Бесплатный фрагмент - Inside the Rzhev Meatginder

Rusakov GenNadiy Fedorovich
INSIDE THE
RZHEV MEATGRINDER
CHILDHOOD
World War II prose
1941—1945

People!

As long as the hearts are pounding, —

Remember!

At what

Price

happiness has been won, —

please remember!

Requiem (Eternal Glory to the Heroes)

Robert Rozhdestvensky

Preface

To my shame, with three higher educations and 58 years behind me, I knew very little, if nothing at all, about the Rzhev arc (Battles of Rzhev). I vaguely remembered the lines of Alexander Tvardovsky: “I was killed near Rzhev, In a nameless swamp…” and that’s it…

“Rzhev arc. Childhood” Rusakov Gennady Fedorovich — a teenager of 8 years by the will of fate found himself with his family between two front lines.

Another facet, a different exposition of the war, no less terrible. After reading the book, I realized that I need to look for information. I typed on the Internet and… the first thing that fell out:

Rzhev meat grinder, forgotten and hushed up until now.

“We were advancing on Rzhev through corpse fields”… You crawl over corpses, and they are piled up in three layers, swollen, teeming with worms, emitting a sickening sweet smell of decomposition of human bodies. The explosion of the shell drives you under the corpses, the soil shudders, the corpses fall on you… The millions of victims near Rzhev were diligently hushed up by Soviet historiography and are still being hushed up. It is because of this that many soldiers are not buried until now.’ Pyotr Mikhin — in the book of memoirs: ‘Ahead is the “valley of death”.

Steeply… I read and look on.

“This silence negated the heroic efforts, inhuman trials, courage and self-sacrifice of millions of Soviet soldiers, was a desecration of the memory of almost a million dead” … Based on TASS materials

After the defeat at Moscow in 1942, German units withdrew to the west. The Soviet General Staff is planning a grandiose offensive — the giant pincers of the Kalinin and Western fronts should close in the area of Vyazma, cutting off and burying four German armies in the Rzhev pocket. But… the operation failed. The Red Army was “bogged down” at Rzhev for fifteen months.

The offensive went down in history as the “Rzhev Meat Grinder”. Rzhev became a symbol of heavy and bloody battles without moving forward.

According to modern data, the demographic losses of the USSR in the Great Patriotic War amounted to 25—27 million people.

Of these, died military personnel — 8,668,400

6,818,300 soldiers died in battles, hospitals and other incidents,

1,850,100 people did not return from captivity

civilian population in the occupation zone — 13,684,700

7,420,400 people deliberately exterminated,

2,164,300 people died in forced labor in Germany

4,100,000 people died from starvation, disease and lack of medical care.

Almost 14 million civilians — think about it — are children, the elderly, women. Unarmed, just killed or starved to death.

Even if you have nothing to do with the art of war and try to stay away from politics — always remember — “For whom the bell tolls!” in fact.

The memorial complex to the Soviet soldier near Rzhev was erected near the village of Khoroshevo, Rzhevsky District, Tver Region, visible from the M-9 highway.

The memorial was erected on the site of bloody battles near Rzhev. It is built on people’s donations. The center of the memorial complex was a 25-meter sculpture of a soldier. The project to create a memorial was implemented by the Russian Military Historical Society with the support of the Union State, the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation and the Government of the Tver Region. Based on the materials: MIC Izvestia.

We have to go. To bow down....to the family…

“It’s necessary — not dead! It’s got to be alive!”

(Requiem. R.Rozhdestvensky)

Gavrilenko Yulia Dmitrievna

The text makes a huge impression… And it’s just a documentary narrative, without any attempt to entice with storylines, twists, denouements… Overwhelming… Perhaps the impression is determined by the fact that this is the text of a familiar person, but rather not.

These memories need to be published everywhere! Marked “must read”!

Boyarinova Yulia Nikolaevna.

