Das Dorf
DAS DORF – A VILLAGE like the ones they remembered from home – that was what they tried to emulate. From memory they drew plans for the layout, simple, but very suitable. They made the main street, and for the longest time the only street, fifty feet wide, wide enough to allow two fully loaded carts to pass each other with ease. In their memory resided the knowledge that this space was not only a road leading to other places, but that it served also as the village’s living room.
Much of their social life would take place right in front of their stoop. Old people would be sitting on benches out front watching the children toss home-made leather balls in the air, play with rag dolls in the dust and, when deprived of toys, just chase each other about. On summer evenings, after the day’s heat, the young women would stroll down the street in their long cotton skirts, their chaste long-sleeved blouses, their heads covered by kerchiefs or the Mitz. On this plain, broad thoroughfare sober-looking men, pulling on their well-tended pipes, would discuss business; gossip would flourish, livestock would be driven through, and angry spats between aggrieved spouses would have an interested audience and adjudication. Therefore it was of the greatest import that the road be grand.
Once the road had been demarked, they placed the houses, barns and stables the way they had before, and soon the village of 957 people somewhat resembled the village they had left. They missed the trees and shrubs of the old villages, the willows, the beeches, and the fruit trees. But this new village would prosper; they’d plant and grow things – making it bloom, because their children would never know the other.
Every man had been given a government allotment of about forty desyatinas, or the equivalent of one hundred and eight acres. However, that land was to be held by the entire community, to be administered equally, open to subdivision as the community grew. The only land owned personally was the parcel of ground upon which the house stood with its appurtenances and private gardens. The land closest to the village became the grazing meadows and hayfields, if unsuited for crops. The fields to be tilled and seeded were often far away. It would become apparent later that some of the village’s tilling grounds lay as far 25-30 kilometers from the village. To insure fairness, the fields were laid out in long narrow strips, so that each man plowed the same distance with the same effort.
The colonists, while claiming their holdings, had some unpleasant surprises. Crown land granted them by decree had already been usurped by the estates of the family members belonging to grand, old Russian noble families. These families lived a rich, comfortable life in Moscow or St. Petersburg, seldom visiting the rude frontier, while often ruthless, self-serving overseers administered their latifundia. Unequal to the task of reclaiming what was now in possession of the Naryshkins, the mighty Vorontzovs, Razumovskys, and Sheremetevs, to name a few, the colonists attempted to receive replacement land.
Furthermore, there were villages of peasants working the lands of the Crown, who also competed for land. Of all the Russian peasants they were the least exploited, this being the reason that their villages had an almost prosperous look when compared with bonded serfs’ villages on estate grounds. Most land close to the western Volga bank had been granted to Crown peasants, and thus few German villages were founded there. And so the government’s efforts to arrange conditions for a well-planned, orderly settlement of villages, a vision by Count Gregory Orlov, the Tsarina’s favorite, came to naught. For much of the land set aside for colonists had already been usurped. No one had taken into account that some of the land belonged to grazing tribes, no one had counted the villages belonging to the local Tartar population which also had expropriated land. Furthermore, the grazing grounds of the local Kalmyks had been expropriated; their rights had been rudely squashed. These discoveries, enormous in their effect on each village, came as an unpleasant surprise to the settlers.
Be that as it may, for now communal housing activity overshadowed all other concerns. Soon it became apparent that certain aspects of village life needed lawful foundation and regulation. So it came as no surprise that within a few weeks a group of village elders was elected to head the village administration. Head of this group was der Vorsteher, fulfilling the functions of a mayor. A natural for the position was Deacon Albert Brunner. He had been working alongside Herr Reis and Vadim for a while and was elected without opposition.
The very human tendency, a thirst almost, to identify with the place where one lives, drove the search for a village name. Once a name had been given to a place, the place became equal to any other place inhabited by humans on the planet. But how should they name the village? Everyone had ideas. Some wished to apply the appellation of their old villages prefaced by new. Thus one could have Neu-Lauterbach or Neu-Rosenheim. Others offered the names of citizens, of animals, as in ‘camel town’, after the few dromedaries they’d seen, or names of flowers and so forth.
After much ado and debate Christoph suggested Norka, the name for mink, of which so many had been caught. Strangely enough, this short, easily pronounced tribute to their new country resonated with the people.
