The Women's Death Batallion

While researching the Russian Revolution, I came upon a photo of the Women's Death Battalion.  Intrigued by the image and accompanying article, I was determined to include their story in my trilogy.  Unfortunately the late 80's was in still the information Stone Age and I struggled to flesh out their story.  It was not until the advent of internet that I gathered enough data to incorporate the Battalion into my saga.

Women's Death Battalion

I chose to tell the story of the Women's Battalion through my character Kataya.  The groundwork for her enlisting in the Death Battalion was laid early in my the second book, Banners: For God, Tsar and Russia when Kataya expressed her budding belief in feminist power. 

* * *

“Who-needs-men?”  Kataya’s attempt at humor died without eliciting a response.  The women surrounding her just stared at the ground.  “It-is-true.  We-have-no-need of-men,” Kataya said again, not ready to give up on her profound statement.

* * *

Once war with Germany begun, her father Boris traded his vodka stores for several dozen Mauser rifles to protect Hutava.  He attempted to instruct his eldest daughter, Akulina, in the use of the weapon, but she failed miserably. 

German Mauser 98

Undaunted by her older sister's feeble attempt Kataya shouldered the fallen weapon and faithfully mimicked her father's instructions.

* * *

“Let-me-try, Papa.”  Before Boris could reply, Kataya lifted the rifle from the ground.  It was heavier than she thought; yet she smoothly raised it to her shoulder.  Kataya planted both feet firmly in the soft earth, placed her cheek against the cool wooden stock and peered through the sights.  Slowly she squeezed the trigger, relishing in the cold, metallic click of the firing pin.  Still looking straight ahead she lowered the rifle, quickly slapped the bolt open, injected the imaginary bullet and slammed it closed.  Again she brought the rifle up to click off another round.  The Hutawa defense force had its first recruit

* * *

At the age of fourteen, Kataya had her nephew Stefan cut her hair and then ran off to join the Russian Army.  Even though she was small and young, her stamina and weapons' skill won her a spot in the newly formed Women's Death Battalion, a women's unit conceived by combat veteran,  Maria Bochkareva.  Sergeant Bochkareva had convinced the Russian Provisional Government to create an all female combat military force, who by their spirit de core would bolster the morale of the collapsing German front.

Kataya's stature always placed her in the front row

After several months of training, Kataya served at the front as a sniper.  Her experience in her one and only battle did not fair well.

* * *

Mercifully, Kataya could not remember everything.  Tragically, she remembered enough.  Kataya can easily recall the excitement of the train ride west and the march to the front lines and how gooseflesh appeared on her arms when Maria Boshkareva announced the women would lead the assault and male battalions would be supporting their flanks.  Kataya can still feel the rush of adrenaline as she climbed to the dirt parapet with the other sharpshooters and prepared to protect her comrades.  She remembers seeing Mademoiselle Skridlova’s banner leading the way and the utter confusion that followed.  Her mind holds only bits and pieces of bursting shells, screams, bodies snared in the barbed wire like flies in a web, and her own body frozen in terror.

* * *

After suffering a concussion from a shell explosion, Kataya convalesced and returned to her barracks where she learned the cost of war.

* * *

Kataya went over to her old bunk and threw her kit atop the straw mattress.  She took a deep breath, turned to the comrade seated on the next bunk and asked the question to which she feared the answer.  “Where are the others?”

“There are no others.”

* * *

The Women's Death Battalion made their final stand guarding the Winter Palace against the Bolsheviks.  Out numbered and outgunned the women were forced to surrender.  Kataya spent her last days as a member of the battalion being chastised by a commissar before he shooed her off like a petulant child.

Eventually, the Red Army accepted Kataya and many other women into the combat arms during the Russian Civil War.  Two decades later, during the Great Patriotic War, women followed in the Death Battalions footsteps by serving not only as riflemen, but also as tankers, gunners and pilots.

