Cry Not for Spring

By E. Frank Mancl

This book does not portray any great feats of heroism as might be expected of a war book. Rather, it follows the three agonizing years of a group of terrified individuals who refused to knuckle under to the Germans and their horror-filled occupation of the Ukraine. Though faced with almost insurmountable hardships, this small band--these guerillas--fought back as best as they could. Through the bitter winters, the starvation, the almost hopeless future, they never wavered in their determination to remain free.

Their battle was not fought on a large scale, nor were there any clear-cut victories. There were no headlines to herald them when a bridge was blown up or when a train was dynamited from the tracks. Their losses were suffered in silence, as were their victories. Bravery, heroic deeds, suffering, defeat and victory were absorbed in silent gratefulness that at least they still possessed life--a victory in itself, for it was the only thing they were fighting for, No lofty ideals or romantic causes, just life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499054064

E. Frank Mancl

E.Frank Mancel was a star athlete in high school and spent two years serving his country in the United States Marine Corps. He is now retired and loves to fish, write, and making CDs and DVDs for home use.

Book preview

CRY NOT FOR SPRING

By

E. Frank Mancl

The tenseness that had gripped Kiev during the past weeks now turned to one of deep foreboding. Its residents now had to face the ugly truth—the German Wehrmacht would soon occupy the city. There was no longer the slightest flicker of hope that the Russian army, which had fled to the north, would stand in the way of the onrushing Nazi might, no longer any hope that life would continue for them among familiar faces and surroundings. With the coming of the Nazi juggernaut, everything—human beings included—would undergo a radical change.

Rumors had the Germans just outside the city, where it was also rumored that butchering, raping, burning, looting and all the other atrocities of an invading army were being committed. Rumors also sifted into the city that all residents who weren’t rounded up for shipment to slave labor camps or concentration billets were to be shot. Amidst the confusion of these rumors—and they were just that—the people of Kiev looked with stoic numbness on their destiny.

They had been braced for some time for just such an onslaught by the Germans. Fighting had been going on within earshot for some days. Their own army had stood its ground, but had suddenly yielded and was now moving rapidly to the north. The citizens viewed this departure with varied emotions.

There were many in Kiev whose sympathies lay with the Germans, for they themselves were of German blood. They did not plan to resist, to fight their countrymen. However, they could not openly express their feelings for there were others in the city who were loyal to the Russian cause. These stalwarts did not plan to remain behind to be slaughtered or sent into slave labor. The able-bodied men—and the women—planned to resist through guerilla warfare. Quickly, they gathered up all available arms and ammunition and awaited orders from a few chosen leaders. Some had followed behind the retreating Russian army. Some fled to the woods around Kiev and gathered their forces about them.

The advancing German army was now some fifty kilometers from Kiev. This terrifying war machine would arrive on September 21, 1941. The butchery and brutality would not be as intense as the word that had preceded them. But regardless of the intensity of the violence, there is small consolation that the army of the enemy will shoot only half the citizenry, rape only half the women, burn only half the buildings.

Many of Kiev’s residents had fled north behind the army, praying, hoping to find refuge somewhere or to make their plight more noticeable by remaining close to the retreating Russian army. Others—many others—remained in the city, the hopelessness of their plight crushing their spirit. It stamped a sullen look of dejection on their faces as festering rebellion appeared even more hopeless. Yet this small flame lived in the hearts of some.

Then the Germans were there.

The mighty Wehrmacht engulfed Kiev, spreading its tentacles over the city like a giant octopus. Tanks, armored cars, trucks, and foot soldiers swept into and throughout the city. Those few citizens who had planned to leave now knew it was too late. They accepted their fate in numb submissiveness, hoping their compliance with the Nazi orders would bring them leniency. Others planned to collaborate and voiced these intentions openly, for many of the people of Kiev were from the original Mennonite groups brought in by Queen Catherine to settle the Ukraine. These Dutch-Germans had been given land grants and placed on the land as experimental farmers to stimulate the sagging and sometimes nonexistent agricultural programs of this vast productive area.

On the morning of September 28, a patrol of green-clad German soldiers appeared at the head of Lvovskaya Street, marching smartly behind an officer. They stopped suddenly and two soldiers broke from the ranks and nailed a huge poster to the side of a building. The officer snapped an order and the remainder of the soldiers dispersed and began motioning to the citizens to gather in front of the poster. Within half an hour, there was a throng of wide-eyed citizens gathered in the street, viewing the proceedings with open fear.

