They Have Conquered Part One

© 2022 by Herbert J Wiens 

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 

Paperback ISBN 9798987879627

eBook ISBN 9798985408355

H.P. Waterhouse Publishing 

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: Return To Russia

Chapter Two: Butchering Day

Chapter Three: Things That Matter

Chapter Four: Gerhardt’s Grand Adventure

Chapter Five: A Granite Reef

Chapter Six: The Road To Dagestan

Chapter Seven: The Home Front War

Chapter Eight: The Northern Front

Chapter Nine: Wartime Love

Chapter Ten: Disaster At Lake Naroch

Chapter Eleven: Behind The Lines

Chapter Twelve: Brusilov’s Bruising

Chapter Thirteen: Command Confusion

Chapter Fourteen: Collapse In The Caucasus

Chapter Fifteen: Escape From Terek

Chapter Sixteen: Abandoning A Lost Cause

Chapter Seventeen: Heading Home

Chapter Eighteen: Caucasus To Karpovka

Chapter Nineteen: Chaos Strikes A Reunited Family

Chapter Twenty: Conscripted Into Revolution

Chapter Twenty-One: Move To Crimea

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Beginning Of The End

Chapter Twenty-Three: Brothers Reconnect

Chapter Twenty-Four: Repercussions Of Defeat

Chapter Twenty-Five: Home

Chapter Twenty-Six: Across The Frozen Syvash

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Collectivization

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Halbstadt

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Yalta

Chapter Thirty: Batumi

Chapter Thirty-One: Yeni Kuey

Chapter Thirty-Two: Changes At Home

Chapter Thirty-Three: One More Loss

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Acropolis

PROLOGUE 

Every exhaled breath propelled the old man closer to his final fate. His frail body was giving up the fight. Legs that carried him through some of the most turbulent times in history lay uselessly still. Ears that were subjected to the explosive sounds of wartime munitions and the rhetoric of violent social change heard only his weakening pulses of blood. Hands that joyously welcomed new life into this world and mournfully held loved ones as they slipped from it, lay numb at his sides. Using eyes that refused to surrender to time, he spent his remaining earthly hours studying the water-stained, textured ceiling in the room which had become his prison cell. A lone spider made its way across the interconnecting mint green waves of plaster. Lint and dust clinging to the spider’s burgeoning web amplified the illusion of foam riding on turbulent seas. The sight washed a tsunami of memories over him—memories he had spent his life compiling. 

CHAPTER ONE 

RETURN TO RUSSIA 

Young Gerhardt Wiens clung to the heaving deck’s railing, mesmerized by the turbulent October 1894 North Atlantic Ocean. Small for his age, he stood on the railing’s lower rung to see over the edge. Having just turned seven in July, he was already an experienced traveler. His family had come to America in June of the previous year.  

In that short time, they visited New York, Chicago, and Ottawa. He and his siblings—older brother Heinrich, younger brother Johann, and sister Helena—helped his parents build a house in Mountain Lake, Minnesota. When the relative who sold them the land couldn’t produce its clear title, they rented out the house and left to stay with other relatives in Hillsboro, Kansas. There, his mother gave birth to a new sister, Maria.  

Gerhardt and his siblings enjoyed living in the United States. The American culture was very different from their homeland, making it a grand adventure. Their father was from a wealthy German Mennonite family in the southern Ukraine region of Imperial Russia.  

Since children were required by the Imperial State to learn High German and Russian in their private schools, his father and the older children were trilingual. His mother and the younger children were bilingual. None of those languages were English. At home, they used the earthy Plautdietsch that their community had spoken for generations.  

Their mother, Helena Schmidt Wiens, had been born into a poor family and never learned to read and write. The language barrier in the United States wasn’t a problem as long as they stayed in communities of their own ethnicity who had arrived in the Midwest two decades before.  

The earlier immigrants left Russia when the Imperial government dictated that the Russian language be taught in the German settlers’ private schools—no matter if they were Catholic, Lutheran, Mennonite, or Hutterite. Also revoked was the promised exemption to military conscription. Not wanting to comply, Hutterites and some of the more conservative Mennonite branches left for Canada and the United States.  

