Crazy Reversals of Fortune
IT HAD BEEN PROVIDENTIAL that the men had been prevented from opening the storage cellar to disperse the supplies, because already two days later a rider on a fine, fast horse arrived at Alexander’s house with a summons for Holger from General Tumachevsky.
To Comrade Holger Hildebrandt:
Situation has changed. I will be expecting you back by tomorrow. The guesthouse will be yours to live and work in. Your son-in-law, Alexander Grushov, has horses; have him get you and your wife here. He can expect the equerry master to come and purchase his stock. See to it that all of it remains on site. As
a favor I extend my protection to his village. General Vladimir Antonovich Tumachevsky Red Army, Second Division
And so, within a week, Holger entered Katharina’s Thor once more and began working for General Tumachevsky. Not much later a young officer, surrounded by a handful of unkempt soldiers, arrived in Schaffhausen, straightaway seeking Alexander’s house.
“I am Lieutenant Ivan Sverdlov. General Tumachevsky sends me. I am instructed to buy horses from you, to be precise, every horse able to carry a man.”
Alexander felt bilious hearing these words. He was given no chance to decline the purchase. As far as the general was concerned, the purchase was a done deal. Heartsick, he decided to make the best of the situation. Perhaps he could at least get a decent price for his superb stock or, in the worst scenario, at least keep a few brood animals. Controlling resentment and discomfort, he greeted the officer with as much courtesy as he could muster.
“Let me take you to the barn and show you what I have available.” He walked his unwelcome visitor to the stables while the ill-equipped gaggle of soldiers, leaving the heavy, dirty sled they’d come in, trailed after them.
Perversely, the sun shone brightly upon the dirty, grooved snow, the gray house and the brown barn, making all appear bright and cheerful, as if to mock Alexander’s black mood. Hearing visitors, Albina had come to the door, with Michael and Peter peeking out on either side of her long dress. Seeing soldiers, however, she retreated instantly, beginning a fervent prayer for her husband. Nothing good ever came in uniform, and prayer was all she had against the evil of officialdom.
The young officer’s eyes lit up with the pure joy of an expert horseman when Willy led a three-year-old beautiful chestnut mare into the yard. Unable to help himself the man exclaimed, “Khorosho, ochen khorosho. Krassivaya!” The motley crew of soldiers standing about, smoking fat, handmade cigarettes, rolled from newspaper and execrable tobacco, also complimented the fine mare, calling her beauty, prekrasnaya, wonderful, and a nice girl.
Despite his misgivings, Alexander could not help feeling proud when his mare received such praise. “Good, very good, beautiful!” What higher praise could he hope for from a soldier? He was secretly pleased that fate had sent him a horse lover, someone with finesse, instead of an army donkey who would have opened every door at once and driven off the entire stock, foals, mares, stud and all.
“We will buy her,” said Ivan Sverdlov with disturbing surety. “Put her aside over there in the pen.”
“Permit me, comrade,” Alexander spoke with polite formality but also great firmness. “If you will be taking the horses to Katharinenstadt today, the mare should go back in the stall. Otherwise she will be too long in the cold and might get sick.”
“No, we will move the horses tomorrow morning, after they have been fed and watered. We will be staying here in the village at the guest house.”
One by one Willy presented the horses Alexander named, and each one received the same praise as the first. Sverdlov wanted them all. After the tenth horse was led out, Alexander said, “That is all of them. The rest are foals and brood stock, which I need if there are to be more in the future.”
“I will determine that,” said Sverdlov acerbically and walked into the barn containing the stalls. With a flick of his wrist he called a soldier to his side. It was the job of the soldier, a black-haired, sad-faced boy of perhaps eighteen years, to open every stall for his leader. All were empty now, except the last in a corner, well separated from the rest. They heard snorting and stamping before they even came upon the box.
“Aha, here is a fine one you have hidden!” called Sverdlov accusingly, ordering his soldier to open the pen. Alexander’s shout came too late. Through the open door, knocking the soldier aside, Alexander’s stud, Carolus, came flying. If the mares had been pictures to look at, this one was the masterpiece.
Carolus, black as coal, sixteen and a half hands at the withers, his nostrils flaring, his long mane and tail floating in the air, was clearly excited to be free. He ran full speed past the group of men, kicking up his heels, and was a moment later outside in the yard.
Grabbing halters and cans filled with grain, Alexander and Willy hastened to get the horse back under control before he could harm himself. Later, with the stud safely installed in his box, Sverdlov said, “He is magnificent, we must have him, too.”
“He will be of no use to you,” Alexander reasoned, “he has been at stud for three years and is high-strung. He could kill a rider, the way he is now. Little else but breeding is on his mind.”
“Leave that up to General Tumachevsky. I think he will like him fine.”
Alexander fell to begging, since persuasion and reason did not help: “For the love of God, Sverdlov, without this horse I have nothing left. He is the entire worth of my business.”