Luck favored the inhabitants of Norka during the first year of its establishment. Usually fall planting had to be accomplished well before the first days of September. Caught up in home building, fixing animal shelters, and clearing ground, nothing was achieved in the fields until late September. By that time some desyatinas had been communally cleared, besides those fields already established by the early arrivals. Yet not all the fields they would need to survive were planted. Barely had the men scattered the seeds when the blessed rain arrived, assuring germination.
“So far, so good,” said Martin to his friend, Kurt Halberstamm, “we will now pray for a proper winter.”
He then proceeded to explain that a good winter meant a sufficient amount of snowfall to cover the germinated grain to keep it from freezing. “You have never experienced cold until now,” chuckled Martin with the woeful mirth of the initiated. “Furthermore,” he told them, “snow melt is important if we have a dry spring.”
In the meantime, Martin, one of the twenty elected elders, used his experience and the might of this office to impress on everyone the need for well-sealed, insulated houses.
November arrived with a furious snowstorm, but was well received because it brought enough snow to cover the new growth sufficiently. Then the big freeze set in, bringing life outside the homes to a halt. Except for the feeding and watering the livestock, assuring themselves that the animals were not too cold, the men got nothing done.
By the beginning of January man and beast suffered from horrendous hunger pangs, as all rations were being cut. As if the hunger was not enough to endure, anxiety and dread became part of their condition – for this was the year the wolves discovered Norka.
As they always did in years of severe cold, having depleted most game, the wolves now banded together in fearsome super-packs. Forty to fifty wolves forged together into a fleet, efficient, hunting and killing machine. They patrolled this part of the Volga frontier, surprising the unwary and the ill-guarded, breaking into badly constructed edifices to get prey, whether it be a home or a stall.
Norka’s initiation into the Russian reality arrived with a vengeance. On a clear, moonlit and freezing night their furred, fanged nemesis arrived.
At the end of the village, a householder, a young man just twenty-one years old, had gone to see to a cow due to calve. He had barely left the stall, securing the door well, when the silent vanguard struck. In a second eight to ten slavering, growling beasts surrounded the man. Before he knew what had happened, the leader of the pack jumped for his throat, pushing off his chest. All over his body, on his arms, legs and buttocks white sharp fangs had clamped down, immobilizing him, pulling him down. Pushed to the ground by the leader, he realized his doom. He screamed – one horrible, howling scream – filled with savage fear and horror. Thereafter, only the snarling, tearing could be heard and the whining of those wolves too far from the center of the gruesome feast.
By the time the village was alerted to the macabre meal, the efficient pack had finished, not leaving a morsel. Yet, they were not sated, not finished with their terrible work. Racing through the village, their leader unerringly found a barn that had been built rather hastily and shoddy, with a precious horse inside. Too few supports had been woven into the walls. How the wolves knew to attack this stall and not another was a mystery – but their leader knew. The wolves scratched and tore with their fangs a hole, large enough to tear down the wall. The terrified horse, kicking and plunging inside, trying to escape, probably helped them break the wall.
This time there was enough meat to satisfy the pack. They finished their kill at leisure. The Germans, unused to such an assault, dared not leave their homes, terrified that they could become victims before they could unite into a defensive force.
Having finished devouring the horse, every wolf having been fed, the pack left, afraid of retribution. They knew that in Russian villages they paid with the hides of a few of their pack for such dreadful assaults, especially on an estate where armed guards would take bitter revenge.
Next morning Norka awakened to the grim reality that one of their own was dead and gone – devoured by wolves. People came cautiously out into the open. They hesitatingly opened their doors and peered nervously up and down the broad, frozen expanse of the road. After a while, talking and shuddering in the chilling wind, a handful of women went to the house of the wretched woman who’d become a widow last night in a few short minutes. Someone remembered that her name was Katrin and, irony upon irony: the killed man’s name was Wolfgang – the way of the wolf, or the wolf’s path.
No one answered the knock on the door. There was no sign of life, and so Ute, who led the women, pushed open the door. They saw Katrin soon enough. She sat unmoving in the dim light, like a mummy, still in deep shock. God only knew how long she had been there like this. The fire in the stove had gone out a long time ago, and the room was numbingly cold. Katrin had heard her husband’s tormented screams, heard the horrible sounds of the macabre feast, heard the rip and tear and the cow’s terrified lowing echoing from the stall. Then she realized that the man she had married only eight months ago, the one whose children she had hoped to bear, with whom she had planned to make a new life in Russia, was no more.