Snipers from the Byelorussian Front

The Izbah

The Russian izbah (or as some would spell it, izba) is the Russian peasant's home.  This humble abode was the center of many scenes in my novels. Izbahs, or izbahi, were first described in my initial novel Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker. When I started writing Ikons, I had no idea of the intricacies of the izbah and how important it was to Russian life.  I saw old black and white pictures, colored ones from the photographer Prokudin-Gorsky, and grainy photos taken by my uncle, but all were exterior views.  From these I imaged Hutava as it may have appeared in 1900.

* * *

Nothing distinguished Hutawa from any of her Russian sisters scattered everywhere.  Two dozen monotonous wooden izbahi topped by the chimneys of the ubiquitous Russian stoves stood shoulder to shoulder in a ragged line defining the village.  Only an occasional muted yellow or green trim placed on weather beaten walls differentiated one home from its neighbor. 

* * *

During one of my assignments to the former Soviet Union I had the opportunity to visit an izbah in an historical park in Minsk.  The interior was probably much cleaner than the typical turn-of-the-century izbah, but it did give a starting point.  Based on that exhibit, I wrote detailed description of my characters' home in the first chapter of Slogans: Our Children, Our Future as Akulina's laments her sons belief they are rich.

An historic exhibit of the Russian izbah

* * *

Rich?  Akulina inhaled the heady mixture of wood smoke, shchi, night dirt and unwashed bodies and glanced about her.  The wooden izbah she shared with its owner, her father and two young sons was no better or worse than the other two score dwellings the nearly three hundred residents of Unkurda called home.  Like most Old Believer dwellings it consisted of a single small room, half of which was occupied the pyechka, the large Russian stove made from stone and clay.  Circling the pyechka were the sleeping ledges and goose down comforters for the people and assorted animals.  True, the walls were covered with religious ikon and multicolored tapestries, but the tapestries were not for show but to keep out the winter wind.  The room boasted one thick table, four stools, a shelf for the stew pot, two grimy glass windows, ropes of onions and garlic and nearly a dozen balls of aging cheese hanging from the beams.  No doubt a place fit for the Tsar.  “We are not rich, Stefan Mataovich.”

* * *

The interior - Note the samovar on the left

The Russian great stove is on the right

In the early 1980's my uncle John, Vanya, returned to Hutava after a fifty year absence.  He claimed the village hadn't changed much with the passage of time.  While there he took several photographs and recorded several reels of Super-8 film.  Unfortunately, an overly enthusiastic Soviet X-ray machine fogged the photographic images.  The film, however, came through in pretty good shape.  Below are some clips from film taken in Hutava.

Vanya posing before a Hutava izbah.

Vanya demonstrating he hasn't lost his driving skills

During the various wars that swept across Russia in this century, thousand of izbah were burnt either by the Russians scorched policy or punitive actions by invading armies.  Either way the hardships foisted upon Russian citizens were horrific.
 

By whose hand?

Hutava was destroyed during the First World War by the retreating Russian army.  The description of its destruction was described simply in Banners: For Gor, Tsar and Russia.

* * *

By late afternoon only a thick column of sooty smoke marked the location where the village of Hutawa had stood.  By the next day that too was gone.

* * *

Twenty-five years later, Hutava again suffered the same fate.  This time at the hands of the advancing Germans.

What's In A Name

A constant comment, or rather criticism, of my work is the difficulty of pronouncing and remembering my characters' names.  Since my stories presented the Russian and Russian-American experience, it was difficult to provide those unfamiliar with the Slavic language with easily identifiable monikers. 

Ikons

In my first novel, Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, the majority of the characters bear the names of my family and their friends.  When I needed Belarus surnames to populate Hutava, I used the Minsk phone book and members of Stankovo's military detachment.  The name of the chief of Hutava's Mir, Mayor Voltaic, was appropriated from the Russian word for giant.  In my later novels I used this method to create names for many of my characters.