After a Midwestern drought in 1873 and a locust invasion in the summer of 1874 drove many farmers into submission, the religiously conservative immigrants arrived with the resources to buy large tracts of land. Luckily for the American Midwest and the Canadian prairie provinces, they brought their Turkish Hard Red Winter Wheat with them. Immediately, the immigrants planted this new strain of winter wheat, tilling under the failed summer crop—transforming the American Prairie region into a grain juggernaut. 

Where have you been, Gerhardt? Mutta is worried. 

Gerhardt’s older brother, Heinrich, approached on his left, with their younger brother Johann in tow. Following close behind was their father, also named Heinrich, holding the hand of their little sister, Helena.  

Not only did Heinrich and his father have the same first name, they also shared similar physical traits—tall, thin, with light brown straight hair, angular faces, and square cleft chins. Gerhardt took after his mother with darker skin, black hair, and a rounder face. 

Stepping down from the railing’s lower bar, he grinned. "I was watching the curl thrown up by the ship’s bow. This boat’s much nicer than the Pennland." 

Yes, boys, that ship was a real rust bucket, their father said. "The crew was incompetent and too busy being sick to do their jobs. So far, on this ship, we haven’t had anything stolen like my watch and suit were on the Pennland. They were probably taken by the Turks or Gypsies. They also gave us the lice which plagued us until we arrived in Minnesota. Mutta’s wondering where you went. She’s in the cabin feeding baby Maria and didn’t want you causing trouble if she was unable to twist an ear off." 

Gerhardt beamed back. Oh, Foda, you know we’re always good. 

Son, you’re the worst offender, the elder man snorted. There’s a reason you’re called the Little Devil. Not an hour goes by without you being in trouble for something. As he strolled over to a bench on the deck of the almost new H.H. Meier, their father smiled. You boys weren’t so brave when we arrived in New York. 

The children gathered around their father on the slatted bench, and he continued, I guess it wasn’t your fault. None of us knew that the very next day they’d be celebrating the nation’s independence. It took forever to pry you out from under the bed to watch the fireworks going off. 

Oh, Foda, we weren’t that bad! the eldest boy protested. Didn’t we help build the house in Mountain Lake? We really liked the relatives in Kansas. 

Yes, son, the father answered. "You boys were a real help. We probably would have stayed if that troublemaker, Eugene Debs, and his union hadn’t started that railroad strike. I’m still amazed how the workers at the Pullman rail car factory can disrupt the whole railroad system. It got really bad when the Harsha, President Cleveland, had to put troops on the trains for guards. No, boys, America is too politically unstable and will probably come to another revolution. We’ll be better off back in Russia where it’s peaceful, stable, and safe. With the tsar leading the country, it’ll be that way for a long time."  

The boys solemnly nodded and looked ahead to their arrival in Bremerhaven. 

Gerhardt could barely keep his anxious feet still and his busy hands out of trouble during the family’s long journey from Bremerhaven across Eastern Europe. They traveled by train, riverboat, and carriage until reaching their Ukrainian hometown of Karpovka in the Memrik colony. Immediately upon entering the village, the two older boys jumped from the wagon and ran ahead to their grandparents’ house.  

"Grootfoda, Grootmutta . . .Grootfoda, Grootmutta!" 

Nearing the house, the boys remembered where they were and assumed a more solemn demeanor. Their grandfather came out from the barn end of the traditional house-barn building mandated by Johann Cornies decades before. The eldest Wiens was an imposing figure with his shirt buttoned clear to the top, his traditional cap and pitchfork in hand. The boys lined up in front of their grandfather for inspection as he turned to lean the tool up against the barn door.  

Well, boys, you’ve made it just in time to help your Grootmutta in the garden. If you wish to have supper this afternoon, you’d better hurry. 

They took that to be an effusive greeting and joyfully ran around the house end of the building to find their grandmother. On the way, they took great care not to trample any of the flowers lining the path to the rear of the house—a sure way to receive a firm twist of the ear. Flowers were the only outward display of luxury she permitted herself.  

