Free The Accidental Anarchist by Bryna Kranzler Page B

mine.
     
     

Chapter 8. Banzai !
     
    By now it was deep winter, probably close to Chanukah . After a mere three months in the bitter Manchurian wilderness, our regiment had lost more than three-quarters of its men. There was no longer a front line to speak of. It seemed as though the Japanese were everywhere. Even our officers were eager to pull us back.
     
    But that was not so simple. Though our company had tried not to end up as the Rear Guard, we now came under steady bombardment. Defensive actions had to be taken to protect the main body, or what was left of it. This time, enemy fire killed many officers. I suppose, having always been pampered, they found it difficult to cower and grovel in muddy holes and trenches like the rest of us.
     
    Luckily for us, the enemy, acting out of some crazy Japanese notion of neatness, had paused to reorganize instead of staying on our backs and finishing us off.
     
    Replacements belatedly started to arrive from Harbin. Among them was Vasiliev, our new company commander. He was a tall and handsome Muscovite landowner, who appeared to take it as a personal affront that a good percentage of the men in his company were Jewish. He was in no position to transfer us, but we soon found out he had other ways of reducing the burden we placed upon his tolerance.
     
    One of our new commander’s first official acts was to place me in charge of a post in a desolate stretch of forest where, several times in the past, the Japanese had crept up in the darkness, and killed and mutilated our sleepy, half-starved sentries. With me, he sent three other Jews and one new Russian boy, presumably to keep us from talking too freely.
     
    I could see already what we had here, and I wasted no breath complaining. I did, however, ask him for a machine gun to help keep us from being overrun in a surprise attack.
     
    He gave me a condescending look and said, “Just go and do what you’re told.”
     
    “I need a machine gun. If you’ll come with us, I can show you why.”
     
    “You think I’ve nothing better to do? I know you Jews. You’ll fall asleep and we’ll lose the gun.”
     
    I tried to control my voice. “Without the gun, you may lose five men.”
     
    “Four less of you to deal with after the war,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.
    This confirmed my suspicion that we didn’t have a friend in this new Vanya , but what he said was nothing more than government policy at the time. For some reason, it didn’t occur to this genius that if we were killed, the entire camp would be endangered.
     
    After supper, we proceeded to our isolated post, holding on to each other’s belts in the darkness. Our spirits were not exactly glowing. We knew that if we ran into trouble, we would be entirely on our own. But at least our shift was only for two hours.
     
    We settled in with our meager five rifles poised on rotting sandbags. Seeing my look of disgust, Glasnik said, “Just wait until the next time the whole company comes under attack. One of us will see to it that our captain dies a hero’s death.”
     
    I told him sharply in Yiddish to shut up; there was a Vanya among us. The new boy promptly answered in Yiddish, “I’m as much of a Vanya as you are.”
     
    I was doubtful. Many Russian peasants were fluent in Yiddish. I asked him to show me his tzitzis, the biblically commanded fringes that, during the war, were often worn even by non-observant Jews, if only to identify their bodies for a Jewish burial. He opened two buttons on his tunic, and we all relaxed.
     
    The new boy told us he had known this officer for the last three months. He always sent his Jewish soldiers to the point of greatest danger, and with the same friendly explanation he had given me.
     
    I looked at Glasnik. “Just wait,” he said with a wink. It was probably idle talk, but I felt comforted. Although I didn’t know if I could do it myself, I had no doubt that this type of officer deserved to be killed out