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HARDSHIP TO HOMELAND—

Folktales of Pacific Northwest Germans from Russia

Richard D. Scheuerman and Clifford E. Trafzer

Illustrations by Jim Gerlitz

Something happens to all stories. The ones that are not retold are called “forgotten.”

—Tatiana de Rosenay

Origin stories matter, for individuals, groups of people, and nations. They inform our

sense of self, telling us what kind of people we believe we are….. They usually carry us at least a

hope that where we started might hold the key to where we are in the present. We can say,

therefore, that much of the concern over origin stories is about our current needs and desires,

not actual history. Origin stories seek to find in the familiar, or the superficially familiar,

memory, sometimes shading into mythology. Both memory and mythology have their uses,

even if they must be separated from the facts of the past.

—Annette Gordon Reed

Stories exist in all cultures and exist for all time. Stories provide us truths about

people and cultures, even when the stories are presented as fiction. They tell us of cultural

values, beliefs, successes, and failures. They tell of joy and sorrow as well as the truths of a

particular culture, and are not “fish tales that grow with the telling.” They offer ways of

understanding life and knowing the ways of particular people. Stories tell us who we are at

certain times in our history, and how we have changed—or stayed the same—over time.

Stories can contain deep meaning and purpose, guiding us in our understanding of peoples

of the past. They impart wisdom and provide ways of sharing knowledge crucial to our

understanding of people and places, past and present.

In former times, people shared most personal accounts in the oral tradition, passing

down stories so that younger generations may know about previous generations. In this

way stories can be like traveling to far-off foreign countries. Folks do things differently

there, just as our ancestors did things differently in Germany and Russia, often out of

necessity. Over time, some wrote down their stories so that future generations would have

the old tales and never forget what went before them. The story appended to this

presentation is shared for the first time in written form and based on oral tradition from

Germans from Russia settlers in the American West. In an age of mass communications, cell

phones, email, twitter and texting, stories shared in the oral tradition might seem passé and

backward. Written stories take far more time to develop than a five-line tweet from a friend

or politician. And they make far more sense as they contain content, development, thought,

and feeling.

Like the great literature of Dostoevsky and Zola, such stories have multiple

meanings both for the narrator and listeners. They are participatory for those presenting

and those receiving—and, hopefully, actively passing them along to others. Many

storytellers from the past—relatives and non-relatives—have taken time to share their

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knowledge of the old days with us through stories. Of special note to our society is the

pioneering work as folklorists of Tim and Rosalinda Kloberdanz, historians Lewis and

Donna Marquart, Nancy Holland, Jean Roth, Brent Mai, and many others whose

contributions have greatly enriched my understandings. Of preeminent significance are

elders who have shared their stories with us through the years—Richard’s Grandfather Karl

Scheuerman, Mollie Bafus, Dan Ochs, Eva Litzenberger Baldaree, and Vera Grove Rudd. The

stories presented here are historical and truths about Volga German immigrants to the

Pacific Northwest. Our approach with these oral histories has been to use specific events

shared by elders as touchstones to bring to life other fictional characters and related

happenings. Each story is followed by an “afterword” that identifies the original storytellers

and the circumstances of their narrations.

Our immigrant ancestors came to make new and better lives for themselves, their

people, and their children. This is an ancient refrain shared by many cultures. During the

nineteenth century, German immigrants moved into the Volga and Black Sea regions of

Russia to make new lives for themselves and their families. After difficult years of

adjustment, they prospered through hard work and perseverance. Within my family, a story

has survived many generations that tied our people to Tsarina Catherine the Great. Some

might say that the story of “Fidgen and the Orange Tree” is mere myth, but consider this:

Our elders believed the story to be true and treated the tale as fact. Thus, the story is a truth

for the family and community of American settlers from the Volga. Furthermore, the poor

family is said to have never spent the pyatak Catherine’s officer handed to Sophie in the

church. The coin given to Fidgen is an heirloom, a treasure within the family. Like the coin,

the family story remains a treasure but one they share with others. In this way, the stories

are a gift of history and culture from one people to the rest of the world.

“she nodded in a gesture of familiarity”

Her kint’s glaawe oder net, awer sie sachen so is ‘s.—

(You can believe it or not, but this is what they say happened….)

