Bucharest Or Bust

How My Grandfather Escaped Nazi Conscription From The Battle Of Stalingrad

I have been writing an History of my family. Spanning both sides, four continents, from my grandparents’ origin to mine. It’s been a productive way to cope with my Mom’s death and all the unresolved feelings that come from the sudden loss of any parent — especially one where alcoholism makes it hard to separate light from dark. Mostly, I’ve focused on my Mom’s harrowing origins as a method to decipher her pain. In doing so, I’ve neglected to share my Dad’s side, which is every bit as jaw-dropping a story. So, a quick summary of some of what I’ve been working on for my Grandfather. It’s no mistake why I’m so drawn to History, as my own global heritage can be read on its palm.

Cracuin Fifil Vasile (1913–2007)

Cracuin left his home in Călărași, Romania when he was 10 due to an alcoholic and abusive father. I never got the full story, but Grandpa’s Dad was a legendary alcoholic whose drinking may have been responsible for his wife’s death. Cracuin roamed the countryside and Black Sea shore, following the footsteps of Ovid and Trajan, taking odd-jobs in the city during winter and migrant farming in the summer. Focusing on carpentry, he plied his trade in rural and urban settings. By the time he reached 20, he was a skilled craftsman that had grown accustomed to an itinerant lifestyle. That all changed when he met my Grandmother, Arden Kulhandjian, outside Bucharest in Romania. Working on her Father’s farm, they fell in love and were married.

Buying a one-room shanty, they enjoyed an idyllic lifestyle of romance and beauty in a rural village on the outskirts of Bucharest. Despite their peaceful existence, the shadow of WWII was growing and soon swallowed them whole. Work went from scant to nonexistent. King Carol II’s neutrality crumbled when Germany annexed France. Practically overnight Romania’s borders became Axis-controlled. Romanian men, aged 14–50 were kidnapped and conscripted into Nazi service under penalty of death. When they came to Cracuin and Arden’s neighborhood, Vasile was rounded into a group with other ‘acceptable men’ and told to dig ditches. Within seconds of completion, an entire Romani caravan was shot and tossed into the shallow grave.

It was December 1942, and the men who were rousted while half-dressed, shivered while being marched to Stalingrad. That battle had already raged for 4 months, with an inconceivable death toll of 2 million. 200,000 were Romanian. The Nazis were using non-German captives as fodder for their death blitz towards city gates while those with German heritage had the slightly better task of attempting to flank the South. These men were being marched to their demise and they knew it.

Supplies were scavenged from those who died in the death march. My Grandfather knew some German from his travels and worked at developing a speaking relationship with the officer who barked threats at the ragged platoon — much to the other captives’ collective chagrin. Grandpa once told me the quickest way to gain favor, no matter the situation, is to make someone laugh. A lesson I’ve always remembered. After a few successful jokes, Cracuin gained favor and began to be handed rotten pieces of bread and fruit. While the officer wasn’t looking, he shared his meager meals with the others starving next to him. Soon he was handed a filthy Nazi uniform, overcoat, and a weapon. An StG 44 or Sturmgewehr, German for Assault Rifle. It was the precursor to the AK-47, superior to the Allies Thompson guns, and an intimidating firearm even today. As soon as the Officer turned, Vasile clumsily aimed the gun at the Officer only to have the barrel grabbed and gun taken away by the man he had just broken bread with. Allegiance to the Germans by exposing treachery was heavily rewarded, and by foiling this attempted coup, this man had likely secured a hot meal, cot, perhaps even a clean overcoat. As the man turned the rifle around, Cracuin closed his eyes in fear.

Hearing the first click, he flinched wildly along every pull of the trigger until an exasperated sigh and a slap across his head caught his attention. Cracuin opened his eyes to see the Polish man yelling while pointing at the gun. Unable to understand each other, the man gestured to the frozen and rusted mechanism, and perhaps most importantly, the complete absence of ammunition. It was unloaded. The Polish man handed Cracuin the rifle back and smiled. After digging in his pants, he produced a small clip with five rounds.

The men bonded despite the harsh penalties of fraternization. To avoid suspicion, they answered one other with either a loud nasal exhale or sucking-in through the front teeth . Days blurred into weeks and the only discernible metric of time was the plunging temperature. Extreme physical duress of the march was amplified by tedium and sent many spiraling into madness. Cracuin and tbe Polish man occupied their focus on the consuming task of the rifle. Although the exterior was rusted over — locking the trigger, bolt mechanism, and ejection port — the internal barrel’s piston remained in working condition. The rifle was one of the first gas-operated automatic assault weapons. If any part failed to release the combustible gas, it would generate an explosive backfire that could tear-off a man’s arm clean from shoulder. Lacking any solvent or grease, the men alternated shifts, methodically palming small rocks, combining the minerals with their skin’s oil as a rudimentary lubricant. Countless nights passed with no progress, until one late-evening a loud SCHHIING sang out from the gun’s awakened spring. Cracuin awoke to see the Polish man sinking the 5 round clip deep into a modified magazine obscuring it from view. He smiled as he handed over the gun.