INSIDE THE
RZHEV MEATGRINDER
CHILDHOOD
World War II prose
1941—1945

The 75th anniversary of the Great Victory, this tragic and, at the same time, heroic page in the history of our country and all the peoples who lived then in the vast expanses of a still single, multinational state, is approaching. On my desk is the 46th issue of Evening Moscow dated November 20, 2014, where the scheme of hostilities on the “Rzhevskaya Arc” was published.

It was there, in the very center of this arc, that our family found itself in 1941 — 1945.

Chapter 1. The year is 1941. I’m 7 years old.Fire

I met the beginning of the war in the Moscow region, in the urban-type settlement of Novopetrovskoe, where I lived with my father and mother.

I was in my eighth year. We lived renting a small room in a private house. We found ourselves in Novopetrovskoe because in 1934, during a thunderstorm, my maternal grandmother’s house was struck by lightning, the house burned to the ground.

Only my great-grandfather’s elderly father was in the house, he was 104 years old. All the village adults worked in the fields; it was August — the height of the harvesting work. When they saw and realized in the field that he was on fire, his grandmother’s son rode into the village on horseback, but all he managed to do was pull out his grandfather, resting and not understanding what was happening.

Everything was burned, including the property of our family, because after the wedding, my father and mother lived with their grandmother, my mother’s mother, in this village with the offensive name of Tupitsino. They were still building their house, in another, neighboring village, where his father was born and all his relatives lived, with the name Egor’evskoe. It turned out that from the clothes we had only what we were wearing that day.

His father asked the chairman of the collective farm to let him go so that he could earn money for clothes. In collective farms, money was not paid, earnings were accrued in working days. By the decision of the board of the collective farm, my father was released, but not immediately and with the condition that he would return after some time back. He worked in a collective farm as a livestock breeder. Why he ended up in Novopetrovskoe, and not in Moscow, where he worked from the age of eight for a merchant from this village, “a boy on the run”, I do not know. A year later, his mother left for him, and we: my sister, me and my younger brother stayed with my paternal grandmother. But the following year, my mother, having been in the village and leaving again to live with my father, took me with her. Why me, and not my brother or sister, I don’t know.

That’s how I ended up in this village. All the money earned, except for housing and food expenses, mom tried to spend on the purchase of everything related to clothes. I bought a manual sewing machine, searched and, if possible, bought different fabrics. We were small and growing up quickly, so it was not practical to buy ready-made clothes. My father’s job involved traveling around the neighborhood, so he bought a bike for himself. By June 1941, we had accumulated a large suitcase of all sorts of fabrics.

My father left on conscription on the 4th day of the war — June 26. Saying goodbye to us, he told my mother that the war would be hard and long, so he advised her to go home to the village. There, as I wrote above, we had our own house. A Roma woman with her children temporarily lived in it, she left the camp in 1936 and got a job on a collective farm, her father allowed her to live until she built her house. In the same village lived all our paternal relatives — four of his brothers, their mother — Maria Ivanovna 63 years old, her parents — father Ivan Severyanovich 96 years old and mother Natalia Egorovna 92 years old, with them lived their daughter, grandmother’s sister — Elena Ivanovna 57 years — disabled since childhood.

“In the village,” he said, “on the ground, it will be easier to feed children and the elderly.” And we went to the village of Tverskaya, then Kalinin region, Pogorelsky district — not far from Rzhev, taking with us all the property that we had managed to accumulate.

It was a very beautiful village called Egor’evskoe, located along the banks of two streams: Derzha and Sukromlya, which flowed into the Derzha.

My mother took my sister from my grandmother 9 years old and my younger brother 5 years old, they lived with her, as I said, while my father and mother and I tried to settle in the suburbs, and we settled in our house. The gypsy was not touched, it seemed to be safer together, she and her mother were the same age, especially since she had nowhere to move or leave.

In August, the harvesting of bread began and all the adult, able-bodied population, all women, worked in the fields from morning to late evening. Of the men in the village, there were only old men, but they were also engaged in various repair work, even my paternal great-grandfather, at the age of 96, was engaged in the repair of equipment, harnesses, wagons — everything that fails from hard work.

