Anonymity is an interesting thing.
Case in point? The item below, published in The New York Times on the 22nd of August, 1915. Ostensibly a news item about the military service of Jewish soldiers in the German, a cursory glance and closer reading reveal the “article” – for lack of a better word – to be curiously different from the typical article carried in the Times, let alone most any newspaper.
Though the “article” includes a title – “War Pictured by Jewish Soldiers” – and subtitle – “Some of the Many in the German and Austrian Armies Tell of Thrilling or Amusing Adventures” – the absence of a byline, date of composition or publication, and name of originating news agency (Associated Press or United Press International) suggests that this article may not have been an “article” at all. Rather, given the item’s publication nearly two years before America’s declaration of war against Imperial Germany on April 6, 1917, perhaps – perhaps? – it was created by a branch of the German Government as a form of propaganda. As such, the intent, through a variety of accounts covering the integration and military service of Jews in both the Western and Eastern war zones, may have been to present American readers with a mental image Germany as an enlightened and tolerant nation. Thus, the article would have served as a counterweight to Allied propaganda.
In any event, there are some interesting facets to the article, which I’ve embedded within the text, in the form of “this” – Arial font, while the original text is in “this” – Times New Roman font.
By the way, the article was discovered purely by chance, while reviewing the Times on 35mm microfilm.
(Remember microfilm?)
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WAR PICTURED BY JEWISH SOLDIERS
Some of the Many in the German and Austrian Armies Tell of Thrilling or Amusing Adventures
The New York Times
August 22, 1915
In the huge armies arrayed by Germany and Austria-Hungary against their foes Jews are well represented both among officers and soldiers, and many of them are listed among the winners of the coveted Iron Cross and other rewards for bravery in the field. A collection of letters written by German and Austrian Jews at the front, which has just appeared in Berlin, paints the life of these men in thrilling and vivid fashion. The letter writers tell relatives and friends at home of tragic moments of battle, of amusing experiences during hours of relaxation, of religious services held while shells screamed through the air, of cheery evening spent with coreligionists in France or Poland who forget for the time being that their guests were invaders of their native soil. Throughout the book there are countless little touches, bits of reflective phrase, that bring clearly before the reader how war reacts on the minds of those waging it.
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I’ve not yet identified this collection of letters (several such books were published after the war, but the date of publication would, by definition, have been in 1915.
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One of the most interesting letters of all is from Private Werner of the 104th Infantry, describing the death of his brother Walter in a fight in Belgium. He writes:
In the morning we were taken over the Meuse and lay in reserve until darkness fell. About eight in the evening we received the order to advance. Under fearful artillery fire my company advanced toward the village, already entirely in flames (for our artillery had done some preliminary work). The village shone blood-red against the horizon.
While we lay in the corner of some bushes for a moment, Walter and I happened to find ourselves kneeling side by side by the flag. Both of us had the same thought. We caught hold of the flag with one hand, clasped our other hands, and in silence swore once again to be faithful to the flag and to ourselves.
“Forward!” We advanced at full speed. Rifle bullets whistled about us, shrapnel shrieked and burst in the air. We kept beside each other, shouting encouraging words, each thinking of the other, seeking not to lose him in the storm of battle. ***
When we had about reached the village the enemy had already withdrawn and begun an attack from the flank. Now came the order: “Left, march!” We were under the best of cover, but now we had to plunge into the worst hell of bullets. Many a man hesitated, but when we saw our officers rush on, Walter and I jumped up and ran forward.
We charged for five minutes with fixed bayonets. I heard Walter call to me. While I was answering, a bullet struck my forearm. It was only a glancing wound, but a second shot struck my upper arm and threw me to the ground.
Next afternoon the company officers sent me Walter’s pocket-book and diary, with the news that my good brother had just been buried. After the battle he had set out to find me and had been shot dead. Death has robbed me of my best comrade. ***
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The brothers referred to were the Heidenheims. Werner survived the war, while his fallen brother was Unteroffizier Walter. From Chemnitz, Walter Heidenheim was born on May 31, 1889, and was a member of 3rd Company, 2nd Battalion, 104th Infantry Regiment. Killed in action on August 23, 1914, he is buried at the Kriegsgräberstätte in Vladslo (Belgium), in Block 7, Grave 2293.