The brutality, the instantaneous efficiency of the event had left Katrin stunned, unable to comprehend what had happened; left her unable to function, to put herself to bed, to keep warm. All night long she had been sitting there, replaying the horrible sounds in her mind, unable to comprehend Wolfgang’s death. The women gently surrounded her, touching her. They understood her plight. The girl, Katrin, was only eighteen and close to death herself. She was so cold that Ute worried they might have come too late to do her any good.
“Make a fire!” she directed some women who were not much older than the girl in the chair. “Go, get hot water,” she directed others. She rushed into an alcove containing the bed and returned with a warm quilt. Draping Katrin with the quilt she began to rub her hands and feet. Karin, Kurt Halberstamm’s daughter, joined her. When the hot water arrived, they put Katrin’s feet into a basin of cold water and, keeping up the foot and leg massages, they began adding hot water at intervals.
After treating Katrin in this manner for the better part of an hour, the girl began to stir. Her eyes focused, the numbness left her face, a pained expression returned to her countenance. Suddenly, she spoke. Her voice was high and clear, “He is dead, isn’t he? My Wolfgang – the wolves killed him, did they not?” When no one dared admit to the awful truth, she repeated herself, “He is dead, isn’t he?”
Ute understood that Katrin was desperately seeking for proof of her sanity. Softly she said, “Yes, child, he is dead. The wolves killed him.”
Even then, hearing the gruesome truth, Katrin did not cry, while the women surrounding her prayed that she might be granted tears of release. Mild warmth, emanating from the little stove, drove away the night frost. Unable to help otherwise, the women prepared mild, soothing tea, and heated a dish of ground wheat and milk for Katrin.
The girl obediently drank the sweetened tea and ate what they placed before her. At last Ute was satisfied that Katrin would survive. Motherly, she put her to bed, covering her warmly, stoking the fire before she left. Karin promised to sit with the young widow, and so did Berte, another young woman.
By now the specter of growling, snarling, tearing wolves was firmly engrained in the communal mind of the village.
“We can speak of God’s grace that the wolves never came when we were here all alone. Our few abodes, so badly built at first, could not have withstood the onslaught of a pack,” mused Martin. “I wonder why they never came here before?”
Christoph thought he had the answer. Ever since he was a little boy, he had closely inspected the living things of his world and intuited reasons for their behavior.
“I think through centuries the wolves never found much food here in winter. They were probably used to patrolling the Russian villages and estates. The scent of our few huts and animals wafting across the plain was never strong enough to detract them from their known rounds. But now, with almost a thousand lives and hundreds of animals, we send out a powerful sign of available prey.”
“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Martin, “but what are we going to do about this menace? They will be back. If not tonight, then the night thereafter, when their stomachs torment them again!”
The conclave of elders met that morning in Martin’s warm, clean house. As they came through the door they shed their heavy coats and blankets, filling the room with the effluvium of sweat and old wool. In the few short months of living here the men had already reached the conclusion that they must begin to tan hides, for only furs would keep them warm in Russia’s temperatures.
Ute reported Katrin’s state to the council, telling them that the girl would need help in the weeks to come. Then she left the men, collecting Karin while going by her house to check on their patient. The women picked their way carefully among the frozen ruts; one could break a leg with a misstep. Shivering, they drew their heavy shawls closer to their bodies. Although the sun was shining brightly, a crisp breeze chilled the women to the bone. Under their long skirts and under-skirts they wore woolen knit leggings, making their skin itch. However, it was better to endure the torment of the itch than to freeze.
To their amazement they found the door to Katrin’s house unlocked. Inside, the diminutive, earthy smelling house was empty. Karin began calling Katrin’s name the moment they left the house, searching in the back. After repeating their calls a few times, they heard an answering voice from the barn. As they peered inside, they beheld in the poor light provided by the flame of an encased oil lamp the heaving body of a small brown and white cow, heavily involved in the serious business of bringing new life into the world. Behind the cow, in a patch of clean bedding, knelt Katrin, murmuring words of comfort to the straining beast.
“What are you doing out here in the cold?” asked Ute aghast. “You are much too weak for this task. You shouldn’t have come.”