Chapter 2. The year is 1941. The rolls of war

And from afar, the sound of war could already be heard. Soon the retreating units of the Red Army began to pass through the village, first in groups with commanders, with weapons. Then in groups, and alone with weapons and without weapons. They said we were coming out of the encirclement — the Smolensk cauldron.

At the end of August, the retreating Red Army soldiers cautiously entered the village — they were afraid that there might already be fascists in the village, and then, they asked what we knew about their presence. The village did not know much about the situation in the district, but if possible, they tried to help with everything they could: clothes and food, if they asked for it. They explained how to go through the forests, bypassing large settlements and roads.

I remember very well one of the last groups, there were 7 people in it. Among them, the sergeant stood out, he was armed not with an ordinary rifle, but with some other, the barrel of the rifle ended in a thickening, similar to a basket. As I found out later, it was a semi-automatic ten-shot Simonov rifle. And I remembered this because by this time it had already become known: the Nazis had taken Volokolamsk. Fighters from this group decided to go to the front without weapons, dressed in civilian clothes. They changed into the old clothes of my father and his brothers. The weapons were buried in a sheepfold, in dry manure. The sergeant was not Russian, it seems, as I understand it now, Turkmen or Tajik, but he spoke Russian well. He refused to change clothes and did not leave the rifle, said: “I will go as it is, lucky — I will get there, I will not be lucky — I will take the fight.”

It may seem like I’m making up the details, since I haven’t had eight yet. But I remember everything verbatim, even the fact that his comrades persuaded him to leave their documents here in the village, and even more so — the party card, but he refused. I already knew about the party card then, my uncle, my mother’s brother, had a party card, he was a participant in the war with the Finns, there he joined the party and was proud of it.

Whether they got to theirs or not, I don’t know, but everything happened before my eyes. I myself was a participant, because I took out of the pantry, at the direction of my mother, these clothes, in which they changed. A neighbor threatened my mother: “The Germans will come, I will tell you that you are helping the Communists, they will hang you!” Why she did not love our family, I do not know, maybe because we let into the house the same Gypsy family that left the camp, the Roma in the villages were not very fond of.

Chapter 3. The year is 1941. September. Fascists

For the first time the fascists appeared in our village on September 7. I remember this day well, it was a Sunday, and my sister and I were at home, not at school. I went to the first grade on the first of September and my sister to the second grade. We studied for only one week. There were no adults in the village, as I said, there was a harvesting of bread. The day was warm and sunny, and almost all the kids were outside, we played something with balls. It was about noon when we saw something strange approaching us from the village of Tupitsino and dragging a huge tail of dust with it.

The Germans arrived in a car that had tracks instead of rear wheels. There were 4 people in the car. In the village, in general, we never saw any cars other than tractors, so we looked with surprise at this “miracle — yudo”!

An officer got out of the car and on a broken Russian, poking his finger into some paper, as I found out later, in the map, pointing his hand in the direction of the river, asked: “Is this Derzha? Where is Sukromlya?”

We guessed that he was asking about our rivers and replied, “Sukromlya at the other end of the village.” He wrote something down and got in the car. She turned around and moved, but then in the next yard, for some reason, a pig squealed, the car stopped, two came out of it — this officer and a soldier. They went to the house and started knocking on the doors, but no one answered because the adults were in the field and there were two small children at home. The eldest was probably five years old, and maybe even less, I don’t remember exactly. Without waiting for an answer to the knock, the officer said something to the soldier, he went to the car, brought and put what he brought under the door. The officer said something to us and waved his hand to get us off, we walked away. An officer and a soldier walked around the corner of the house. Almost immediately there was an explosion, the door was torn down, the soldier entered the courtyard, a shot rang out.

The soldier came out of the yard, dragging the dead pig by the leg. The officer took some papers out of his pocket, put them on the rubble of the house, crushed them with a small pebble, said: “Payment.” These were, as it turned out later, occupation stamps. The pig was loaded into the car, got on their own and drove away. I described in such detail the first meeting with the occupiers because the second visit to our village by the Germans directly affected me.