It wasn’t as if the house wasn’t filled with nice things. The traditional Kroeger clock sat on the mantle in the winter living room, and high-quality furniture filled the immaculately kept home. But these fine things were also utilitarian and therefore not placed in the luxury category. There was a strong distinction placed between quality, which meant long lasting, and the merely frivolously fancy.  

The family had standards to maintain. They were, after all, considered to be upper-middle class in their village. Gerhardt’s namesake grandfather was the head elder in the church, which made him the village’s de-facto mayor, and also the lead arbiter in local disputes. Having lived in the area for over a century, the family had always held a prominent position in the community.  

The elder Gerhardt was the fourth generation. Fifty years before, his father had butted heads with the tsar’s favorite Mennonite, Johann Cornies, over community discipline. To be on Cornies’ bad side placed you in the tsar’s disfavor. As a result, young Gerhardt’s great-grandfather, Heinrich Wiens, had been forced into exile for more than a decade. Now revered within the community for defending his religious principles, almost all first-born sons in the clan were named after him. 

Sneaking through the garden, the boys took care not to get too close to the long thorned gooseberry bushes. They quietly wound their way through the raspberries, under the grape arbors, and crept into the orchard of apple, cherry, plum, and fig trees. In the grove of white mulberry trees bordering the property, their grandmother was animatedly talking to a few Russian peasants.  

The family employed Russian men as farmhands and a couple of women as household help. Since it was late fall and the field crops had been harvested, but it was still too early to butcher, she had commandeered a few spare fieldhands to help put the garden to bed for the winter. Her main concern at the moment seemed to be keeping the fieldhands from fraternizing with the peasant girls canning and pickling at the brick outdoor summer kitchen.  

The pungent conflicting odors of wood smoke, boiling watermelon syrup, pickling crocks fermenting, and shredded cabbage being pressed into barrels for sauerkraut left the boys dizzy with nostalgic delight. 

"Grootmutta! Grootmutta!" 

The boys ran up to the prim lady with a high frilled collar on a white starched blouse and gathered around her welcoming apron. The normally staid Eva released her apron corners, dropping its cargo of late harvested potatoes, and grabbed the boys up in a joyous hug. 

Heinrich, Gerhardt! Where’d you come from? You’ve grown such. 

After a rousing round of kisses to the foreheads, she grabbed Gerhardt’s hand (Heinrich considered himself much too old for such a thing) and led them to the outdoor summer kitchen.  

Come, it’s time to take the zwieback out of the oven. You’re just in time for supper. Gerhardt, go get the butter out of the well. Heinrich, tell your Grootfoda and the workers it’s time to eat. 

Having not eaten since getting off of the train that morning, the boys didn’t need to be told twice—even if that were an option in their family. As Heinrich ran off to gather the men, Gerhardt headed for the well.  

Knowing her grandsons well, Eva had instinctively assigned each boy the task which they most desired. Heinrich got to associate with the older fieldhands and wedge in some much valued one-on-one time with his busy grandfather. And Gerhardt—well, Gerhardt was small for his age and had always fought for the privilege to do tasks normally assigned to a larger boy. 

He was barely tall enough to see over the edge when he arrived at the well. Undaunted, he sourced out a nearby stool and pulled it up to the brick wall. Ignoring the water bucket rope, Gerhardt peered over the side into the well. After deciding which remaining rope was connected to the basket of dairy products on the cooling shelf near the water line, he hoisted it up.  

Using the greatest of care not to bounce the basket against the wall of the well, unwilling to risk spilling its contents, he retrieved the butter and lowered the basket back down. Butter was a valuable commodity. Poorer families sold all of their butter in the market to get disposable income. Lard, in one form or another, was used for all of their household cooking needs and as a spread on bread. 

After delivering the butter, Gerhardt was dispatched to get a couple of watermelons out of the house’s attic. Since younger children were not usually allowed into the attic, this was another honor. Houses in the colony were designed for ultimate practicality. To reduce time outside during harsh winters, the barn was attached to the house, with an enclosed passage between. Just inside the indoor kitchen on the right, was the pantry. Inside the pantry were stairs leading down into the root cellar. Above the root cellar stairs were the stairs leading to the attic. 