The officer stepped in front of the poster, viewed the crowd through stern eyes for a moment, then began to read, translating from German into the Ukrainian: "To all Jewish residents of the City of Kiev … You will gather on Lvovskaya Street on the morning of September 30, 1941, for evacuation to labor camps. The penalty for disobeying this order will be death!"

The officer eyed the citizens, a satisfied look crossing his face. He tapped his thigh lightly with a metal-tipped swagger stick.

The posters will make our task easier, but I have here the names of some who will have our special attention. They must not be allowed to escape, the officer said. He took a notebook from his breast pocket, opened it, and began to read, Peter Alekzov, Jew, one resident alien of Germany, writer of anti-Nazi literature … He paused and looked briefly at the faces before him. Catherine Kruivik, daughter of Peter Alekzov … He read several more names and addresses, then formed ranks and marched a short distance down the street. Midway in the block, the troops halted and the officer mounted the steps of a large stone house. Two men accompanied him to the door, where the officer pounded loudly. He snapped the swagger stick sharply against his leg as he waited.

Peter Alexkzov opened the door slightly. The officer pushed him aside and entered the large hall, followed by the two soldiers. He took the black notebook from his pocket and opened it. Identification! he snapped. He spoke in German, and one of his men translated. The old man silently handed him a leather wallet. The woman’s papers too, said the officer impatiently, pointing the swagger stick at Catherine, who stood directly behind Peter, yet some distance across the room, gripping the doorjamb. Her handsome face was pale, her eyes filled with undisguised terror, but she held her head proudly.

Her glance darted up the stairway, tense anxiety in her eyes. Then she turned and, entering the sitting room, unlocked the drawer of a small desk and took from it an envelope, which she handed to the German officer. He glanced at its contents, eyes seemingly burning the pages, then again consulted his notebook.

Is there anyone upstairs? he asked harshly.

Catherine looked at him and the interpreter without answering. Peter also remained silent.

Bah! snorted the officer with contempt. I will see for myself.

He started up the stairs and was near the top when Varvara, clutching a soft blue robe about her, appeared in the upper hall and started to descend. She caught sight of the tableau below, stopped, and clutched the railing. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, setting off her face like an ivory cameo. Her great liquid black eyes widened with horror and she pulled her robe even tighter around her firm, protruding breasts.

The two soldiers were roughly hustling the old man and woman through the front door. Catherine turned and gave one last, despairing look at the girl on the stairs. There was a wild cry, Mama! Mama! Varvara almost screamed.

No! No! the woman below cried out. She was struggling with the soldiers. The girl is not my daughter! She is a foster child. Please! Oh, please!

The officer ignored her. His eyes were on Varvara. The door slammed, and the two on the stairs were alone. Varvara tried to run down the stairs, but the German barred her way. He grasped her arm and thrust his face close to hers, a face that was plump and shiny and a little pink. There was a slight smile on the sensuous lips, but the eyes glinted with lust, yet in their depths there was the coldness of agate.

Anyone else up there? he demanded, speaking in German and nodding his head toward the rooms. Varvara only stared dully.

There is no one here, she answered finally, speaking in a low monotone—and in German.

You are Varvara Kostiev?

Yes. She nodded.

How is it you speak German? the officer asked.

Varvara did not answer, but remained staring at the door below.

Now, your identification papers, he said gruffly.

She looked at him for a moment, then gestured weakly toward a door at the top of the stairs. He released his grip on her arm then, and followed her as she ran into the room. He surveyed it with a calculating eye, noting the shelves of books, the massive fireplace, and the beautiful hand-carved bed. A violin lay on a small table.

Varvara was at the window, her hands gripping the sill. A group of people was being herded up the street. She saw her foster mother, Catherine, among them. Then they turned a corner and were lost to sight. Suddenly she whirled and rushed toward the door. But the German saw her movement, stepped quickly in her path, and seized both of her arms. She struggled wildly for a few moments, white-faced and sobbing, and then stood still with her breasts rising and falling rapidly. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, and she appeared as though in total despair.