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A very different picture if painted by another soldier, who describes how the town of Kolomea, in South Galicia, turned out to welcome the Austrian troops passing through on their way to fight the Russians. He says:
You should have seen how the Jewish families, who constitute the majority of the population here, had put all their eatables and drinkables on long tables right in the middle of the street in order to regale the soldiers marching through. Everywhere stood women and children in their Sunday best, cutting pieces of cake and bread, while the men brought barrels and jugs full of water from the houses.
It was a strange sight to see a group of elderly Jews, in their silken caftans, sleeves rolled up, standing around a barrel, one of them hacking ice into small bits, others cutting sugar. An old and worthy Jew with a white beard was in the meantime stirring the refreshing lemonade with a long spoon. It was easy to see that all these people, of the better business element every one of them, would have given everything they owned most willingly to relieve the tired soldiers.
From a side alley an old Jewish woman appeared with a dish full of roasted apples; she, too, wished to give her share. At one table there was an especially gay time. Young Jewish girls stood by it in their best street garments, making small packages, each containing two pieces of bread (such gigantic war chunks!) spread with butter, two pickles, a piece of cake, and ten cigarettes. I saw one heap of about _____ of these packages, and still they were making more and bringing more supplies.
“Walter C. of Cologne” tells in a letter to his parents how he won the Iron Cross in Northern France. After describing days of desperate fighting, on one of which he lay for an hour under a dead horse, unable to extricate himself, he writes:
In the evening it was learned that one-fourth of our company was missing. I believed there could be nothing worse than that day, but there was worse ahead.
We pursued the enemy, who had received strong reinforcements. Then began a tremendous struggle that lasted seven days – 40,000 French against 30,000 Germans.
The worst was on the 7th of the month (September, 1914). All day we had lain under frightful shell fire, perfectly helpless because our artillery could not get the range of the enemy. At 7 in the evening my Captain got orders to send a patrol to the top of a hill, which was literally covered all over with bursting shells, from where the enemy’s position could be described.
“Eight volunteers step forward!”
I stepped forward. Nobody else did. The Captain clasped my hand.
I crawl back to our artillery, which im- _____ succeeded in getting to the top of the hill, but there I was discovered and subjected to fire that absolutely beggars description.
A fragment of a shell about as bit as a fist smashed my helmet; a piece of shrapnel tore my knapsack to pieces; another the cartridge box on my left side. In the meantime I quietly observed the enemy’s position through my field glass and noted it on a map.
I crawl back to our artillery which immediately turns its fire in that direction. Exactly seven minutes later the French guns are silenced. Once more I crawl back up the hill. Every French gun has been overturned. The gunners are dead.
A French battalion comes along to save the pieces. After a prearranged signal (white light-bullets, which I fire into the air) our artillery gives them a round. More than half the battalion fall dead or wounded, the other runs off in a panic, and for that day there are no more Frenchmen to be seen.
Next morning 200 dead and wounded are found, 82 torn by shells. I receive the Iron Cross.
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Jewish soldiers in the German army who lost their lives on September 7, 1914, include…
– .ת. נ. צ. ב. ה –
תהא
נפשו
צרורה
בצרור
החיים
Adler, Friedrich Jean, Soldat
Cussel, Hans, Soldat
Dannenbaum, Sally, Gerfreiter
Freudenthal, Otto, Soldat
Goldstein, Georg, Unteroffizier
Hermann, Georg, Soldat
Herzberg, Max, Gerfreiter
Jacobsohn, Heinrich, Unteroffizier
Josephthal, Anton, Unteroffizier
Kohn, Justin, Gerfreiter
Loeb, Siegfried, Soldat
Lowenstein, Max, Gerfreiter
Lustig, Fritz, Unteroffizier
Mayer, Leopold, Soldat
Meinstein, Siegfried, Soldat
Metzger, Wilhelm, Soldat
Neugass, Willy,Gerfreiter
Oppenheimer, Heli, Soldat
Rosenberger, Felix, Dr., Soldat
Rosenthal, Isaak, Soldat
Rosenthal, Leopold, Soldat
Schreiner, Nathan, Soldat
Simon, Julius, Unteroffizier
Tobias, Julius, Soldat
Weil, Leo, Soldat
Weil, Salomon, Soldat
Winter, Josef, Soldat
Wolf, Marcel, Soldat
…however, though the 1932 book Die Jüdischen Gefallenen Des Deutschen Heeres, Deutschen Marine Und Der Deutschen Schutztruppen 1914-1918 – Ein Gedenkbuch (from which these name were extracted) lists the military units to which these soldiers were assigned, the specific geographic locations where the casualties occurred are not given. Thus, I don’t know if any of these men, all members of infantry regiments, were actually assigned to “Walter C’s” company, and were thus among the casualties referred to in his letter.