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While still living in Russia in the eighteenth century not far from the great Volga

River, families spent most of the winter months hunkered down. “The Gift” provides

accounts of multiple gifts, including a peculiar one that saved the lives of Anna Marie,

Martin, and Fedda Honna. While living in the old country, a family needed supplies, which

they normally purchased in the city of Saratov located many miles from their home. Long

before daylight one cold winter day, Martin and Fedda harnessed horses to a wagon while

young Anna Marie ate her breakfast and dressed warmly for the upcoming trip into the city.

The men also tied a young colt to the back of the wagon in case it was needed. In a horse

drawn wagon, the three travelers moved peacefully along the road.

When they reached the city, they traveled through the streets and to their favorite

dry goods store. They quickly set about making their purchases of supplies needed to get

them through the winter. With the help of her father, Anna Marie purchased a bright blue

teapot painted with tiny flowers. The teapot was a gift for her mother and excitedly chose

sticks of hard candy for herself and her brother, Phillip. While she made her purchases, the

men filled the wagon with much needed staples. The small party moved quickly to complete

their chores in town before darkness fell on the road home. They returned home along the

same road they had traveled earlier that day. However, the journey home was not peaceful

as hungry wolves attack them.

“Anna Marie stepped closer to the window display”

Along the snowy road in adjacent woods, wolves waited to attack the small party

and attempt to take down one of the lead horses. A pack of wolves attacked the party. The

men, much experienced in these travels, had prepared for such an event. They fought back

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with shotguns, but in order for their horses to survive the attack, the men made a gift to the

wolves. Their planned offering ended the violent attack and saved the draft animals pulling

their wagon. When the party arrived home safely, they presented another gift to Anna’s

mother. The blue enamel teapot, the important gift to a wife and mother, remains in the

family to this day. It is a symbol of another place, another time. The teapot is a pneumonic

object of memory regarding the very real threats to the families’ wellbeing, and how they

were confronted.

Not long after this short trip into the city, members of several families decided to

seek new lives in the American West. Taxes and the military draft drove some Volga

Germans away from Russia to seek new adventures in America. “The Homeland Garden”

tells of a Russian-German family making their way from the Volga to Washington Territory

in the 1880s. After years of toil and multiple experiences farming on the hills and plains in

the Old Country, discrimination provided a push factor that encouraged many to relocate to

the western regions of the United States. The American West offered a pull factor for

Russian-Germans. The opportunity of buying parcels of land, owning their own farms, and

tilling the soil in America appealed to farming families then living in southwestern Russia.

Many families saw immigration as a way of making a new start in a new land where they

would be part of a new country.

“’Are we now in Columbia Land?’ Martin asked.”

After saying goodbye to their friends and relatives, an immigrant family boarded a

passenger vessel and journeyed across the Atlantic to New York City. Like many others, this

particular group remembered positive and negative experiences as they sailed across the

great ocean. During the journey and situated in the stale air below decks, the family’s

mother became ill and remained so throughout the voyage. After docking at Castle Garden

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on Manhattan Island, the infirmed woman died and was buried in New York. This happened

to my Great-Grandmother Litzenberger. The family remained for a while with friends and

relatives in the vicinity of Pine Island, New York, to recover and earn some money.

Traveling by wagon, they eventually travel across the prairies and Rockies on to the Pacific

Northwest, settling in the Palouse River Valley of eastern Washington.

The original narrators of these stories captured the excitement and joys, and

anxieties and fears of pioneer immigrants settling the American West. “Aurora’s Ghosts”

invites readers into the settlements of Russian-German people of Eastern Washington.

Working communally at the Palouse Colony, the new immigrant families learned of the

amazing phenomenon commonly known as the Northern Lights, which some worried were

a sign if impending doom. But their religious faith and leadership sustained them and

lessened fears about surviving in the new land. Russian-German settlers came with faith

and devotion which gave them hope and strength to face each new day and each changing

season. The elders passed along their beliefs to younger generations, which nurtured the

families and gave moral strength. Hardy settlers built their first homes which were

sometime dug into the fertile Palouse Hills as their ancestors had first done in Russia. With

time and equipment, they cut lumber to build new homes, barns, churches, and schools.

They both feared and respected Native American families living nearby. Volga German

farmers avoided conflict with their Indian neighbors and set their minds to nurturing their

farms and gardens, their sources of livelihood.