Katrin turned and, smiling wanly, disclaimed this notion. “Who else better than I? Have I not tended her these last months, ever since Wolfgang bought her in the Russian village? He bought her heavy with calf, so we might have milk through the harsh winter, and built her this solid stall where she was safe when he was not.” Finally, stirred by her own words, Katrin’s strength broke and she cried piteously. It was as if her tears released her pent up grief and likewise released the cow from her burden. For, suddenly, two small hooves covered by membrane appeared. With a groan the beast arose, contorting her body, pushing powerfully, breaking the placenta in a preordained way. Seconds later the head, resting on delicate forelegs, came into view. A further push delivered a hot gush of bloody fluid together with the placenta-covered calf. The calf fell heavily to the ground in the last gush of amniotic fluid, taking its first breath a moment later.
Katrin’s tears ceased. She bent, wanting to touch the wet new life, but the small cow had turned around and fiercely assumed possession of her new creation. Since time immemorial the mystery of a new life has gladdened the human heart, and for a moment all sorrows and worries were forgotten in this poor stall. The women’s faces, even Ute’s, looked very young as they smiled and admired the little creature, an exact replica of her mother, who was tenderly licking its wet fur, thereby drying it.
The joyous moment was soon lost. Katrin’s face clouded as she worriedly asked, “How am I going to protect these two when the wolves return? They will fall prey to the pack, same as the horse did.”
“You must not worry, Katrin. The stall is strongly built and your house is safe.” However, Ute added quickly with a certainty she did not feel, “By tonight the men will have a plan to defend the village. I am glad to take you to my house for the night. So, do not fear.” Katrin was not easily placated and the worried look did not leave her face.
Meanwhile the village elders were debating how to defend the village against the fleet, deadly pack. One worried fellow whined that nothing could be done. He recommended that families should cluster together in each other’s houses for the night as common defense. “The wolves might get a few animals breaking into the stalls, but that will be all,” he prophesied.
This mush-mouthed suggestion, however, raised the seemingly ineffectual Deacon’s ire. In his small, stringy body beat the heart of a great man and, when enraged, he had twice the prowess of a larger man. His response came accordingly:
“So, you will have us sitting behind the stove while the wolf pack decimates our livestock? How do you propose we are to survive in this land if we lose the animals in which we have invested our last Pfennig? We’d starve before the winter is over. No, I put it to you that we fight. There are more of us than there are wolves. We can stop them before they pick us off one by one.”
His rousing oration was greeted with enthusiasm by most. Yet, as in a churn butter is separated from bland liquid, his words separated the brave from the fearful. Forcefully the deacon cut through dissenting debate. He called for a vote, which was won by the fighting faction.
“Now we need a plan. How shall we accomplish the feat?” A number of plans were proposed and rejected because of glaring flaws. One fellow suggested having fires burning around the village’s perimeter as a deterrent. However, the scarcity of wood combined with the needed amount of pyres ruled out this plan. Another wanted armed guards to patrol the village; however, there were no guns in the village. Furthermore, a surprise attack would kill the guards before anyone could come to their rescue. This plan also blithely ignored the freezing cold the guards would have to endure. On and on the suggestions were discarded, one plan after another was found wanting, until to everyone’s surprise Christoph appeared from the back of the room and spoke:
“I am not a member of the elder council, but I have talked to the Russian Vadim about wolves. Here is a plan how we can defend the village.”
He turned to Deacon Brunner and with shining eyes explained his scheme. Then he added, “We need some cow bells.” To his chagrin no one thought that there were cowbells in the village. After some thought the Deacon offered, “The temporary church bell, the one I carried from Hessen, it is not very large, perhaps it might work?”
“It must do the job. Let’s see the bell. It can’t be too heavy.” Someone was sent to fetch the bell. Meanwhile the assembly accepted Christoph’s vision of defense and began working on the details of his plan.
“It is of the utmost importance that every man follows the plan unhesitatingly,” exhorted Deacon Brunner. “If anyone falters in cowardice, their neighbor’s death might be on their soul.”
They dissolved the meeting shortly thereafter, and the group dispersed to call all males into the street for a meeting. They assembled in the frozen, windy road because there was no building that would have held even a small fraction of the four hundred fifty men the village could muster for its protection.