As Providence would have it, the following morning, the German officer pointed to an ice covered sign written in indecipherable Ukraine. The Officer smiled and said “Izyum”. Southeast of Kursk, they had walked almost 500 miles. Although still 100 miles away from the epicenter of Stalingrad, six months of unceasing carnage had transformed the countryside into battlescarred hellscape. Bodies lie decomposing, women and children knelt dazed beside them, while live-fire signified nearby skirmishes. A single shot rang-out and the Officer marched up a ravine to investigate. Cracuin raised his rifle to take aim, but again the Polish man pushed down his barrel. Pointing to his ears while mimicking shots, he indicated the need to wait for background fire to avoid alarming any other Officers. They hiked on into the snowy quiet. It was the only time Cracuin sweated during the icy march — and he was pouring droplets into the snow. Seeing the anxiety, his Polish friend yanked his sleeve down hard. Looking deep into his eyes, he raised a stern finger to his lips, then farted.

Both men laughed.

Each Platoon consisted of about 15 men, paced around a 300 yards apart and supervised by one Unteroffizier, the Nazi equivalent of an NCO. War-hardened plunderers, they sharpened their vicious depravity with shrewd paranoia. The efficient cruelty of protocol swung like a sharpened pendulum, flaying any man, woman, or child that dared defy it’s routine. For much of the march, visibility was unrestricted by geography, maintaining a clear line of sight straight to the horizon. After crossing the Eurasian Steppe, hills and valleys marked the topography, aggravating the regimental line. As they crossed into Izyum, an assortment of rivers colluded with open-fire skirmishes, further spreading out the regiment. Progress was halted untill three Officers could make visual contact. To cross water, the three platoons stopped as the first officer waded chest-deep through the water, holding his rifle above his head. The remaining two platoons laid flat on their stomachs as Officers kept their sights trained on the moving captives. As the Platoon in front of Cracuin finished moving across the water into Izyum, a sudden crescendo of fire from an unseen source targeted the rear group, forcing them back to take cover in a deep crevasse.

After a few frantic minutes, the Officers were completely isolated from each other. The Polish man raised his chin to glance around, confirming the opportunity with a quick nod.

Kompanie! Hissed the Officer, while pacing back and forth. KOMPANIE! An audible rise of concern tinted his voice. The platoon continued to lie sprawled out, faces buried in the ground. As the Officer jogged to the front, swinging his weapon behind him, to fish out a set of binoculars — they laid there in docile exhaustion — even as he crouched unarmed, scanning the horizon for the forward platoon, not one man moved a muscle. Not until the Officer shouted “Abteilung!”, his voice suddenly cracking with youth and panic did they all poke their heads up in unison. Cracuin rose quickly from the prone position and drew the weapon on the officer, who had realized his vocal slip and spun around to reassert control. The entire platoon remained still on the ground, with the exception of the man whom had been given a defective rifle. The Officer laughed derisively at the man feebly aiming an unloaded and broken rifle at him.

-Angriff. He coyly taunted in German. The Nazi took off his helmet— Angriff! he heckled, pointing at his head. Letting out a mocking sigh, the Officer removed the Luger from his holster in dramatic fashion. Cracuin exhaled — imagining a deer in the sights of his hunting rifle — he pulled the trigger.

-Click.

Nothing.

-Click. click. Silence. He rapidly pulled the trigger to no avail. Cracuin cried out in frustration as the Nazi strolled to a stop less than five feet away. The officer raised his sidearm straight to his eye level. Staring into the barrel, Vasile became mesmerized by his garish grin, dancing in the steam of its own contemptible breath.

Firing a warning shot over his head, the Nazi motioned for Cracuin to get on his knees. The Officer pressed the barrel against his forehead until the recently discharged muzzle seared his flesh. Looking at Cracuin with disgust, he tilted his head and mimicked the sound of a sadistic dentist, indicating for him to open his mouth. Rather than wait, the Nazi forcefully plunged his pistol into his mouth, shattering several teeth.

Closing his eyes, Cracuin began to pray and weep for his wife, provoking laughter from the Officer. Seeing this as an opportunity to make an example of the upstart, he began to lecture the platoon in German. Eyes burning from pain and tears, he surveyed the group to see his friend, one last familiar face before the end. Cracuin feared he wouldn’t be able to identify him lying face down with the others, restricted by the Nazi’s pistol in his mouth. However, he spotted his friend instantly — who was not only sitting up — but frantically gesturing like a madman.

Left hand extended, he moved his right wildly back and forth, as if he was sawing. This quickly caught the Nazi’s attention. Not wanting to turn his back on the renegade he had wounded, the Nazi screamed for the Polish man to lie back down while keeping his pistol firmly in Cracuin’s mouth. Undaunted, the Polish man continued to wildly motion as he began to yell obscenities at the Officer. Clearly, he had lost his mind. Cursing at the officer, he continued to paw at the air aggressively, like he was whittling a phantom stick. The Officer, who apparently spoke Polish, was now enraged. Pulling the pistol out from Cracuin’s mouth. he turned to shoot the madman.

