Crossing the Eastern Front: A Novel Based on the True Story of a Teenage SS Volunteer

By Alan Stroe

Kidnapped at gunpoint by a German unit from his village in the heart of Transylvania, a devout teenager is starving to death in a POW camp. The only way out is to join a Romanian Waffen-SS unit. As the Anglo-American and Soviet fronts grip Nazi Germany in an ever-tightening vise, the last months of war find him on the losing side, wearing its most hated uniform.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tiberian Press
• Release date: Jul 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386788751

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Prologue

The village of Tureni lies halfway between Turda and Cluj, in the heart of Transylvania. It’s an ordinary village like hundreds of others dotting the hillsides of the land beyond the forest, as Hungarians call it, or the land of the seven cities, according to the Germans. The biggest and most important of the seven cities is Cluj/Kolozsvar/Klausenburg. A city enclosed between hillsides, in the foothills of the Apuseni mountains, Cluj was Transylvania’s capital back when it was an independent principality. A millennium before Cluj’s rise to prominence, Turda—thirty kilometers to the south on the Arieş River—had been the region’s most important city. After conquering Dacia, the Romans built a large fortified castrum, Potaissa, high above the river plain, overlooking the entire Arieş Valley as the river made its exit from the mountains. The ruins of that impressive construction can be found on the plateau above the city of Turda. Two millennia later, visitors can still find bricks bearing the Roman Legion’s stamp, LVM (from Legio quinta Macedonica); the Roman army stamped its every single brick to deter theft. For more than a century, the Fifth Roman Legion was headquartered in Potaissa, projecting Roman power and colonization in all of Dacia. From Potaissa, the legionnaires controlled access to the rich gold mines of the Apuseni Mountains, the nearby mines of precious salt and stone, and the fertile floodplain of Arieş with its rich, black soil and plentiful rain.

Tureni’s biggest attraction is the picturesque Tureni Gorge, cut into limestone by Pîrîul Racilor (Crayfish Creek). Tureni Gorge is a miniature of the spectacular Turda Gorge, whose twin vertical peaks tower three hundred meters above the Arieş floodplain, a few kilometers to the west of Tureni. Higher still and farther west are the impressive, rocky peaks of Trascău, the easternmost massif of the Apuseni mountains.

In the shadow of such a distinguished backdrop, the villagers of Tureni, Romanians and Hungarians, have lived for hundreds of years, as peacefully as the vicissitudes of history have permitted them.

On a summer evening, during one of the peaceful years of the interwar period, two villagers returned home from a day of hard work in the fields.

This kid is something else, I’m telling you, the older one, Petre, told his neighbor. Look at him. He’s worked at that fence for two weeks now from dawn to dusk, like a grown-up.

One of Maria’s brood?

Yeah.

How old is he?

About ten, I think.

As they walked, they eventually passed right by him. The nine-year-old was too absorbed in his occupation to notice them.

Good evening, son, Petre saluted him. Isn’t it too dark to see?

"Good evening, bade, Yoan responded without looking up. Almost is. The chickens already called it a day."

The other peasant took a closer look. I’ll be... Fine work this is. Who taught you?

No one. Yoan still did not look up.

Get out of here. How did you know to braid it like that?

That’s how I thought it should be.

Sell that to your daddy! He elbowed Petre, winking derisively, very proud of his humor. His daddy. Get it? he asked his neighbor with lowered voice. He turned back to the child. One of your older brothers taught you, you little liar, you.

Yoan looked at him with his large, gentle eyes. I’m no liar. They taught us in church, the devil is the father of liars.

Pah! The neighbor waved his hand dismissively, muttering a curse as he left.

Don’t mind him, kid, Petre said. You did such a good job; it’s hard for him to believe you. Take it as a good thing.

Thank you, bade. I think I’m done for the day. Can’t see anymore. It’s going pretty slow. If I don’t do it very tight, the chickens will still get out, and then it’s all for nothing.

That’s right. That’s the way to do it. Good night!

Good night. Yoan headed for the house.

Inside, his mother was frying eggs. We need to slaughter the hens, she said instead of a greeting. They’re getting old.

Please, Ma. They’re still giving eggs. We got two today.

Two eggs a day from four hens won’t cut it. I have five mouths to feed. Four, since... Since little Sammy had died—she did not finish her sentence.

He had died the year before, of the scarlet fever that had spared Yoan. It had spared his life after a weeklong battle with a murderous fever. It had left a never-healing wound in his heart, however. Sweet little Sammy had been the closest soul he had in the whole world.

The smell of fried eggs filled the small, straw-roofed, earthen hut. Yoan’s nostrils flared with anticipation, his stomach already churning.

The door of the hut opened, and Nick, one of Yoan’s two older half-brothers, stepped in, tired, dusty, hungry. Right on time. He headed for the stove.

I was making them for Yonutzu, their mother said, tentatively. You may have one if you wish. There’s also some lard to spread on bread.

I ate lard this morning. And last night. He grabbed the pan and flipped its contents into one of their decrepit plates.

They’re not done yet, Yoan said.

They’re soft, just the way I like them. Nick sat in front of the plate.

This is not fair!

The food is for the breadwinners first, creep! I worked in the field all day. You stay here the whole day doing nothing. Get lost before I actually get mad. Nick’s anger grew fast on the empty stomach.