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An interesting human touch is that in a letter written home from near Rheims by another winner of the Iron Cross. “Enclosed I send you the Iron Cross,” he says – and then, on the same line: “No, I have decided otherwise. I will wear it.”
Another, a non-commissioned officer of artillery, begs his “dear old folks” at home to send him frequently “little packages of chocolate, bonbons, sausage, and other edibles.”
“You have no idea how much we need such things,” he adds.
“I was so glad to get your letter that I lighted a candle under my tent in order to read it, though this is strictly forbidden,” writes Lieutenant Alfred Kraus of the Austrian Army to a friend. “We know what hay or straw looks like only from hearsay,” he adds further along in the same latter, “and, as for the mud, we have to wade through it knee-high.”
The writer bewails the hard fate that sent him to be mired in Serbia as one of the guardians of the Austrian lines of communication instead of letting him take part in real battles against the Russians. But from a note attached to the letter – one of the most light-hearted of the lot – we learn that the Lieutenant not only got his wish to see a real fight but was killed in Bosnia.
“It was my sad duty to lay him in his grave,” says the writer of the note.
Another soldier tells of attending a religious service “in the midst of thundering cannon and pouring rain. Yet I think we were all as devout as if we had been at home,” he remarks. Another, also describing his devotions in the field, tells how all present thought of their homes until the tears came to their eyes.
“No, no, we must not have such thoughts!” he goes on. “We must stay strong. We grit out teeth together.” And then:
The services are over. Before the church, laughing sunshine welcomes us. Once more we are soldiers, laughing like the sunlight, chattering, telling each other stories. Four Jews with Iron Crosses among us. They tell of many Jewish comrades who also have it, but could not come to the services.
Whew, how the shells whistle!
One letter is from the son of the widow Levi, in the district of Cassel, in Germany, whose six sons are fighting. When she lent it and another to the compiler of this book of soldiers’ letters she wrote: “Herewith are two letters from my son, but for God’s sake return them to me, as I am a very poor widow and the letters of my sons are my only fortune.” Writing from Russian Poland, one of the six tried to cheer up his “dear, good little mother” thus:
Judging from all your letters, you cannot get over the fact that you have six sons in the field. To be sure, it is no trifle for a woman of 70 to see all her sons, her only hope, her only support, in the field. But, dear, good mother, do not let your heart get too heavy in this manner. Remember how often God has stood by you in the direst days – do you think He would abandon you now? No; I don’t believe he would.
Think of your joy when we all come back victorious; think of all the things we’ll have to tell you! Why, we could write whole books about our adventures! It must be a joy and honor to you that we are all fighting for the fatherland.
One moonlight night Martin Feist of Frankfurt, private in an infantry regiment, leaning against the front of his trench in France, let his thoughts travel to his relatives and friends, especially to one comrade killed a short time before by a French bullet. In a letter he sets down these nocturnal meditations in the following poignant lines:
I got thinking of all my friends and relatives, and above all of him, the faithful one, with the warm heart and the glowing ideals. His aim was to fight ever higher toward truth, beauty, and goodness.
He was fated not to reach his goal; far from his home the bullet of the foe struck him down and brought him to an untimely end. Nothing of him remains to me but the memory of the happy and troubled days of our youth which we spent together. God’s ways are inscrutable.
Thus ran my thoughts for hours. They stopped when I thought of the awful sights on which my eyes have gazed. You stay-at-homes, you cannot be too grateful for the good fortune that has spared you from the horrors of war. Oh, you rich people, if you but knew what they are, you would open with your hands and hearts to relieve suffering and misery, you would show yourselves great as men, greater in your duties as Jews. You would understand that it is doubly right in these times to spend and give. Sources of revenue, to be sure, are cut off this year; perhaps you have suffered losses – yet God gave you so many years of prosperity!