Kurt Halberstamm, who had the resonating voice of a bronze bell, boomed out the plan and the details of its execution. Then a vote was taken, showing that the majority agreed with the plan. Kurt exhorted the men, pointing out the importance of precise execution of the plan, explaining that timing, of course, was of the essence. For once, the close-coupled spacing of their houses was determined to be an asset. Frantic activity by the men had the village humming, as if spring had descended upon it.
Different groups of men were assigned different tasks. One group took turns thawing a circular patch in the middle of the road and then, slowly, pounded a large iron stake into the ground. They repeated the process many times, until Martin was satisfied with the result. Another group was kept busy wrapping the ends of stout branches with dried sedges and grass, steeping the dressed ends into heated pitch and tar, while yet another bunch of fellows assembled clubs and sharpened sickles.
Dusk arrived in the late afternoon. Into the early gloom Martin led his pride and joy – his horse, Jonah. They tied the beautiful, liver-chestnut animal with stout ropes to the stake, a deed tolerated with great mildness of manner by the beast. The horse had developed such trust in his master that, although the men wrapped him in cloth, burlap and rags, the proud steed never demurred. Adding insult to injury, they hung the church bell, a rather puny affair, around his neck. As it was not a very large bell, he still showed no distress.
But then the men walked away, leaving him staked out in the freezing cold. He neighed, feeling deserted. He desperately wanted to go back into the warmth and safety of his stall. Awkwardly, he tried to free himself, pulling away from the stake. But the tether held. Repeatedly he tested stake and rope, but, as he was a smart horse, he did not waste his strength, but instead accepted his condition, staying calmly at his tether.
“Why did you volunteer Jonah as bait, Father? Any of the nags the fellows bought from the Russians would have done. So why him, and not another?” Christoph asked his father. He was deeply troubled. When he had suggested the plan, it had not occurred to him that his beloved Jonah could become the sacrificial offering.
“If I had not volunteered him, the best horse in the village, the bickering would have begun. They would still be there whining and arguing about whose horse would be bait. Don’t worry! I do not intend for Jonah to become a meal for a wolf pack. You know that he is strong and smart – he will be fine.”
Not long thereafter, Ute served their meager meal. They said their prayers, ate the heavy, black rye bread, the gruel and drank the little bit of milk that Grandfather Franz had earlier squeezed from their cow’s resisting teats. Martin had put up enough hay and yellow beets as feed for the beasts, but despite good rations the cow would soon cease milk production altogether, for she was due to calve in a few months.
As the evening wore on everyone was anxious. The men saw to the fire more often than was warranted. Ute and Grandmother kept their hands busy with knitting needles and yarn. Annelis, however, who was supposed to darn socks, jumped up every few seconds to peer through the hole in the wooden window shutters. Outside it was pitch black. Nothing could be seen, especially not the tethered Jonah whom she wanted to behold with every fiber of her worried heart.
When the time came to ration the candles and the oil, Ute sent everyone to bed. They reclined on their beds and pallets. Yet, for Martin and Christoph there was no rest to be had. They laid down fully dressed, shoes on their feet, coats at the ready. The hours ticked by and all was quiet, too noiseless almost, thought Christoph, for even the usual cracking of the frost stressed wooden supports could not be heard. It was as if the whole village lay breathless, in silent repose; as if it had deeply inhaled and now stifled the process, listening instead with hypersensitive ears before being allowed to exhale.
Youth caught Christoph unaware and sent him into dreams, although he had valiantly fought sleep. Martin and Franz, by comparison, never slept a wink. Therefore they both jumped up at the first tinkle of the bell that within seconds turned into a full-scale alarm. Jonah had heard the pack. The wolves gave sound while running, when they were still over a mile away. What Jonah heard drove him into frenzy. The meaning of these sounds was firmly wired into his genes. All he wanted now was to get away. He knew that he was tied, unable to leave, and the menace would soon be upon him. He pulled mightily. He plunged and kicked, whinnied and snorted. While he exerted himself in this manner the bell around his neck rang full force, alerting the village.
In one mighty motion Martin pulled Christoph off his pallet. The three men yanked on their heavy coats and picked up their implements. Quicker even, they were out the door, which Franz carefully locked behind them. Before stepping into the street Martin and Christoph lit their torches, which they now held in their left, while wielding clubs in their right hand. Martin made straight for the sound of the bell. In the torchlight they saw the terrified, rearing and kicking horse. From his behavior they deduced the direction from which the pack would arrive, and oriented themselves accordingly.