So did Yonutzu’s. That’s not true! I take care of the hens. I guard them from wild animals. I give them water and food. I built a fence for them. I help Ma around the house. You’re not fair!

Nick slammed the fork down then violently hit his half-brother with the back of his hand. I said to get lost, bastard! Go ask your father to feed you, if you can figure out who he is. You’re lucky we’re not throwing you out in the street.

Don’t hit him, Nicu! Mother cried. He’s your own brother. Aren’t you afraid God will smite you?

Yoan lifted himself up and wiped a lone tear. God will make justice, he said, from the bottom of his wounded heart.

His mother put her arms around him and kissed him on top of his head. Don’t worry, baby dear. Mommy will fix you something.

Thanks Ma, but I won’t eat now. Not at the same table as him.

Veronica

On a hot summer day, a few years later, Yoan was taking the cows back home early to his employer, expecting a beating as serious as death. The two cows had eaten alfalfa while he’d bathed in Crayfish Creek—the weakness of a minute. That was all it took. The cows soon became bloated, and it immediately became clear to him he had a veterinary emergency on his hands. That’s when he had the good fortune to run into Veronica. She’d been scavenging for food in the fields for her eight younger sisters. She was tall, gaunt from malnutrition, yet strong, so strong in body and spirit. And she had an opinion and a solution for everything. Including a bloated cow. She showed him the exact herb he—or rather the cows—needed for a mild case. As the case they had on their hands was a more serious one, she performed surgery by expertly poking their rumens with a knitting needle to release the gas.

Thanks for fixing my cows, Veronica, he said with shy gratitude, amazed by the sudden and unhoped-for salvation.

Always glad to help you. I see you so rarely these days. Are you going to school?

Once in a while. But I read the books as often as I can. Badea Gîrbovan’s son lends them to me late in the evening sometimes. Are you going?

I can’t, she said with obvious sadness. Since Pa died, I have to help take care of the girls... find food for them.

I’m sorry with all my heart. He was such a strong, big man. Who would have thought?

It was his old head wound from the Great War. You know he had been shot, right?

No, I didn’t. In the head?

In the head and nine other places. The Austrians took him to Galicia, to fight the Russians... That one bullet in the head? Guess they could never take that one out. He always had headaches.

Yoan commiserated in silence.

Veronica changed the subject, somewhat. Did I tell you the story of how he won my mom?

He shook his head.

Well, she lived in the next village over. She was blonde, with blue eyes, and the most beautiful girl in their village. He started going by every Sunday to chat, by her yard’s gate, as is the custom. So one day, three jealous guys from their village waited for him at the village’s entrance. With scythes. They told him to forget her or else. What do you think he did?

Yoan shrugged, stumped.

He jumped among them!

Really?

Yes. He stepped on their scythe blades so they couldn’t swing them and punched those guys like there was no tomorrow. One of them, a cousin of hers actually, took off running. Pa caught up with him and slashed him with the broken tip of a scythe, from head all the way down his back. He carries that scar to this day. Serves him right.

Wow! Yoan was thoroughly impressed. I doubt I could be that brave.

You wouldn’t need to, she assured him. You’re cute enough to win anyone’s heart without fighting, even though you have a big nose, like him. She laughed.

He was more delighted than he thought possible, yet he didn’t know how to respond.

My uncle though, his brother... now he was something else. They called him Taia. Whenever he had an issue with anyone, he just cut them up.

You mean he’d kill them?

Well, no. Not usually. But eventually, he did kill several Austro-Hungarian police officers. So they caught him drunk in a bar, and they killed him.

What a fearsome family you’ve got, he said, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation.

Did I tell you the story of how my dad sent an entire wedding into the barn’s attic, until the musicians finished playing for him?

No. Why did he do that for?

’Cause the gypsy musicians didn’t play any of his requests. The gypsies mostly took requests from the groom, the bride, the godparents, of course. And some people yelled at him to leave the gypsies alone and stop requesting. He was probably a tad drunk by then, too. So he grabbed a pitchfork, and whistled once really loud, like only he could. ‘Everybody up in the barn!’

Did they go? Yoan asked, amazed.

Yep! You bet they did. Nobody was crazy enough to mess with him when he was like that. They all got up in the barn’s attic—the groom, the bride, the godparents, the guests—every last one of them. Then he told the chief gypsy, ‘Go on, fiddler, play what I told you!’ So the gypsies played for him alone, while he danced, snapped his boots, and everyone else watched from above. When he was done, he whistled again. ‘Alright, now everyone get back down. The wedding can go on.’

Teeheehe. I didn’t know he was that wild.

Yep. What about the one with the lady and the nose?

Uh-uh.

Oh, you gotta hear it. He was with some business in Cluj, waiting on the sidewalk in front of a shop. Some high-class lady whispered to her husband as they approached him, ‘Wow, look at that man. What a huge nose he’s got.’ She thought he couldn’t hear her, see, but he had really keen hearing. So when they got right next to him, he covered his nose as if he was moving it out of her way, telling her, ‘Beg your pardon for getting in the way, madam. Please! Go ahead.’

Yoan burst into laughter. Did she say anything?

"She was very embarrassed. And she actually apologized, sincerely. But