On my thoughts ran: May these times tend to cleanse us in Frankfurt; may we learn to understand that heretofore we have thought too much of who was rich, who poor.
Away with the worship of wealth! Let us thrust that idol from our hearts, and our Frankfurt will see that there is something higher than riches. It is this: To be human!
Then came the rattle of rifle fire, the thunder of cannon. The thoughtful man from Frankfurt was compelled to do his share in warding off the enemy.
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Coincidentally or not, my prior blog posts, “God’s Decree is Unsearchable: One of 12,000 – Thoughts of A German Jewish Soldier in the Great War”, Part I and Part II, present Martin Feist’s letter in the original German, and my own (with a little help from Google Translate) English-language translation of the two letters. Given that Martin tragically was killed in action on January 7, 1915, it’s notable (and presumably intentional) that this article makes no reference to his death in combat.
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Another writer tells how, in a French village, he and his comrades were ordered suddenly to round up all the inhabitants who had not fled and imprison them until further orders in the village schoolhouse. Some indignantly protested, and it took all the young soldier’s slender stock of French – he alone among the Germans knew a bit of that language – to persuade them that resistance was useless. Finally all were cooped up in the schoolhouse and then began a torrent of requests from the indignant prisoners. The soldier writes:
They had a thousand desires, and every time that one or another of the villagers left the schoolhouse, the sentinel had to report it, so that I might ask each what he wanted.
This one wished to feed his cattle; another to milk her cows in order to have milk for her little children; some required more bedding, others had forgotten plates, knives, forks, etc. And each time one was allowed to go to his home one of the guards had to go along with a fixed bayonet.
Things were not easy for the interpreter. He managed to find out what most of the villagers wanted, but when the members of one family excitedly informed him that they had a rabbit stew cooking at their home and wanted to go back to ear it before it was burned he was helpless.
They repeated it over and over again. Finally he understood. Off went the family to their rabbit stew – accompanied by a German soldier with fixed bayonet.
“You sleep at night fully clothed, boots on, and electric lamp clasped at your breast, your revolver by your side,” writes a soldier from somewhere in Russia, adding, “but I soon got accustomed to it.”
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The following passage describes the interaction of a Jewish soldier with a Jewish family in Olkusz, a city in southern Poland. You can view contemporary images pertaining to the history of the Jews of Olkusz – alas, primarily of the city’s Jewish cemetery – at Virtual Shtetl, and, learn about the fate of the city’s Jews during the Shoah at the the Zchor memorial web page, “We Remember Jewish Olkusz!“
Notably – I wasn’t aware of this until creating this post – a quarter-century later, Olkusz was the setting of a well-known photographic image from the Shoah: That of Rabbi and dayan (religious judge) Mosze Ben Icchak Hagerman being tormented by German soldiers in the town’s market on June or July 31, 1940. You can view the image and a related photo (via Yad Vashem, reproduced below) at the blog of Marie-Pierre and Didier Long, under the title “Le Kiddoush Ashem dans l’histoire” (“Kiddush Hashem in History”)
The text accompanying the photographs states:
Rabbin Moshe Hagerman, ZAL, le Rabbi et dayan (juge rabbinique) de Olkusz en Pologne. Il a été amené le 31 juin 1940 sur la place centrale de la ville pour y être exécuté. Avant d’être tué, il a demandé qu’on le laisse réciter le Kadish pour ses frères assassinés. Les soldats allemands ont ri en le laissant faire et l’ont tué. Des 4097 juifs d’Olkuz listés par les nazis on pense que 250 ont survécu.
Translation?
Rabbi Moshe Hagerman, Z”L, Rabbi and dayan (rabbinical judge) of Olkusz in Poland. He was brought on June 31, 1940 to the central square of the city to be executed. Before he was killed, he asked to be allowed to recite the Kadish for his murdered brothers. The German soldiers laughed at him and let him do it. Of the 4,097 Jews in Olkuz listed by the Nazis, 250 are believed to have survived.