The German looked down at her, down at her breasts as the robe she was wearing parted, exposing the ample mounds even more. Then he slowly pushed her away, his eyes glistening as he held her at arm’s length. A slight smile crept over his lips, then quickly disappeared.

I asked for your papers, he clipped. He released her but did not take his eyes off her, almost caressing her with his leer.

Varvara turned to the little table where the violin lay, and opened a carved wooden box that lay beside it. She fumbled dazedly among some papers, and at length found what she was looking for.

As she handed him the packet of papers, the man’s eyes fell on a ring that sparkled on the small white hand—a circlet of gold leaves, set with a single large diamond.

That ring, he said, sternly. Give it to me.

Slowly, never taking her bitter gaze from his face, the girl drew it off and handed it to him. He turned it around in his fingers, peering intently at it. The smile, more of a leer than before, returned to his face.

I know a girl in Hamburg who would like … but never mind … He dropped the ring into his pocket and again turned his attention to Varvara.

That woolen robe you are wearing too. You will hardly need it where you are going. Put something else on. Hurry! Take it off! he barked. What are you waiting for?

Trembling, Varvara undid the cord of her robe and let it slip from her shoulders and to the floor. The officer reached into his pocket for a package of cigarettes, and watched the robe slide to the floor. His eyes then returned to Varvara’s bare shoulders, slid down over her large, firm breasts and slender, curved body under the clinging slip.

You know, he said, wetting his lips, you are much too pretty to go with the others. I think perhaps I shall spare you. I am sometimes lonely, and would like a companion … He scratched his chin with a plump forefinger as his eyes seemed to devour the feminine body before him.

Varvara answered in a low, choking voice, I am Ukrainian. You Germans are supposed to leave us alone. You see by my papers that you have no right to molest me. Your governor has promised …

The smile on the German’s face increased. "Ah, that is so, but you see, I have your papers. What is to stop me from destroying them? Who would believe you are not a Jew, living in this house?"

Take me away then. I want to go with the others, Varvara stated firmly, somehow managing to regain some of her courage. There was deep loathing in her eyes. She stepped away from him and put her back against the wall. The German followed her, his moist hands reaching out to grip her bare shoulders. He pulled her roughly to him.

His grip loosened as the sound of heavy boots came through the open door. A soldier appeared in the doorway. He saluted.

It is all right, Hans, snapped the officer. You see, I have discovered nothing here but a harmless girl. He bowed mockingly to Varvara, self-assurance filling his eyes. "You will pardon me, fräulein? He went out into the hall and Varvara heard the two men conversing in low tones. Shortly, the officer entered again and said casually, Unfortunately, my duties will keep me busy the remainder of the day. I will place you under my personal protection. There will be a guard placed outside your door, and just as a precaution, all doors and windows of this house will be sealed from the outside. He gave her a mocking smile. By the way, he said slowly, in case you should be thinking of destroying yourself, and a pity it would be with such a one as lovely as you, I have the power to arrange that some of your people will be shot instead of being sent to a labor camp. Also, it might be well for you to bear in mind, he taunted her, that if you should attempt to carry out your desire to kill me—a desire written quite plainly on your lovely face, my dear—the same fate will befall them. I will leave orders. I have very influential friends in my regiment."

He crossed to the window seat and took her scissors from her sewing basket, glanced quickly through the chest of drawers, and then made a quick search of the adjoining bedroom. He made sure that a door leading from the bathroom into another bedroom was securely locked, and then came back into the room with a handful of bottles from the medicine chest.

Just in case temptation should be too strong for you, he said smoothly. By the way, my name is Capt. Eric Megerlein. He stood for a moment as though expecting some recognition on her part. There was none. His eyes went to the robe lying on the floor. He picked it up and threw it to her. Here, you may keep this after all. He took the key from the lock, went out, then pulled the door shut behind him. She heard the key turn in the lock from the outside.

All the while he had been talking, Varvara remained quite still, with her hands pressed against her cheeks, her eyes filled with fear and hate. Almost hypnotically, she had watched the German officer as he walked about the room. Now that she was alone, she stooped and picked up the robe, which she had allowed to fall to the floor when he had thrown it to her. As she heard his quick steps descending the stairs, a shiver went through her. Her eyes were dry and bright, yet fear lurked in their depths. Outside the door, she could hear Hans, the guard, humming a gay song—something about flowers and love and moonlight.