Right then the Polish man deliberately changed in mid-gesture, signaling for Cracuin to look down at his lap. Catching this in his periphery, the Nazi realized he had made a fatal error.

Picking up the assault rifle, Cracuin aped the Polish man’s movement and racked the slide on the rifle, loading the empty chamber with a live round. Before the Nazi could turn on his heel, a hail of bullets riddled his torso. Climbing upwards with each shot’s recoil, the fifth and final bullet entered behind his right ear, obliterating his cranium into a burst of red-mist as it exited the forehead. The headless body dropped to its knees and slumped forward.

Cracuin held the smoking rifle, finger still squeezing the trigger, shaking in disbelief. The Polish man jumped to his feet and cheered. Running over to the kneeling, headless Nazi, he grabbed the corpse’s hand and shook it vigorously, proclaiming Halo! before kicking the lifeless body on to its side. Quickly he ransacked the Offficer’s provisions and boots before the platoon regained their senses. Running over to Cracuin, he pulled him to his feet and handed him a canteen. Cracuin stared unresponsively, until the Polish man splashed water in his face bringing him out of his stupor.

The platoon were still mostly laid out on the ground. Cracuin and his friend rousted them to show that the Nazi was unequivocally dead. Speaking different languages, it took some time but most had risen to their feet. Still some refused to move. For what seemed like hours, Cracuin tried to convince another Romanian to return home with him — but he refused — lying in the ground repeating the German order, Bleiben, over and over. Cracuin and his friend finally left him and four others there in the dirt.

Trying to move with stealth, their excitement got the better of them, occasionally breaking into a full sprint. Approaching the crevasse, rhe men crept to where the rear platoon had retreated into a shallow descent. They discovered their huddled bodies, massacred from above by a barrage of gunfire. They scouted the area for some tjme before they moved in and took the other Officer’s uniform and equipment.

Armed and dressed as Nazi Officers, they hoped to avoid wayward Russian forces, along with any Germans since neither spoke the language fluently. After spending the night in a gully, they awoke to see a full Nazi batallion approaching. Starving, exhausted, and sleep-deprived — they mulled their few options--deciding to overwhelm than blend.

Using the scavenged four Stielhandgranate, awkward German WWII hand-stick grenades primed by pull cords. They wedged them in an outcrop of rocks, hanging perilously over the road. With a pair of boots from a dead solder, they filled one boot with sand and placed it on a rock directly over its empty counterpart. Tied with the pull cords from the grenades while precariously balanced on a branch — they stabbed a hole in the top boot to improvise a delayed explosive, having no way to estimate the time of detonation.

Walking out to the road they stood shoulder to shoulder. Less than half a mile away, they began waving back the first platoon in line of the battalion.

Their hearts raced as the platoons approached. They continued to wave them back, trying to indicate trouble ahead. The battalion moved forward undeterred. Half a click away and nothing. Cracuin and his friend paced on, feeling more fraudulent in their Unteroffizier uniforms.

100 meters. It seemed the device had failed. They both agreed they would not be captured. After finishing their solemn prayers, the Polish man turned to Cracuin and slowly loaded the bullet in the chamber, morbidly teasing him until they both chuckled.

50 meters. The men waved the platoon to go back with panicked gestures. As they came in shouting distance, the men began to run towards the platoon while waving for them to take cover. Within 100 feet of being face-to-face, their makeshit timed explosive finally detonated. The uneven four explosions’ unexpectedly echoed of mortar fire. Both men yelled Schnell! running through the first platoon. Punctuating their ruse, the nest of Russians who had killed the rear platoon opened fire in a real attack on the line. Mayhem and confusion took over, making the officers give the order to retreat.

Fooling a battalion consisting of nearly a thousand soldiers to flee--it took a Generalmajor to restore the order of the frenzied Wehrmacht. By then the men had long trekked northwest, arriving in Kiev were they parted ways after a fond farewell. It was March by then and Stalingrad was finally over. The remaining Germans abandoned conscription to redouble their efforts in holding the Western line.

Cracuin could do nothing but think of his wife, his home, and his bed while on a train he hopped in Ukraine. Crossing the border into the Romanian city of Rădăuţi, it finally dawned on him he never caught his compatriot’s name. Only miles away from home, he cursed himself for not exchanging information. Even as he entered the outskirts of Bucharest, the glory of his return felt diminished by the frustration of not learning the identity of his friend. Although they shouldered each other through an improbable journey, they would never meet again.

As he walked up the street to his house, he felt the shame follow him through the neighborhood. Right until it evaporated when he saw the back of his wife through the house’s front window — diligently cooking like a master chef in a modest kitchen. He swallowed down hard as his eyes filled with tears. He tried to shout her name but emotion had rendered his voice worthless.

Besides, this would be a better surprise in person.