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Another, also in Russia, writes amusedly of what occurred after he stopped a wagon driven by a Russian peasant and bought two geese:
The news ran like wildfire along our column. “A. has cabbaged two geese!” In a few minutes I heard my First Lieutenant riding up at a gallop. Thirty yards away he called out: “Where are the birds?” I held them up before him by the feet, and he joyfully asked to be the third in our party. I and our “Wachtmeister,” [a non-commissioned officer] were the other two.
At the next stop we found a Jew and had the geese killed according to ritual. When we marched into Olkusz, our destination, quarters were prepared for me by order of the First Lieutenant, and I was commissioned to look after roasting the geese.
Soon I found a good Jewish family, who were pleased to find that I also was a Jew; and when I said that seven others would also be there, we at once formed a friendly alliance.
But, my God, what a kitchen it was! – parlor, living room, bedroom, tailor shop, kitchen, all in one. One other room with a bed was rented. I soon cleaned up things on the hearth, which was no easy matter, as the family consisted of fourteen persons; the youngest was five months old, and so upward to 21 years old. The wife had the reputation of being an excellent cook.
Dinner was set for nine. We got together punctually – eight non-commissioned officers, five privates, and the First Lieutenant. The rented room was cleared out and table put in it, grandly decorated.
Our First Lieutenant was quite flabbergasted when he saw me getting up all this splendor and went from one fit of astonishment to another. He could find no words to express himself; simply muttered, “Ah! Ah!” and wagged his head. He contributed thirty bottles of beer to the festivities; the “Wachtmeister” ten.
Everything went beautifully and we were all in the best of spirits. The side dishes were salted potatoes, covered with hot goose-fat and some pickles.
In short, it was a good peace dinner in the midst of the most violent warfare in the enemy’s country, for, almost three miles from our dining place, a patrol of Cossacks had been beaten off only the day before.
“Yesterday my acetylene lamp went out, so I am finishing this letter today,” writes another soldier from “Skodnicki Dune near Lodz.” Another observes: “Having no pen or ink, I had to write my letter with a pencil, for which please pardon me. Moreover, I have no table, but must use the ground for one.”
Hugo Henle, non-commissioned officer in a Landwehr Regiment, observes: “I have repeatedly found that one must not underestimate the Russians, especially when it comes to digging themselves in.”
Turning again to the Western Front, we have this exciting narrative of a soldier’s adventures at Souain in France:
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I don’t know if “exciting” is the proper word for the awful events described below. A variety of other adjectives would have vastly greater relevancy, but, well, I’m presenting the article verbatim.
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God be thanked, I am still alive and uninjured,while many, many of our men, especially those who were near me during yesterday’s attack, are dead or wounded. ***
The tale is really too awful to tell; how I alone escaped alive and unhurt is incomprehensible to me.
It was 10 o’clock in the morning and the company was being paid. I had as usual taken the money which the men send home, when suddenly the French attacked us amid terrific artillery and rifle fire.
I darted back along the trench to my post, snatched my rifle and put my other rifle in its place. We could not stay long where we were crouching, but edged away more to the left, where there was better cover. Ten minutes later we had to move toward the right again to where we had been before in order to shoot at the French, who were advancing.
At the same moment a hail of shells and shrapnel burst upon us. I was hurled to the ground by the air pressure and buried by the earth falling upon me until only my head remained above. I was in this awful position for an hour while shells burst roundabout me, wounding several men. I yelled to soldiers, who camp up and tried to dig me out, to get away and think of their own safety.
When they finally dug me out I felt and touched myself all over; no damage. The only sufferers were my spectacles, which I was carrying in my pocket; one of the glasses was broken.
But what a spectacle there was around me! I shall never forget it! Everywhere they are saying that this day was the most terrible of all experienced by the regiment since the war began.
References
Die Jüdischen Gefallenen Des Deutschen Heeres, Deutschen Marine Und Der Deutschen Schutztruppen 1914-1918 – Ein Gedenkbuch, Reichsbund Jüdischer Frontsoldaten, Forward by Dr. Leo Löwenstein, Berlin, Germany, 1932
Zchor memorial page for the Jews of Olkusz, at “We Remember Jewish Olkusz!”
Marie-Pierre and Didier Long’s blog, at didierlong.com