It was late evening when Captain Megerlein returned. Varvara stood by the window, her eyes fixed on a star that seemed to hang just above the rooftops. She was praying for courage. She heard the German order the guard to remain in the lower hall until his relief came.

You can sleep on the settee there, he said, but remain in the house.

In a few moments the key turned in the lock, and he came swaggering into the room. He was a little drunk and in a state of elation. He bared his teeth in a smile at Varvara, and threw his cap on a shelf. Then he unwrapped the parcel he had brought, which proved to be two bottles of wine. He placed the bottles on the small table in front of the fire.

Come, my little bird, some wine, he called gaily. He was in a jovial mood, his eyes twinkling. He gave the impression that it was all settled between them—that they would drink the wine, laugh, and talk, then go to bed.

There were some glasses on a small brass tray on the mantel, and the officer filled both of them. Varvara stood watching him as though in a trance. He sat down and gulped his glass of wine and filled it again. Then he caught sight of her staring at him. She had changed the robe for a plain black dress.

What? Too shy to drink with me? Come, but you must. He got to his feet, lurched slightly, then laughed and came toward her with his glass of wine in his hand. He held it to her lips. Drink some, my little pigeon, he said softly. There is no reason we cannot be … friends.

Anger boiled inside of Varvara. She clenched her teeth and dashed the glass from her, spilling the wine down the front of Megerlein’s tunic. The glass splintered on the stone hearth with a tinkling sound that did not fit the mood of the room.

In a flash, he had struck her a blow that knocked her to the floor. Angry curses filled the room as he mopped at his tunic with a handkerchief. Varvara rose from the floor, her head ringing, and stood facing him. Her fists were clenched and her eyes blazing. He came toward her, snarling.

So you do not want to be pleasant! His eyes were ugly as he seized her in his arms. The pudgy face was bent toward her. Varvara gave a strangled cry, and getting her arms free, dug her nails deeply into his cheeks. The captain swore, and grasping her wrists, twisted her arms painfully behind her, and held them there in a brutal grip.

His cruel mouth crushed hers. Varvara struggled wildly and lurched against the table. The lamp fell to the hearth and the bulb shattered with a sound like a gunshot. Now the room was lit only by the leaping flames of the fireplace. He twisted her arms still more tightly behind her.

She could feel his hot breath on her face. The room seemed to sway and whirl, and she was drowning in a sea of pain and terror. Then there was nothing but blackness. But even as she fell, she heard the sardonic laugh of Captain Megerlein.

He stood regarding her for a moment, his pale eyes blazing. His gloating leer took in the pale oval of her face where a lock of dark hair had fallen across her cheek, giving her the appearance of a small child. He stood over her, legs spread, leering hungrily at the prize that was to be his. Now?

There was a tapping on the door, then a voice, Captain? Captain, is everything all right? It was Hans.

I am quite all right, the captain answered quickly. Return to your post.

Yes, sir, Hans called. Footsteps moved down the stairs.

Captain Megerlein’s thoughts returned to Varvara. No, he thought, he would wait. His eyes narrowed. That was the way of crude ones. Stupid soldiers like Hans downstairs. They didn’t know anything. Five minutes and it was all over. Simple soldiers didn’t understand the pleasure it could be to play cat and mouse, to toy with the prey before the final thrust.

He stooped and picked up Varvara’s limp body and placed it on the bed. He sat on the edge and stroked her dark hair back from her face. His fingers lingered on her soft, white shoulders, then trailed down her arms. He admired himself for his calmness and self-control, even though his hand now trembled as he groped for her legs, which lay exposed, her dress over her knees. He looked longingly at the cleft between her breasts, at the gently heaving mounds, then down to her flat stomach and graceful curve of her thighs. His hand moved upward. He felt the soft, silken skin of her inner thighs, then quickly withdrew as Varvara groaned. He carefully placed one hand on her breast, squeezed the firm flesh, then brushed across both breasts with the back of his hand. He bent to kiss the exposed skin, decided against it. His eyes returned to her legs. His hand left her breasts and went to the hem of her dress, inched it upward. The excitement rose in him, the tingle in his groin urgently told him he must have this girl.

This would be a prize to put all of his previous conquests to shame, he thought. He looked at the sensuous lips, the finely chiseled features and the long lashes. He debated with himself whether he should begin undressing her or wait until she awakened and make her disrobe for him.