Banners

I can sympathize with readers of Banners: For God, Tasr and Russia.  There are an awful lot of characters.  I lifted quite a few names for my major characters from the state museum in Minsk: famous Russian poets, leaders and military heroes.  For minor characters I made up whimsical names based on Russian nouns and adjectives.  For instance, Feldfebel (First Sargent) Zortun.

* * *

Feldfebel Zartun was huge.  So huge that Sergei was almost eye level with the seated sergeant.  But it was not the sergeant’s height that upset Sergei―it was his weight.  To call the man fat would have been kind.  It was obvious the sergeant had not earned his rank through forced marches or horseback patrols.  Also, Sergei thought, the sergeant’s neatly trimmed mutton chops framing his bloated face might look fine on a parade field or in army headquarters, but they would draw more fleas than a stray koshka if the man ever left the post.  This Sergei knew from sad experience.

* * *

Zurtun's family name was derived from the Russian word for joke.  Originally,  I planned to use him for comic relief, but he turned out to anything but.  Another play on words was Sergei's commanding officer in Pervosk Fortress, Polkovnik (Colonel) Rygalov.  His last name was Russian for "belch" and I gave the poor guy an unhealthy dose of stomach problems.

Enlisted ranks were filled with soldiers who last names in Russian described their their physical and mental bearing, such as Gunner, Screamer, Lanky, and Grief.  Unfortunately, this did not help the pronunciation and memory problem, but it kept me smiling.

It was also in Banners that I introduced the leaders of the Old Believers as the twelve apostles and used Russian equivalents for their Biblical names. 

Slogans

Slogans: Our Children, Our Future contained many of the characters from the first two books.  Since Slogans dealt two young boys, Stepha and Vanya, the characters surrounding them were children.  For the children's names I used their diminutives: Kolya, Pasha, Valki, etc. Later, when Stepha and Vanya join a gang of Polish urchins, I used street names to identify them.  Stepha and Vanya tried to adopt street names to make them seem tougher.

* * *

After both lowered their weapons, the boy fronted them.  “They call me Ryzhy, because of this,” he said taking off his cap revealing a shock of flaming red hair.  “What cha called?”

Stepha was about to blurt out his name when he remembered Kolya's advice:  Don't use your real name or they'll think you're soft.  Call yourself something fierce.  “I’m called Medved―Bear,” Stepha said.  “And this is my brother, er, Volk―Wolf.”

* * *

Other gang members assumed names reflecting their status or physical qualities.

* * *

The brothers stood in the center of a dank basement, lit by four flickering candles.  Ryzhy's gang had circled them, arms folded, faces grim.  There was Krivoy, with just one good eye; Kosoy, whose eyes were crossed; Riaboy, with a face pot marked by disease; and Starik, who looked like a frail old man.  There also were two girls identified as Monashka, the nun, and Lebed, the swan. 

 * * *

Will this background information help my readers if they read this post?  Probably not, but at least they might be impressed by the genesis of those hard to pronounce and easy to forget names.

Climate Change

A century ago, world concern dwelt on many of the same topics that trouble us today.  War, immigration and terrorism were splashed across yesterday's newspapers. While climate change worries were not as widespread as today, there was ampprehension.  Following the hostilities in 1918, the world suffered through the coldest winters on record and my characters in Siberia felt the effects.

Ohio weather follows no pattern

I introduced the subject of climate change in the first half of my novel Slogans: Our Children Our Future.  Just like the present, my characters offered diverse and conflicting theories on the cause of the sudden dip in temperatures.  I tried not to take a stand on the cause of climatic fluctuation, but offered several scenarios that people of that period may have put forward, sometimes in a humorous manner.

The Ohio River near Paducah, Kentucky - 1918

The Old Believer Theory

Simon Petr, leader of the Old Believers, placed the blame for weather conditions squarely on the shoulders of the village's Polish Catholics.