Chapter 4. The year is 1941. Military reserve

On Monday, my sister and I went to school, classes were not canceled, no one knew that new owners would appear, although they appeared, but left, no orders were received from the school.

The school was located in a nearby village, in the same Tupitsino (stupidsino), 3.5 km from Egor’evskoe. All our relatives on my mother’s side lived there. At the end of the week, if I’m not mistaken, on Thursday, a German officer appeared in class. He spoke well in Russian and explained to the old teacher Elizaveta Kapitonovna (my mother also studied with her) that now she needed to conduct lessons in a new way. He will try to monitor the correct training of students. Students should know: The Soviets and Stalin are bad. Germany and Hitler are good. This was central to his rather long conversation with the teacher.

When the German left, the teacher said: “I don’t know how and what can happen later, but I think you don’t need to come to school anymore.” That’s how our school year ended.

About three days after class cancellations, my sister and I decided to throw ourselves a party. I think it was a Sunday, again there were no adults in the village, as I said, they cleaned the bread. And we: me, my sister and brother were at home and drinking tea. A samovar was boiling on the table, and under the table was a small bag of sugar. I took it out of the cache, it was our military reserve.

When one of the neighboring children shouted on the street: “Germans!”, I, remembering what happened on the first appearance of them in our village, climbed under the table to hide this bag back in the cache. I hurried, pushed the table and knocked over the boiling samovar on myself. The burn was terrible, probably half of my skin came off, and I was in bed for a long time. Naturally, there was no hospital in the village, my mother treated me — she lubricated the burns with the protein of raw eggs — so told my great-grandmother on my father,” she was considered a medicine woman in the village. All the villagers were treated by her.

The nearest medical facility was 12 kilometers away. I recovered slowly. While in our village the fascists were only raids — chickens were still walking through the streets and all other peasant animals were still intact.

But when the garrison was stationed in October, the chickens, the “eggs”, and other village animals very quickly ran out. But my mother, in advance, hid a number of testicles in different places and continued my treatment, taking out one, two pieces from the caches. At that time, there was no place for us in the house, the Nazis already lived in the living rooms, and we huddled in the kitchen. A gypsy woman with her children was taken somewhere.

Chapter 5. The year is 1941. Boots

In November, when the cold weather came, orders were posted in the village — to hand over warm clothes and shoes to the German command. Particular attention was paid to boots and fur coats, for hiding them — shooting. Houses were searched. But the inhabitants did not want to give what in such a harsh winter was necessary for themselves or their loved ones, husbands, sons and fathers who went to war, so they hid everything in some hiding places, often risking their lives.

I remember how my mother and I dragged my father’s boots and his two unmarried brothers, from one basement, where the boots were hidden, to another, in which the search had already passed. This allowed the installation of a basement in the house. I had already started walking by this time.

Even earlier, when the Nazis only visited the village, but already searched the houses and took away everything that they thought were valuable, my mother buried a bicycle, a sewing machine and a wooden barrel of salted pork in the garden. My mother sheathed a suitcase with fabrics with burlap and tied it to a children’s sled, it turned out to be a seat, that is, like a natural belonging to a sled. So they stood in the canopy until the very end of the village’s existence.

It also became clear why the German officer was interested in our rivers on his first visit. Women of the surrounding villages, including ours, began to be driven to dig trenches on the western, that is, opposite banks of our rivers. Trenching continued until the onset of frost in November. Therefore, when the Nazis were poured in full near Moscow, they retreated to the fortifications prepared in advance, and our village became the front line.

Chapter 6. The year is 1942. Between fronts. I’m 8 years old

In the early twenties (21 or 22) of January, all those able to hold a shovel in their hands were driven out to clear the roads. There was a lot of snow, raked all the way to the ground. Huge ramparts formed along the road, as we worked from dawn to dusk for several days. When this huge snow trench was finished, equipment, cars, tanks, guns went through it, all this was crossed through Sukromlya to the west bank.

