The Accidental Anarchist by Bryna Kranzler

of pure self-defense because he was clearly prepared, night after night, to give the Jews under his command the most dangerous assignments until he was rid of us all.
     
    We watched, and listened, and waited. After three hours, no one had come to relieve us. Somehow, I was not surprised. But it was too dangerous to send one man back to seek our replacements, and more dangerous to leave only one man on guard. For all of us to go would have meant deserting our post, which might have been what our company commander was counting on. Finally, well past midnight, some shadows appeared. Upon being challenged, they gruffly gave us the password. Our replacements were Russian. They had a machine gun.
     
    Too tired to go back to camp, we fell asleep in a nearby trench. A while later, we were awakened by sharp automatic fire. Our relief, it seemed, had all fallen asleep and one of them had been stabbed to death. But the attack consisted of only three Japanese, one of whom was killed by the machine gun; the second was wounded, and the third had surrendered. At daybreak, we marched back to camp with the two captives.
     
    The wounded man gestured and pleaded pitiably. He seemed to be offering to tell us anything we wanted to know if only we would let him live. Someone went looking for an interpreter.
     
    Meanwhile, our commander arrived on horseback, flashing his drawn saber and grinning like a sportsman at the two Japanese, who sank to the ground and started to plead. Vasiliev asked for volunteers to behead the captives. Most of the Jewish boys turned away in disgust. But the response was so enthusiastic from the other soldiers that the only solution would have been to draw lots. In the end, the commander decided he wanted to do the job, himself.
     
    A stake was driven into the ground and the captives were tied to it in a manner that left their heads exposed. They were no longer pleading, but all my nerve endings could feel the hatred in their eyes.
     
    Our commander drew back far enough to give his horse a running start. Now, with a shout of joy, he came galloping toward the stake. One slash and both heads plopped to the ground. Some of the men started a make-believe football game with one of the heads, while the other was retrieved by a group doing a Cossack dance, while skillfully tossing the head from hand to hand.
     
    I turned away, not wanting to watch any more. But I could tell that I had already become hardened because I felt no more than a mild twinge of disgust.
     
    The next morning our retreat continued, although I was no longer sure we were heading in the right direction. Day and night, the sky was so thick with clouds of snow that we had neither sun nor stars to guide us. Nothing but our officers’ doubtful ability to read their maps and compasses.
     
    Though in retreat, we were still under orders to stop and fight, even counterattack, whenever conditions were favorable, to slow the enemy’s advance toward Mukden. Even now our company commander acted as though we were heading into battle instead of running away from it. For days no one had mentioned killing him. We were far too tired, and he was far too alert.
     
    Glasnik reported the latest rumor. Alexei Kuropatkin, our Minister of War, himself, was standing on one of the nearby hills to make a firsthand survey of the situation. It was said that he might take personal charge of coordinating our strategy. Strategy! I didn't know who was more foolish, our own proud General Zasulich, who was willing to suffer huge losses rather than retreat in time, or Kuropatkin with his policy: “No battle before we are in superior force.” That would have suited me fine, except that the Japanese refused to cooperate, even though we outnumbered them four to one.
     
    By the next day, the Japanese had finished regrouping and came after us in full force. Their artillery had found our range, which meant their forward observers must have been quite close, yet we never spotted