He ascended into the dark attic and made his way past the sacks of flour, oats, feed, and seed grain on his left. To his right, were sacks of dried apples and cherries, raisins, and plums. He was probably the only one in the family who didn’t need to duck to make his way past the sacks of aging cheese hanging from the rafters. At the end of the attic, he carefully felt his way through a stall full of straw and retrieved two watermelons.  

The very thought of the melons made him happy. These melons weren’t like the large ones in America. They were small and round with juice so thick, sweet, and sticky, it was closer to syrup. Before leaving the attic, Gerhardt paused and inhaled. The assault of scents—dusty hay and grain mixed with pungent cheese and dried fruit—it smelled like . . .home. 

Barely making it back to the large outdoor table the family shared with the laborers, Gerhardt’s parents, grandfather, and younger siblings came around the house, heading toward the outdoor washing station. After washing off the day’s soil, the eldest Wiens offered a prayer, and the men and older boys sat at the table. Eating separately didn’t have as much in the way of cultural significance as practicality. In large gatherings, there usually weren’t enough plates for everyone to eat at the same time. 

The women served generous helpings of plumemooss with kjielke—a rich, hearty milk soup made with plums and raisins ladled over thick flour noodles. Sitting on the table were bowls of zweiback, the traditional double buns made with copious amounts of butter, a platter containing the last remnants of ham from a previous butchering, and jars of freshly made jam. 

After sating themselves, the men retreated to the benches on the garden’s edge to catch up on current events. They discussed the upcoming butchering day and Gerhardt’s father’s plan to buy back the farm he sold when they left for the United States. Now, it was the women and younger children’s turn at the table to eat. Tickled to be included in the men’s shift, Gerhardt and his older brother, Heinrich, did their best to sit still and emulate the adults in the waning mid-October sun. 

It was Saturday. So, while the men chatted, the women set about preparing the next day’s faspa, a traditional mid-afternoon cold meal requiring little preparation that farm families enjoyed on Sundays. A pre-prepared meal freed the women to enjoy a respite from hard work on at least that one day of the week. Life in turn-of-the-century Southern Russia was a peaceful existence filled with days of hard work, evenings of close family ties, and mental tranquility. 

Gerhardt’s father explained how America was too unstable for his taste. The government seems unable to stop the labor strikes which upset daily life. The peasant class can band together and vote for anyone they choose to be in charge of the government. Newspapers openly criticize leadership’s decisions. I admire the American’s complete religious freedom but question how a country without an all-powerful centralized government can possibly survive. 

Gerhardt’s namesake grandfather mulled for a few moments. "I know what you mean. For a long time, the Narodniks have been spreading anti-government pamphlets, trying to foment unrest among the peasants. They just can’t get it through their heads that peasants can’t read. What good is a pamphlet? The peasants aren’t dumb and see right through the act when rich, young agitators dress up in rags to fit in. They think those Narodniks are buffoons." 

Yes, Gerhardt’s father added. Now these Marxists are running around ranting into the wind. How in the world anyone would think that their crazy ideas will work is beyond me. Thank goodness our government doesn’t put up with this nonsense. 

The eldest Gerhardt said, Remember when the Narodnaya Volya assassinated Tsar Alexander II back in ‘81? You were young then. In 1887, they were planning to do the same to Alexander III but he caught them, and they were hanged. 

Heinrich senior asked, Wasn’t one of the ringleaders a fellow by the name of Alexander Ulyanov? Wasn’t his younger brother kicked out of the university for rioting at about the same time? What was his name? 

I think it was Vladimir. Yes, that’s it. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. I hear he’s now a lawyer in Saint Petersburg working for the Marxists. 

It’s too bad the tsar is so sick right now, Heinrich senior added. If he wasn’t expected to die any day now, he’d crack down on them again. 