The troops marched for about a day, the infantry went for the equipment, in an organized manner, in tight formations. Along the entire road, on both sides, apparently along its entire length, there were cover posts: a trench in the snow with a machine gun and three soldiers, and so it was in front of our house. Two weeks earlier, nervousness was felt in the behavior of the fascists, all the villagers, even children, understood that something terrible and unpredictable was approaching and they went to bed without undressing in order to be ready for anything at any time.

Around midnight, on January 26, we heard the sound of breaking glass and saw flames of flamethrowers through broken windows. It was soldiers in black uniforms who set fire to houses. The night was very cold. From the conversations of adults, I remember that it was more than 40 degrees below zero. My mother sat my younger brother on the same suitcase, wrapping it in all the warm clothes that could only be found, and tied it to a sled, So he sat on a sled near a burning house.

Our entire family and a few neighbors gathered outside my great-grandfather’s burning house, apparently because he was the only man in this corner of the village. We warmed up by this fire for two hours. During this time, one of the soldiers of that flanking cover from the river, came to warm up at the burning house and, leaving, took off his great-grandfather’s hat and boots.

In the old man, thrown out of the burning house, the great-grandfather found an old hat — budyonovka and cotton pims, like, the way out: both the head and legs are covered. But then suddenly a patrol came, checked the flank posts, saw my grandfather’s budyonovka with a red star and took him somewhere. We thought he wouldn’t be back, but he did. He was released when, apparently, it turned out that he was 96 years old and was squandered by their own soldiers. We were very happy about his return.

And soon after, another soldier from the flank cover came to the burning house where we were staying. He looked around and walked over to me and tried to take the hat off my head. The ribbons of the ears of my hat were tied under my chin. When he realized that he needed to untie the ribbons, he reached under my chin with his hand. Without hesitation, I involuntarily pressed my teeth into his hand and bit it to the blood. He howled in pain and hit me in the right ear with such force that I flew away from him three or four meters away. It’s good that I didn’t go in the direction of the burning house and buried my head in the snowdrift. My mother saw this when he stepped towards me again, she, without hesitation, slapped him with such a slap that he was in the same snowdrift, next to me! He did not expect this, he was frightened, jumped up and ran to where he came from, since he was unarmed. The grandmothers were worried: “He will return with a weapon and not alone, you need to hide,” they said and buried me and my mother in the snow 10—15 meters from the place where it happened.

They were right — he came with a gun and not alone. Everyone who was by the fire was interrogated for a long time, threatened, but they pointed to the road and said that we had left. Later, the grandmothers said that these two felt the snow for a long time with bayonets, fortunately for us, not where we were buried, and then went to the machine gun nest.

Sometime after the incident, a group of soldiers appeared in black uniforms, with the image of a human skull and crossed bones on the sleeves of overcoats. They began to drive people away from burning houses to the road, it was freed from military units, apparently everyone went through, and now they are engaged with us — the inhabitants.

All the other events of this night are described by me in the poem “We Remember”, in which everything is true, without any artistic or other fiction.

And with an infant, too, the truth. I didn’t remember that young woman because I hadn’t lived in the village for three years before the war, but she was walking next to us, at the back of a column with a small knot and an infant in her arms, supported by a sling over her shoulder.

The child was crying loudly all the time, it looked like he had a cold. The woman often stopped, corrected something in this bundle in her arms, tried to calm her down, but the child cried, not stopping. When she stopped once again, the escort who was walking nearby pushed her in the back with the butt of a rifle, she fell face forward, and naturally dropped the child. The bundle rolled back a meter and a half or two, while she was trying to get up, the escort poked at this bundle with a bayonet and threw it to the side of the road. The woman rushed to the bundle, but she was driven back into the column with her rifle butts.

The poem was written for the tenth anniversary of the victory in 1955 in Spitsbergen, where I often visited in those years, working as a ship mechanic of the Murmansk Arctic Shipping Company, there sometimes, it happened to have free time to remember everything I had experienced in the heat of the war.