“The northern sky was fearfully bright”

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“Aurora’s Ghosts” is about the survival of immigrant children during a treacherous

snow and ice storm. The Northwest is known for its changing weather and the potential for

violent storms. Immigrant families had long known the importance of weather, but they

learned by experience about the changing conditions of Eastern Washington. During the

winter months, wind, snow, ice, and blizzards blanketed the hilly plateau above as well as

the inland valleys along streams and rivers. Volga German settlers of the Palouse Colony

had established their farms in the 1880s along a fertile valley of the Palouse River and

adjacent watercourses.

The settlers acquired fertile lands along the river and built their homes and farms in

a remote area but scenic between the rural communities of Endicott and St. John,

Washington. They lived and worked in a deep canyon, cultivating the broad open spaces on

both sides of the river. Palouse Colony children attended a country school in the hills above

the canyon, traveling up and down the steep canyon walls every day to attend class. One

winter day, storm clouds gathered over the little schoolhouse and Miss Fourner bundled up

the children and sent them home to be safe with their families. When she saw the storm

mounting, she acted quickly to send the children home before the storm arrived. But the

weather moved in far more quickly than anyone had expected, and the wind and snow

fiercely struck in the faces of the little children. The older ones took charge of the small

party, and used a rope to create a small chain of children as they edged their way down a

treacherous canyon trail. The snow blinded the smallest and they slipped precariously as

they sought a way back home.

The full force of a blizzard threatened the forlorn group, but they pressed on in spite

of nearby cliffs. Far below in the pioneer settlement, their parents set out to find the

children. One mother, Catherine, called an elder named Ellevess to use her prayers and

special powers to bring the children home safely. Invoking Old World language and custom,

Ellevess prayed to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. She used her cultural powers to send

warmth and protection to the youths. All the while, the children struggled to make their way

down through cutting winds, stinging sleet, and icy footings while seeking rescue. “The

Golden Nichtsie” continues the adventures of children attending the Palouse Colony’s Allen

School. Young Robert does not fit in well with his peers who come to learn an important

lesson about kindness and respect for others.

Short stories like these related by our elders offer more than tall tales. They

represent colorful accounts of the immigrant experience in the American West, and valuable

lessons about living responsibly. Agrarian immigrants worked hard to develop their own

farms, community businesses, social and religious associations, and cooperatively help each

other survive and succeed. Their experiences offer compelling lessons on self-reliance, care

for others, and religious devotion. All has high relevance to our present day as young people

seek meaningful values in a day of such strident change and uncertainty.

Our cultural experience has special contemporary relevance as young people and

persons of all ages seek to navigate through an increasingly strident culture and find

meaningful guiding values. The Germans from Russia experience known through these

stories combines sustaining Old World traditions with New World challenges and

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opportunities. Our people learned to negotiate cultural and political understandings with

“others” who were suspicious of their looks, language, and customs, and associations with

Germany and Russia.

Having lived for generations among Slavs and tribal peoples of the steppes, our

people came to this land with special regard for other ethnic and immigrant communities.

When hearing today about racial disparities and the humanitarian struggles of immigrant

families fleeing to America for a better life, we can remember, understand, and care enough

to do something. From every stage of our people’s journey to and across the country, stories

have come down to us about somebody gave a helping hand—the streetside fruit vendor in

New York, the country doctor in Kansas, Colorado beet field landlord, the railroad

immigration agent in Portland.

Secondly, our people found in America the remarkable opportunity to participate in

the political process. Prior to the Russian Revolution and certainly in the old German

homeland, there had been no political parties and little chance for villagers to influence civil

affairs. But not after coming to North America. The blessings of liberty here meant both

opportunity and responsibility to vote, as well as to support the political process at local,

state, and national levels, which our people have admirably done. Finally, our people’s

religious identity has meaningfully guided individuals and families through times of great

change. Spiritual convictions in a day of consumer fads and social strife root souls in the

things from above. These abiding values promote self-respect and appreciation for others,

honesty, and care for God’s creation. Our elders’ stories speak of their special kinship for the

land, and honoring the memory of our ancestors, those “pilgrims on the earth” who, like

Abraham of old, kept seeking a land of promise and hope for those who would follow.

In his timeless novel The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky reminds us of the trails

our people have traveled: “Precious are they that lie there, every stone over them speaks of

such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their

struggle.”

