Joseph

This inaugural post is a tribute to my late father, my Tato Joseph. This is a true story which is an excerpt taken from his difficult life. I dedicate this to a man who was remarkable both in strength and compassion.

In memoriam

As a young boy, Joseph lived in the Ukrainian village of Markova. As he grew older, he came to appreciate the simple, idyllic surroundings of his childhood. But such recollections seemed far behind him in October 1941, when Joseph was a tank operator in the Red Army, part of the worldwide effort to halt Hilter’s evil Wehrmacht.

Dniepropetrovsk, a large city of more than five hundred thousand in south central Ukraine, was an iron and steel city, key in supplying the Soviet troops. However, the war effort to this point was going badly for the Allies. Josef Stalin had already transferred manufacturing and industry to the Ural mountains. The current Red Army advance was mostly an effort to push back the Nazis. The results thus far had been disastrous, with a total of 1.5 million Soviet soldiers either killed or captured. Into this fray, Joseph’s unit was dispatched.

The troops desperately needed replenishment of supplies and rest to fortify their defensive position. The battalion was to cross over onto the east bank of the city. Lacking sleep but driven by adrenalin, they set up hasty camps and waited it out. It wasn’t long, and a breath had barely been taken, when the onslaught began. With the onset of heavy shelling, they soon undesrstood that the Germans had advanced further and with more firepower than Soviet reconnaissance realized. Unprepared and scrambling, they turned to fight the highly trained elite Panzerkorps units. With little reprieve and mounting losses, the battle continued for a few days, weakening them at every juncture.

It was then that a plan was contrived. Orders were given to destroy their own factories, to leave nothing for the Germans. It was almost with relief that the gunners took aim at their own instalments for they knew a hasty retreat was planned. It was then, however, that with selfish cunning the Red Army command gathered their own elite, crossed the only bridge of retreat, and blew it up behind them leaving thousands of their own soldiers stranded. The bewildered command which remained began to realize their bleak situation. At the break of grey and dim daylight, the Panzerkorps began their precise and merciless onslaught. Realizing they were trapped, the men began to scatter. Joseph exited the protective skin of the tank, and fled to seek refuge. A dozen men, running evasively, hid in the bombed out shell of a factory. There was no way of escape, and to remain hidden was their only defense. The sounds of slaughter, firefights, surrender, and dying were all around.

Joseph and his mates remained hidden in the rubble of the steel plant, maintaining guarded silence. Drinking oily water from pools of melted snow, he survived, numb and weak for two days. Dniepropetrovsk had fallen to the Nazis, and there were too many of the enemy in the occupied city to remain safely hidden. The men were discovered and marched roughly to the local prison.

The prison of Dniepropetrovsk was originally built to house inmates in the region. That day, with POWs and civilians crammed in, it exploded with thousands of men. Joseph and his friend Wasyl struggled to keep each other warm at night, maybe sleeping or perhaps it was fainting, for an hour or two before the next day’s horrors began. Their meagre daily ration was one or two inedible raw or rotting potatoes. These were brought in frozen from the fields and served to them, still encrusted with dirt and ice. These prisoners were the living dead. Joseph’s frame began wasting day by day, and the strength his young manhood waned.

Joseph and his friend Wasyl both knew they would die very quickly in the deteriorating conditions, so they planned an escape. If unsuccessful they would be freed regardless, with a bullet to the head. It was a risk they were willing to take. Hundreds of women whose husbands had been in this battalion, lined the roads daily as the men were marched to work sites, to see if their men were among these prisoners. The escape plan was to silently, by gesture, entreat some of the women to let them slip behind them to hide, and then make a run for it. They got the approval of a small group of brave women, because this was a great personal risk for them as well. Joseph and Wasyl joined desperate hands and crouched low, slipping quickly behind the line while the women bunched together to hide them. Staying low, they moved stealthily further down the road, until they were able to run a fair distance. They hid until dusk behind some of the lifeless winter bramble along the riverbank until they could move to further safety.

They waited on the bank of the frozen Dniepro River and crossed at dusk. Joseph and Wasyl scraped and pushed snow into mounds against the shrubbery in the hollow of the banks to make a crude shelter. They laid some garments on top of the snow, covered themselves with another and huddled together to rest until daybreak allowed them to go towards the village twenty kilometres north. This village was the last place that Joseph and Wasyl would share their fates. They found refuge together in a villager’s home. Villagers of the day were protective of the straggling survivors that sporadically passed through, offering them all they had, hearty borscht and bread, and maybe even some pork rind. Joseph and Wasyl slept on the veritable luxury of hay piled upon the rough hewn floor and were warm for the first time in months. The very next morning, each one listened to directions to the land of their origins, and set out on foot. Wasyl’s destination was upwards of four hundred kilometres north, near Kiev. Joseph would never know his friend’s fate. Joseph’s westward journey was over eight hundred kilometres over the fertile but frozen Steppes of Ukraine. They couldn’t wait for a warm spring day, understanding the risks taken by the villagers in helping them. So they set out, embracing and bidding a warm farewell.

Travelling the isolated country roads on foot, Joseph felt an unusual stupor come over him. He couldn’t recall how long it lasted, but he found himself with a period of time unaccounted for. He felt a searing headache and shook uncontrollably as a fever gripped him. He understood enough to know that he must collect himself and push his weary and ill body to the next village.

His muscles ached and boils began to emerge on his body. He was strangely grateful for the dimming afternoon light, for his eyes could not bear to look at the brightness reflecting the snow pack. Joseph knew, and the confusion confirmed, that he had contracted typhus. To overcome the confusion and delirium, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He went on for two more hours, and at last he saw the golden glimmer of candlelit windows. Joseph collapsed heavily against the weathered door of the dwelling.

Two women shared this lodging, their husbands and sons gone to war. Unable to speak, Joseph was at their mercy. He was gently lifted inside. They warmed him, offered sips of broth, dressed the boils, and at personal risk, rid him of the remaining lice which carried this disease. After some time, Joseph’s reasoning returned and he awoke to find himself in this paradise. These women had two ovens in their home, one used for cooking and heating and one special clay over used to bake bread. On top of this clay oven, a bed was made for Joseph. The warmth of life came into him while the bread of life baked beneath. There, they nursed him for three full weeks.

In January 1942, Joseph again took directions to the next village, leading him ever westward. He was weak but resolute as he walked at least fifteen kilometres each day and sometimes twice that. His army issue boots were completely worn, so Joseph now wore boots fashioned from cut tires stuffed with rags, and bound with twine. In each village he found welcome and a meal. He felt himself wasting away, yet pushed on by sheer willpower, until he was within one hundred kilometres of home. It had turned brighter and the lengthening days of February afforded him more daylight. It seemd that the worst storms had passed, but he no longer felt emotions of anger, fear or suffering, nor of joy or hope. There was nothing left in him, he was spent.

Joseph finally came to a village only thirteen kilometres from home. A neighbour from his village of Markova, passing through on business, was astonished to observe the gaunt face he recognized as Joseph’s. He lifted this broken man onto his donkey and the lowly beast of a King brought Joseph to his home. The homecoming was of one awakened from the dead, as all wept with the pitiful relief of life giving love.