* * *

It was the coldest February in memory.  During the day tree limbs burst like rifle shots and at night the stars whispered their deadly song.  Simon Petr greeted the phenomena by again donning sackcloth and parading through Unkurda announcing yet another sign of End Time. He attributed the temperature's plunge to divine wrath.  “Tis,” he proclaimed in a deep, Biblical tone, “more of God's displeasure with the unbelievers' Christmas Tide and the daily blasphemy of the Catholics.” 

* * * 

The Ohio River frozen over - 1918

The Orthodox Theory

The followers of the Orthodox religion blamed the cold on Red and White atrocities.

* * *

The Orthodox believed the reasons for God's punishment were legion.  The Tsar and his family, “may God have mercy on their souls,” had been slaughtered, churches defiled, uncountable innocent men hanged, women outraged and children starved.

* * *

Armored Czech Legion Train - 1918

The Catholic Theory

Unlike the other religions, the Catholics did not single out one group, but laid the blame at the feet of mankind.

* * *

Even the Catholics agreed the cold was God's doing, though they did not point an accusing finger.  The depths of man's sins they said, were vast beyond forgiveness.  However, instead of sending down fire and brimstone like He had on Sodom and Gomorrah, The Almighty was sending down ice and snow.  

* * *

 

The Front

The Freethinkers

Those who chose reason over religion found the source of their misery in scientific facts.

* * *

“God's wrath?  Ridiculous,” the freethinkers of the village responded.  “We may as well wear animal hides and sacrifice virgins like our prehistoric ancestors.  True, man is responsible for the horrid weather but not by sinning.”  Their explanation was scientific.  It was the war.  The smoke and dust from tens of thousands of cannons and uncounted burning farms, villages and cities had clouded the sky and was shielding the sun's warmth.

* * *

I couldn't find a suitable climate change cartoon online, so I created my own.

Original by Me

Kataya

I submitted Slogans: Our Children, Our Future, to the 2016 Writers' Digest Self-Published Book Contest.  As you may guess, I didn't win but I got a really nice review from the judge. The comment I found most interesting concerned my character, Kataya.

* * *

I was disconcerted that Kataya seems to have been much more fictionalized as a character than the other people in the book, since she’s one of the most vivid and “round” characters.  I’d have liked to have known in what way she was fictionalized.  Whatever prompted her to enter the Women’s Death Brigade at such a young age, for example?

* * *

If Slogans was a motion picture, Kataya would have an Oscar for best supporting actress.  In my three novels, Kataya progressed from bratty little sister, to child soldier, a socialist activist and a combat medic, and finally the leader of a doomed village.

When I first met Kataya, she was staring out of our family portrait flanked by my young father and uncle.  Though I never really knew her name, I believe it may have been Tatianna.  Her fictional name came from a form of family equality.  My Kataya's physical features as she matured are based on my oldest sister, Donna, and her personality on my fiery baby sister, Jayne.  The honor of naming her went to my middle sister, Kathy.

Tatianna (Kataya) as she appears in the family portrait

The fictional Kataya lived through many emotional and historic events.  As a young girl she held a marauding band of deserters at bay, fought in the Woman's Death Battalion, defended the Winter Palace, and then served along side Doctor Zhivago.  She displayed an Oscar winning performance during her reunion with Doctor Farnsworth and again as she was assaulted by fellow soldiers.  But to me, her best was in the chapter where she displayed compassion for a little girl.

* * *

The tiny figure on the roadside looked like a porcelain kukla, the kind of doll Kataya had so admired in the window of an expensive Petrograd shop.  But this was no child's toy.  She was real and she was dead.  The little girl lay face up on the snowy route leading from Kyshtym.  Her angelic face was waxen and her gray eyes clouded in a milky haze.  Her blue lips were slightly apart in a grim smile and revealed perfectly formed milk teeth.  A thick red babushka was wrapped around her head and a flowered scarf, knotted off to the side, draped her neck.  The girl's bare hands were knitted across her chest and pressed atop a wooden Orthodox cross.  The remnants of last night's dusting coated her clothing in white, but Kataya could make out the heavy wool skirt that ended just above the ankles.  The lack of snow on the girl’s leg wrappings told Kataya that earlier in the day someone had removed her shoes.