The eldest Gerhardt concluded the conversation, We’ll see how his son, Nicholas II, does when he takes over. He’s young, smart, and will control the fringe elements. 

Gerhardt and Heinrich didn’t understand the politics their grandfather and father were discussing. What the boys were sure of was these were the two smartest men they knew. 

Within two weeks, Gerhardt and his siblings were enrolled in the local community-run school, and his father had made arrangements to re-purchase their old farm. The family’s possessions were temporarily stored in his grandparents’ now empty ice house, awaiting their old home to become vacant.  

Gerhardt’s family of six made themselves comfortable in his grandparents’ two spare bedrooms. Once their own children had come of age and moved out, the rooms were maintained for visiting relatives and dignitaries. The winter living room was opened up earlier in the season than usual to make room for the sudden influx of excess household occupants. 

CHAPTER TWO 

BUTCHERING DAY 

Today was butchering day. The women had been up for hours preparing breakfast for the invited helpers. Before dawn, a horse had been hitched to an overhead snatch block for hoisting. Rendering vats were at the ready, and substantial fires were built in the outside summer hearth and under the scalding pots. All of this before the volunteers arrived, carrying their butchering aprons and favorite knives.  

After a blessing was shared and a hearty breakfast, the first hog was led to the stunning station. Some preferred to shoot the animal before it was cut open. However, the local method was to stun the animal with a hammer, slit its rear hocks, and hoist it still alive. Hanging inverted over a blood vat, Gerhardt’s grandfather took a sharp knife and thrust it into the base of the hog’s neck. In one well-practiced upward curving motion, he inserted the blade into the chest cavity, slicing the aorta. It only took a few seconds for the animal’s heart to pump virtually all of its blood into the vat. A couple of gurgling breaths, and it was done. 

Fascinated, Gerhardt watched as the animal was placed into the scalding trough, then shaved. Hoisted again, the hog was eviscerated. The heart and liver were placed into a saline bath. Two women sat, inverting and cleaning the intestines by expertly drawing them between knitting needles. As the master butcher cut off large chunks, assistants caught the sections and placed them onto the cutting table. Knives seemed to blur.  

It was now Gerhardt’s turn to shine. Placing an empty bucket by the cutting table, he picked up a full bucket of fat trimmings with both hands. Carrying the bucket between his legs, he waddled to the summer hearth. A couple of the younger women placed the fat into the rendering pots to melt. Thinking of stealing the first cracklings being skimmed off when no one was looking, his mouth watered.  

His older brother beat him to it. As Gerhardt was ferrying a bucket of fresh fat to the hearth, Heinrich passed him juggling a hot piece of the crispy pork delight, trying to cool it enough to devour. Gerhardt glared at his brother for stealing his thunder, but the size difference and the presence of the adults made it impossible to do anything about the affront. Angrily kicking an empty bucket, he received an immediate cuff to the back of the head by a passing matron when he used a cuss word. 

Refrigeration didn’t exist. Large estates and retail establishments might have an icehouse. All of the pork not consumed immediately had to be either cured or packed in salt. Cuts of meat were sorted into piles for hams, bacon, chops, or ribs. There were tubs filling up with scraps to be ground into sausage or wurst. Older boys cleaned the feet and hocks for pickling. Another boy cleaned the heads to be processed into head cheese, setting the brains aside for frying. 

At lunchtime, neighborhood teenage girls served a meal they had prepared on their own. The girls beamed with pride as workers lustily wolfed down fried chicken and potatoes, traditional zwieback buns, washed down with hot coffee.  

Gerhardt was so busy eating, he didn’t notice the absurdity of enjoying the meal while surrounded by the smells and sights of their morning activity. Nearby, the dining table was a wheelbarrow filled with stomach and intestine contents not yet taken to the garden for fertilizer. Bloody aprons lay over a fence by the washing station, boiling fat, vats of blood, and piles of raw meat not yet processed. No, the food was just too good, and he was hungry. 

After the butchering crew was fed, the girls loaded up a buggy with food for the field workers. Led by Gerhardt’s father, the field workers needed every second of daylight and couldn’t take the time to