To take Sverdlov’s mind off the stallion, he offered to show him the foals and the three mares heavy in foal. As he had hoped, Sverdlov fell in love with the foals. Three yearlings and four two-year-olds with bright eyes, woolly winter coats and the pretty heads of their Arabian mothers presented themselves appealingly, nuzzling the men’s hands, rubbing their heads against the men’s legs.
In an instant Sverdlov lost his mien of officialdom, petting the sweet young creatures. In a corner with wide, happy eyes stood the teen soldier, grinning broadly, his bad, neglected teeth showing, while scratching the head and neck of the youngest foal. After a few moments of sheer bliss the men left the barn. Sverdlov had grown withdrawn and silent.
At last he said, “I find that the stallion is probably too much to handle. So we will leave him. We will take the mares and the geldings.”
Alexander concealed his relief; however this good feeling did not last long, because then he was presented with the reward for his labor. It was worse than even he had expected. Sverdlov paid him with the new Soviet currency, which was practically worthless. If they’d run off with his horses without remuneration it would have amounted to the same thing. And yet he had to be thankful for the gift of his stallion; another, less scrupulous man than Sverdlov would have taken him too, and the foals for food.
As he sat at dinner, discouraged, Albina reminded him of God’s goodness to his family. “We are still together, healthy, and there is still food in the cellar underground,” she said and he became calm.
Long before dawn Ivan Sverdlov came for the horses. A mild wind from the West drove angry clouds across the sky, harbinger of snow or icy rain later in the day; however, the temperature had risen, making it bearable to be about. Under the watchful eyes of Klaus Grünfeld the soldiers pulled the horses from the stalls. Stomping their hooves nervously into the sand covering the passageway, their nostrils flaring as they tested the unfamiliar scents, they swished their tails angrily as they were led out.
In his box the stallion, Carolus, snorted and whinnied anxiously to his mares. He, too, sensed danger for his herd. Unable to fight the invisible enemy, unable to protect them, he screamed his impotence, kicking and rearing, making a shambles of his box – to no avail!
The soldiers had come ill-equipped for their mission, bringing only ropes to lead the animals. It pained Alexander to see the creatures he’d trained so carefully being yanked about with tight nooses around their necks.
“Stoy, Ivan!” he could not help himself, shouting, “let me show you how to make a simple halter for the head out of your rope.”
Yet even this work took less time than he would have wished, keeping his horses here a little longer. At last the soldiers were ready to leave. Three men riding led a horse each, while four mares trailed the miserable sled in which the crew had come.
Like a mother losing her children, Alexander continued to give Sverdlov unwanted advice, as the man’s impatient face clearly expressed.
“There will be icy rain today or perhaps you will find yourself in a snow storm. Don’t push on! Find shelter in one of the villages. Don’t let them suffer in the freezing cold.”
Ivan Sverdlov promised that he would. A cynical pragmatist most times, his fondness for horses had moved him to handle this requisition with much more patience and forbearance than he usually showed the victims of the Red Army.
Although the picture of his horses being driven off cut him to the core, Alexander stood, watching the herd of six mares and four geldings leave town. Beside him in the road Willy, Timur and Klaus watched the exodus, bereft as relatives at a funeral. Willy had tears in his eyes, which he roughly brushed away with the back of his mitts.
Before their eyes, years of work – currying, feeding, birthing, healing of wounds and ailments and so much more – all came to naught. The uncertainty of the animals’ future – by all accounts a painful death in war – was a symbol of their own uncertain, dreadful, hopeless future. As the horses were led away, so they, too, could be led away with a gun in their backs. They sought the warmth of the kitchen once their charges could no longer be seen.
Sitting around the expansive table, mugs of tea in their hands, Klaus looked searchingly at his employer, “I am afraid you will not need us much longer, Alexander.”
“I don’t know what to do, mein Freund,” came Alexander’s desperate answer. However, calling Klaus ‘friend’ signaled that their relationship had changed. He reached into his pocket, displaying the large roll of pitifully worthless Red Army tender. He counted out three equal parts, giving each man an equal share.
“You better use it quickly,” he said bitterly, “because tomorrow it might be worthless. It hasn’t much worth today anyway.”
“You left nothing for yourself, sir,” remarked Willy astonished.
“You will need it more, dear boy. I don’t know what to do now and must seek council. I will let you all know soon enough what I can do with the farm.” All through the breakfast, consisting of wheat gruel, milk and fried potatoes, Timur sat silently, eating his food.
Yet, after Klaus and Willy left, ostensibly to take their money home as soon as possible, the elderly Tartar pushed his share of the money toward Alexander. “You keep it. I don’t want it. I will work for you for free, as family. Just don’t make me leave, because I have nowhere to go.”
“No, my friend, you don’t have to leave. I will keep you as family.” For a moment he was silently thoughtful, continuing sadly – “until the Reds decide to tear apart the family.”