer zum Opfer gefallen?” Judging by the condition, who has fallen victim to the knife? Asks Radowit. The Sergeant ponders for a moment, then responds.
“Trotz der Unterlegenheit der Franzosen und Sowjets würde ich denken, dass ihr Körper das Messer inzwischen beschädigt haben könnte…” Despite the inferiority of the French and Soviets, I would think that their bodies might have damaged the knife by now…. The Sergeant continues.
“Nur der Körper eines Juden könnte schwach genug sein, die Funktionstüchtigkeit des Messers zu bewahren.” Only the body of a Jew could be so weak that the knife could function for so long. The Sergeant smiles, satisfied with his own answer.
“Ja! Gute Antwort!” Yes! Good answer! Says one of the soldiers. Radowit shakes his head and pouts his lips.
“Tsk tsk, Ich fürchte, der junge Feldwebel hat sich wieder einmal geirrt.” Tsk tsk, I’m afraid the young sergeant was wrong again. Says Radowit. He brings the knife up to his face to examine, his finger lightly brushing against the sharpened tip.
“Unter den Männern des Führers herrscht der Irrglaube, dass der Judenkörper ein schwacher sei.” There is a misconception among the Führer’s men that the Jew is weak-bodied. He shelves the knife on his lap, exchanging it for the MP-40.
“Doch ich habe miterlebt, wie Juden, in welche ganze Magazinen aus dieser Waffe entleert wurden, aufgestanden und trotzdem weitergelaufen sind.” But I have seen Jews shot with whole magazines from this gun, and still they walk the earth. The men’s eyes widen like children before a campfire fable.
“Aber ein Deutscher…” But a German… The convoy begins to slow, and the forward commander yells toward the back, “Bereitmachen zum Anhalten! Landminen in einem halben Kilometer. ” Get ready to stop! Landmines within half a kilometer. The soldiers look forward, but Radowit looks toward the flanking marshes, where he still sees the occasional glare of a gun barrel. He continues speaking.
“Aber ein Deutscher stirbt leicht.” But a German dies easily. The men look to Radowit with panic. They reach for their weapons, but he levels his MP-40 and unloads on the surrounding passengers. He takes the knife from his lap and stabs the Sergeant in the throat. Radowit jumps atop the cabin of the vehicle, reloads his MP-40, and reigns hellfire upon the roof. The transport suddenly veers off course, and into the waterlogged ditch, which Radowit leaps into. Just as he lands, gunfire roars from either side of the road. Towed anti-tank guns, rifles, and machine guns reverberate through the air.
He hears the commander on the road screaming, “Hinterhalt, Soldaten! Formation auflösen!” Ambush, soldiers! Break formation! Radowit attempts to peer over the ditch, but rounds of all calibers and from either side create a deadly cage. He crawls to the nearby crashed Opel and cowers underneath. The fighting continues for hours, only ceasing when nightfall dawns.
By the time the moon is in full bloom, Radowit crawls out from the ditch and slowly pulls himself into the nearby treeline. As he crawls beneath the bush, he hears an alarmed Slavic voice. Torches from all sides illuminate and surround him. Radowit realizes he’s still wearing a lieutenant’s uniform and hisses, “He стреляйте! Я шпион!” Do not shoot! I’m a spy! The brush around Radowit opens up, and five men are pointing rifles and machine guns directly at his head. Radowit holds his hands up, but one of the men wearing a scruffy beard, and Ushanka looks curiously at his forearm – which is missing a sleeve from the scuttle.
“У него есть бренд.” He has a mark. The men lower their weapons and help Radowit to his feet. They direct him toward a nearby foxhole where there’s a fire, along with plenty of food and drink. After being sufficiently examined and cared for, the Russians bombard him with questions. Radowit told his story and to his surprise, the men who had fought from door to door, and from city to city honored him for his bravery. They willingly gave up their vodka rations in order to cheer Radowit for halting the convoy.
Radowit remained outside of Shlisselburg for many weeks. He assisted the Russian 2nd Shock Army in flanking German reinforcements. By the time January had passed, the town was safely in the Red Army’s hands. Presented with a choice, Radowit opted to fight on with the Russian army until Warsaw. It was, of course, his wish to liberate his family from German occupation – no matter the cost.
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