* * *

The Russian girl in the story is real.  I know her only from a wartime photograph I discovered in the 1970's.  The black and white image of her still body haunted me.  There was something about her serene appearance: eyes opened, slightly parted lips and a coat with one button missing.  She could have been the girl in Schindler's List.

Photograph from the Russian front

I wanted this little girl to be remembered, if only in my novel.  It was not just her memory, but that of millions of other children who died and continue to suffer at the hand's of adult follies.

***

Kataya bent down and touched the girl's hands and offered all the solace she could.  After a solemn moment, Kataya stood and resumed walking.  If she wanted to make the next village before nightfall, she would have to hurry.  She took three steps, then hesitated and went back.  Kataya looked at the cross and began to bless herself, then abruptly stopped.  What kind of a god would allow this?  Kataya spun on her heels, adjusted her pack and resumed her journey.

* * *

This is the last photo of Tatianna (Kataya) while she still lived in Hutava.  Though she may not have experienced all the events my fictional Kataya did, the history of Russia during her time is etched deeply into her face.  To me she represents the eternal Russian Babushka.

Tatianna - 1984

Going to America

In my first novel, Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, I describe my grandfather Massey's voyage to America: how he disembarked from the port city of Danzig aboard the SS Arabia, endured seasickness and indecision, and finally the dehumanizing experience of Ellis Island.  His journey was a tale fraught with danger, new friendships, romance and hope.

Danzig

My impression of the SS ARABIA in Danzig

I had Massey leave for America aboard the SS ARABIA, a converted British troop ship.  There was no such ship, but I liked the idea of placing the immigrants in the worse possible facility. 

* * *

 As the procession rounded the corner to the gangplank Massey suddenly came face to face with the SS ARABIA.  It was massive.  To his mind it was larger than any ship could possibly be.  Its whiteness shouted out against the gray overcast sky, her masts and funnels disappeared into the murkiness high above, and her deck spanned the horizon.  For a moment Massey stood frozen in awe.

 * * *

I gave my poor grandfather a bad case of seasickness, threw in the origins of his life long friendship with two Polish gentlemen and added a shipboard romance for good measure.  There was quite a bit of uneasiness as their ship approached America, each man wondering if he would be admitted or sent back in disgrace.

Ellis Island

 Ellis Island, the gateway to America.  Even though I had no proof, I sent Massey to Ellis Island.  After all, it was the port of entry for millions of Europeans during the early 1900's.  Following several weeks at sea, the passengers of the ARABIA were straining to catch a glimpse of the new world, their new home.

***

Eyes strained from every viewing point to catch a glimpse of the lady with the lamp.  For days, weeks, and even years, the passengers had heard of the lady who stood in the harbor to welcome immigrants to America.  But try as they might, their eyes could not pierce the gray mist shrouding New York Harbor.  The sun drenched sky that had greeted the ARABIA that morning had steadily clouded over as the ship moved west.  By the time she had reached the three-mile limit the sky had turned dark gray and a solid drizzle was falling.

 * * *

Ellis Island - Circa 1907

From mountains of background information, I constructed a plausible story of Massey's experience passing through Ellis Island.  I had him prodded, questioned, examined, interviewed and finally having his first American meal of eggs, bread, coffee and a banana.

Truth

Well, all this made a very nice story, but it never happened.  A decade after I published Ikons, I received an email for a woman whose grandfather accompanied Massey from Hutava.  According to her, my grandfather was part of a group that left their village for America in 1907.  Their destination was not New York's Ellis Island, but Baltimore's Locust Point.  Her family remained in Baltimore, but the others scattered, with Massey ending up in Rockdale Illinois.  
 

Baltimore Point of Entry in Its Heyday

So even though my version of Massey's first trip across the Atlantic is more fiction than history, it served as a source for an additional piece of our family's puzzle.