It seemed that only seconds passed when they saw the shadow bodies of many men in front of their houses. Their torches weren’t lit yet. No need to alert the pack from afar that the enemy was about and well prepared. To everyone’s surprise the wolves went straight for Martin, Christoph and the plunging horse, ignoring the phalanx of men. So intent were the beasts on their quarry, whose frightened snorts and plunges they had heard from far away, that they charged past the enemy. Their eagerness suited the men well. Once the pack had entered the road the men closed ranks behind them, lighting their torches, running toward the horse. They came from both sides, with Martin, Christoph and the tethered creature caught in the middle.
Lit torches, thick bats, and sharp sickles in their hands, the men closed ranks around the pack. Suddenly the street was bathed in flickering light. The men’s faces were grim and savage; their enemies’ luxurious winter pelts glistened in the light, their open maws exposed their long white fangs set in red jaws. Brandishing the torches, stabbing and bludgeoning, the men began their grizzly work of extermination.
When the wolves realized that they had become the prey, being beset by a much superior force, their howls proclaimed surprise, dismayed fear. In just a few moments the hunters had become the hunted. Blood splashed and spurted from deep cuts in their hides, from bashed-in heads; bodies fell, turning the wolves’ impulses from defense to flight. Around the horse a solid guard of men did their part in the attack. Christoph, holding the torch in front of his body, wielded his club with precision. He’d pick a close-by animal and concentrate on the annihilation of this one alone before picking his next victim. The other men stabbed, slashed and thrust their torches into the faces of the attacking wolves. In the glare of the burning faggots, spurting blood fell in dark drops to the ground and misted the men. The smell of blood permeated the air heavily, exciting and alarming the animals at the same time.
Now the wolves became immersed in panic, trying to break out of the circle in every way possible. Some ran under the torches through the legs of the men, others performed great feats by jumping over the forward leaning men, often pushing off their backs for a second leap.
When the battle was over and nothing living moved in their circle, the men stopped dead in their tracks. They eyed each other with respect and a certain dread. They had never done anything so savage and horrific before; the carnage made them uncertain and shy. Their tension was eased by a joyous yell: “We did it. Look how many we killed! They will think twice before they come back.”
“How strange,” thought Christoph, “that we accord the wolves reason and thought. But who knows, perhaps they are more than hunger-driven machines.”
It took a long time before Jonah calmed down to a point where Martin could free him from his stake. The horse kept dancing on his rope, his eyes liquid and wild, the white showing prominently. His ears were twitching, trying to detect dread sounds from afar, and with flaring nostrils he inhaled the ghastly scent of wolf and blood. Speaking gently to him and petting his neck, Martin was finally able to lead him off to the safety of his stall. “I don’t think we will ever be able to tie Jonah to this stake again,” remarked Martin, leaving the scene, “next time it will have to be someone else’s horse.”
Annelis, peeking through a hole in the shutters, saw Jonah led away and sighed with relief. She had been giving a blow-by-blow account of the battle to her mother and grandparents, although the spy hole had allowed her to see little of the fight. The thick tension in the house ebbed away. Grandfather Franz allowed himself a rare ration of tobacco for his pipe, while Ute lit the oil lamp for Christoph’s and Martin’s return. To save oil they had been sitting in the dark, consumed with worry.
Out in the street by the smoky light of their torches the men skinned
the wolves. Their heavy pelts would make the lovely fur garments they so desperately needed. Although the men were cold and tired, they could not put off this job until morning. By then the carcasses would be frozen stiff and impossible to handle. As the battle raged, the men had not felt the cold, but now, performing the necessary but awful butchering, they felt the biting frost penetrate their very muscle and bone.
Alphonse, a stern-faced young farmer who’d tanned hides in Germany, told the men, “From now on we must save the urine of our horses for tanning. So when you see an animal piss, put a bucket under it.” The men laughed, proposing it would be easier if they themselves provided the required liquid. Yet the fellow was adamant, saying something about ammonia and other things the horses released in their urine. When the last wolf was skinned and the carcasses stacked at the end of the road, silence returned to the village.