Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

Lemevsky and Dronov joined their squad which was led by a local to one section of town where, they were told, lived the notorious criminal family of Schwartzbard. Sholom Schwartzbard was a local folklore hero as an Anarchist, French Army soldier, and a Jew who would fight. The squad was met at the door of the first house by an old, white haired man, Sholom Schwartzbard’s Uncle Yakiv. He stood with his chest out, defiantly holding a butter churning handle, and glared out into the night at their torches. The squad commander immediately drew his pistol and shot him in the chest. He crumpled in the doorway. Three squad leaders stepped over the body and entered the house. While Lemevsky and Dronov remain outside at the door, they heard scuffling, and a woman’s voice screaming “my husband will kill you all!” Then slapping, a thump and more woman’s screaming. Cries and grunting for an uncomfortable time. Then silence. Suddenly, the woman was thrown through the door opening, over Uncle Yakiv and onto the street. She lay on the ground, bleeding from her mouth and her long skirt was torn to the waist.

Their leader stepped from the house, buckling his trousers. “Finish her,” he commanded Lemevsky and Dronov in a low, stern voice. They stood in stunned silence. The commander drew his pistol and pointed it at Lemevsky. Reluctantly, they shuffled to the woman on the ground. While Lemevsky sat on her chest, Dronov strangled her.

With their blood lust aroused and all restraints put aside, the squad moved to the neighboring homes. That night fifteen members of the Schwartzbard family were murdered.

“R-r-r-return to camp!” Kotovsky commanded, after receiving news of the collapse of the revolt from his reconnaissance scouts. Word spread among the Anarchist troops arrayed along the river edge north of town, and they packed up their provisions and began the trudge back west to camp. A few were itching for battle, but most of the soldiers were apprehensive of just this lack of resolve among the townspeople, and relieved that they would live another day.

Max learned of the failure to retake the town when the first troops returned to break camp. He was dressed in two shirts and two thin coats in the cold February wind, and was allotted a pair of lightweight shoes, more like slippers, to shuffle around the motor pool. No doubt his captors thought he was unlikely to escape in them. Now there was near chaos in the camp as soldiers gathered their kits, broke down their tents and scrambled to find their units for marching out. The complete failure of their military mission added to the nervous anxiety, short tempers and lack of discipline.

In the confusion, Max spotted a duffle bag with a pair of boots tied to the handle near a flattened tent next to the motor pool. No one was around. He had gone over and over in his mind the odds: he did not know where he was or the surrounding areas; the locals were either friends or very hostile, the town with the train was filled with enemy soldiers; he had no identification and no money; and poor clothing and footwear. All the duffle bag offered was a solution to the last problem. Nevertheless, in the mad scramble of the troops he ambled over to the bag, put it on his shoulder and started back, head down, to the vehicles.

“Max,” Marusya called to him, holding a pistol pointed at the ground.

Max looked up at her. He saw in her face a disapproving tensing of her eyebrows, and downturned smile. Max looked back at her with a sorrowful disappointment.

“I am just helping to load the truck,” Max said, and slung the duffle bag onto the back of the truck flatbed. She watched him return to the motor pool before she went on with her tasks.

Soon Max was directed to fill the trucks with petrol, stow the remaining drums in the flatbed, and check that all were running. The armored automobile units, comprised of eight armored cars, two staff cars, ten trucks and a petrol tanker, Max’s workshop truck and six motorcycles, were first out of camp. Max sat inside an Austin-Putilov armored truck in the position of loader/mechanic next to two gunners, with Sholom in the front seat next to the driver. Soldiers could walk and might be captured or shot, but they could not afford to lose any transports or their mechanic.

Kotovsky headed to the deeper hills and forests outside of Shepetivka, 100 kilometers to the north. The motor unit reached a campsite midway and sent ahead motorcycles on a scouting mission on the following day, Monday, February 17. In the meantime, they sent out raiding parties to expropriate provisions from the surrounding farms. The scouts returned to report that Shepetivka, too, had been the site of pogroms over the weekend, and that a few had been killed and wounded but also a few women had been raped by Petliura’s troops. When his lagging soldiers reached camp late in the day, Kotovsky learned from Bolsheviks fleeing town that Ivan Petliura himself was visiting Proskuriv. This convinced Kotovsky and his commanders, including Sholom Schwartzbard and Marusya, that retaking Proskuriv was impossible and that the pogroms had been planned and directed by Petliura. They decided that it would be too dangerous to try to take Shepetivka with so many Cossacks battle ready. Two days later they made their way into the dense forest to the north of town and set up several camps for the troops. Max was sent with the motor vehicles to the central operations camp.

The grim battle outlook and primitive forest living hammered Kotovsky’s troops into a hardened militia. They descended into banditry. Led by Marusya, they stole food and petrol from the local farmhouses that were identified as Ukrainian supporters, ambushed White Army patrols and raided Directorate storehouses. All sense of political mission was lost, and their only guide was anarchy and survival.

Max was desperate. He saw himself a prisoner of rouge pirates, outmaneuvered by a hostile army murderously disposed toward Jews, in unfamiliar territory miles from rescuing his parents and escaping home. He chewed his fingernails constantly and lost weight from not eating the meager soup and moldy bread. He tossed in his cot at night, with visions of his brothers, Pa and Mamma circling above. For a change he brooded on his betrayal by Zalmund and Deena. He woke up angry. Working on the trucks in the motor pool was some relief, but he hated himself for falling in Marusya’s trap, and helping these thugs terrorize the local farmhouses. Not many noticed him except for his constant guard. Marusya did not come around, no doubt disappointed in his foiled plan, and possibly consumed by command survival. Everyone had their own concerns.

In late February Kotovsky sent a messenger by motorcycle to Red Army headquarters in Kyiv to update his situation. Kotovsky’s encoded report included his general position and his assessment of the enemy’s strengths, but he did not report that he had captured an American machinist, in order to keep him for his unit and not turn him over to a central command.

The messenger returned two days later, with a torn leather jacket and bullet holes in the motorcycle frame. He was greeted with hero cheers as he made a victory lap and waved to his comrades. His first stop was Kotovsky’s command tent, where he delivered a note of news and orders to be decoded. He left the tent to more cheers and a welcome bath and a meal. Sometime later an assistant left to summon Schwartzbard to the command tent. When he entered, Kotovsky dismissed his attendants, and then delivered the terrible news that Schwartzbard’s family, including his wife, had been murdered. Sholom’s anguished scream and upstretched arm rent the heavens and touched every corner of the base.

In the following weeks Sholom’s demeanor turned dark and angry. He blamed Petliura for his loss and took every opportunity to exact revenge on the Cossacks. Fortunately for him, this coincided with instructions from the Red Army command to intensify their harassment of Semesenko’s troops.