He watched and waited. Ah, good, she was coming to. He saw the dark eyes open, the long lashes flicker several times. There was a blank look at first, then bewilderment, and at last, fear, as the eyes fixed themselves on his face. Instinctively, her hands flew to the juncture of her thighs. There was a sudden look of relief in her eyes then.

He spoke smoothly. So sorry, little one. You see, I didn’t touch you. And I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you angered me. No, no, there is no need to be frightened. He smiled disarmingly, but his eyes were cunning. I won’t hurt you, my dear.

Varvara tried to sit up, but he pushed her back onto the pillow. The steely grip of his fingers on her shoulders belied the suavity of his tone as he admonished her gently.

Really, you must rest, you know, he said in an almost forced voice that seemed to squirt between clenched teeth.

Varvara looked at him, a questioning look behind the fear in her gaze. It was almost written in her eyes that she was disappointed that what he had in mind had not already happened while she was unconscious. Now, if he succeeded, she would have to endure it in all her conscious horror.

Megerlein was still talking in a smooth, mocking tone. I promise I won’t hurt you, my child, but try to be a little kind to me. After all, am I so unattractive? One gets lonely so far from home. It would not be so bad … I am experienced in these things.

Varvara’s body was rigid. Her eyes were fastened on his as if he was some strange, ghostly creature who did not really exist.

Megerlein interpreted this look as encouragement and congratulated himself on his powers of fascination. He bent over her. His hands caressed her cheeks and slowly slid over her throat and breasts. He lifted her taut body a little toward him and whispered hoarsely, "I am not like the other soldiers, believe me. I think you can try to love me a little, eh, my liebchen? Come … He drew her arms about his neck. The veins on his forehead swelled and the pulse in his throat was again beating quickly. He wet his lips and sought her mouth. The girl’s body gave a great shudder, and with a muffled cry, she pulled back from him. She wrenched at his hands and twisted her body violently in his grasp. As they struggled, deep racking sobs tore themselves from her throat. Megerlein’s smirk became a snarl. Little fool, she wouldn’t play the game, his lust-filled mind told him. These Ukrainians were barbarians after all—fit only to be slaves of their German masters. Well, so much the better. For once he would not have to curb his violence nor his passion. He could almost hear the voice of Anna in her apartment in Hamburg saying, Oh, Eric … be more gentle. You behave like a peasant."

The girl had almost twisted from his grasp. Damn her!

Really, you must rest, you know, he said to her. She looked at him, a questioning look behind the fear in her gaze. Megerlein was still talking in a smooth, mocking tone.

"I promise I won’t hurt you, my child. But try to be a little kind to me. After all, I don’t have to ask you, you know. I can take what I want and you would have nothing to say about it."

No! she spat. She put her hands against his shoulders and tried to push him away.

He pushed her hands away roughly, then pushed her violently down on the bed. With a quick movement, he grasped the neck of her dress and tore it from neck to hem. In a frenzy, he stripped the remainder of her clothing from her, slapping her hands out of the way each time she tried to stop him, and flung the torn clothing across the room.

When she lay naked, her hands covering her more intimate parts, Megerlein stood up and looked down at her. Take your hands away! he commanded harshly.

She did not move.

I said remove your hands! I want to see what kind of body you have! He made a move to strike her.

She moved her hands slowly to her sides. Her body was trembling and she made a feeble attempt to rise as Megerlein began impatiently to unbutton his tunic. He pushed her back with a quick stroke of one hand. She rose again. This time he knocked her backward again with a stinging slap on the face that left dark welts on the paleness of her cheek. Her head struck the wooden headboard of the bed as she fell, and she lay still with the flames of the dying fire casting a rosy glow over the limp white body. The fire died down to red embers, leaving the room in semi-darkness.

There was a hoarse whisper from the bed.

"Are you fooling me, fräulein? Then the sound of another loud slap and a sharp cry. That’s better! Struggle, you—!" His eager hands roved over her trembling body, exploring, caressing. His lips sought hers, crushed against her unwilling mouth, then moved down on her body and slavered over her until she felt she must vomit.

The incoherent murmurings of his passion filled the room along with the smacking, crudely kissing lips that made her body cringe in protest. In her heart she knew the worst was yet to come and the mere thought of it caused her to feel an inner