On the occasion of the 25th anniversary of these events, already living in Moscow, I tried to publish this poem in “literaturnaya Gazeta (newspaper)” and in Izvestia. But it either did not reach the editors, or they did not find anything interesting in it that was worthy of the seal of that time, I do not know.

And then, after we, the inhabitants of the burned Egor’evskoe, were driven to the village of Aleksandrovka and, in some ways, as we were resettled, famine began.

Chapter 7. The year is 1942. Hunger

None of the residents of our former village could stock up on at least some food, and what could be taken with them — after all, you cannot carry much on yourself, since almost every family had young children.

That’s the situation. It seems that they saved children from death: they were carried on a sled, carried in their arms, but it turned out that they were brought to die of hunger. Local residents themselves survived with difficulty, they also had children, they also had to be saved from all the hardships and dangers that the war brought with it.

Mowed rye and wheat were in the stacks, it was possible to thresh them before the arrival of the nazis very little, so the villagers had minimal grain reserves.

Usually the main threshing was carried out in late autumn and winter, the sheaves were first dried in the rigs, and then threshedincovered currents. And this autumn it did not work, the villagers were forced to build fortifications, and, most importantly, these buildings and devices served as wood for the ceilings of trenches, machine gun nests and dugouts.

Apparently, the Nazis were going to survive the cold in warm huts, so the houses were not touched when fortifications were built in the autumn, but sheds, rigs, barns and even baths were dismantled and used in the construction of these defensive structures.

Stacks with unthreshed sheaves were burned. Livestock had already been eaten by the Nazis and the main product for the inhabitants of almost all villages, became potatoes, but they also tried to put a paw on it by insatiable hordes in uniforms. And then, they drove us in, who had nothing but hungry mouths. People began to starve to death.

From the first day, when we were driven to the village of Aleksandrovka, grandmother Manya and I went with a bag to the houses of local residents — to beg for alms. Mom began to help the old grandmother with housework in the house where we settled. My sister helped my mother and looked after my little brother and the elderly. We were all starving. A bucket of potatoes, which my mother received from my grandmother in advance, was eaten in two days — there were as many as seven hungry mouths. Collecting alms turned out to be almost an empty affair, because there were no fewer beggars than residents in Aleksandrovka itself — our entire village.

In order to understand how limited the space in which the villagers and we who were driven here found themselves turned out to be, it is necessary to describe the spatial situation that developed at that time.

As I have already said, the first line of German defense passed behind the village houses 50—60 meters away — where there were outbuildings. The houses themselves with palisades and fences are about 25—30 meters, the road in front of the houses is 20 — 25 meters, and further, 150 — 200 meters along the bank of the Derzha River, wire barriers. And beyond the river, with a channel width of 30 — 35 meters — a field resting on the forest, which arced around this field and rested with a wide tongue on the Derzha River. This forest was already occupied by our Soviet troops in February. From the village to the forest along the riverbed was about 800 meters. This is the picture that we got — houses with residents reliably covered the first line of German defense from the fire of our troops.

I don’t think it could have been a fluke. It was possible to leave the village only along the river — between the wire barriers and the line of trenches and trenches, the fascist defenses. True, it was possible to cross the river and go to the village of Novoe. It was located directly opposite the village of Aleksandrovka, but shifted downstream by 700—800 meters. So, if you look across the river, the right edge of this village started from the middle of the village of Aleksandrovka. Therefore, the wire barriers running along the left bank of the river went behind the river and covered the positions of the fascists in the village of Novoe. This wire fence crossed a potato field with potatoes that had not been harvested in the autumn and divided it almost in half: one part went with a rise to the forest, which by this time our troops occupied, and the other with a decrease, adjoined the trenches and trenches of the fascists.

Chapter 8. The year is 1942. Bombing

About ten days after we were driven to the village of Aleksandrovka, night bombing of the Fascist positions began, but because of the proximity of these positions to the village, and, apparently, due to the lack of accurate data on the location of these positions, bombs more often fell in the village than on their fortifications.