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THE GHOSTS OF TREASURE MEADOW

Retold by Richard D. Scheuerman

Illustrations by Jim Gerlitz

Peasant rebel leader Yemelian Pugachev terrorized the lower Volga region in 1774

during his infamous campaign to depose Catherine the Great and destroy Russian civil

officialdom and the landowning class. Thousands of serfs, tribal peoples, disgruntled workers,

and members of various outcast groups joined Pugachev’s revolt. He entered the Volga

German colonial enclave the first week of August and captured three men in Yagodnaya

Polyana who were subsequently whipped to death. Pugachev’s force then moved south to

ransack the city of Saratov where prisons were opened, riverside warehouses raided, and

homes of aristocrats and officials destroyed.

The marauders then then moved southwesterly to terrorize the Volga German villages

of Norka, Huck, Dönhoff, and many others before Pugachev himself was captured in

September. The rebel leader was executed several months later in Moscow. During the

fearsome insurrection, some German settlers with wagons were forced to assist in transporting

Pugachev’s illicit treasury and bury it in secret locations before they were to be killed. In at

least one instance a young man managed to escape after being warned by a woman of his

likely fate. Northwest Volga German historian Jean Roth related details of a haunted Volga

battle site at the 2019 Volga German Institute in Leavenworth, Washington. She credited first

generation immigrants and longtime Walla Walla residents William Frank, Conrad Brill, and

other community elders with roots in the villages of Norka and Frank for providing

information about the place.

The long days of July cast a sweltering heat upon the vast rolling steppes of

Russia’s southern Volga region. Lifelong companions Hannes Kaiser and Peter Decker were

eager to complete the long-awaited harvest of grain that flourished in all directions around

their village of Marsfeld. The boys had been just seven years old in 1767 when they had

arrived with their parents and several dozen other intrepid German families to establish the

colony on the wild Volga frontier. Many of the smallest children and oldest members of the

group had perished during the first years since the conditions of life had been so primitive.

Until logs could be cut and brought to the village the families had to live in zemlyanki “earth-

homes.” These places were little more than cellars dug into the cold ground and covered

with branches, leaves, and clumps of grass.

Existing in such conditions with little food through the first winters had been

difficult, and many died. But in time the stolid colonists formed a stable community and

now, seven years after they first arrived, Hannes and Peter could attend Marsfeld’s white-

plastered church and school. The virgin grasslands surrounding the village, as elsewhere

throughout the area southeast of the regional capital, Saratov, had now been replaced with

abundant fields of rye, wheat, melons, and other crops. Now that the boys were young teens

they could help with some of the responsibilities for the harvest season.

Each Monday before dawn from mid-July to August, Margarete Kaiser, Hannes’s

mother, roused her son to dress and consume a hearty breakfast of kasha and milk. His

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father, Johann, was already making final preparations for the week’s labor. At first light

Johann and Hannes went into the farmyard behind the house and harnessed a pair of horses

to their box wagon. Hannes helped his mother load cloth bags with loaves of rye bread,

sausage, and cheese, and two water casks. They were among the few wooden objects that

had survived the long trek from Germany a decade earlier. The Kaisers’ neighbors, Peter

and his father, Andrew Decker, had also prepared to depart. They soon joined a dozen

others who had gathered outside in the brisk morning air. Armed with sickles, rakes, and

scythes, some rode in the wagons while others like Hannes and Peter walked the several

miles north of Marsfeld past vast stands of ripened grain. The Kaiser and Decker families

had been allotted fertile parcels nach dem Khutor—out in the country, and the boys’ fathers

were eager to take in the vital harvest of life-sustaining grain.

Throughout much of summer the colonists would labor in the fields during the week

and return home Saturday afternoon to prepare for Sunday worship and rest. Hannes and

Peter were still too young to wield heavy scythes day after day from dawn to dusk. But they

could cut the stalks with smaller razor-sharp sickles, rake them into piles, and bundle

sheaves to stack into the wagons. They then led the muscled horse teams to an area near the

road where other men flailed the great piles. Sweaty workers gathered around the massive

pile of unthreshed grain to violently strike the brittle heads with pole and swingle to

separate the golden kernels. They moved to the rhythm of folk songs that harkened back to

ancestral ways: Onward boys, onward boys! Far into the rye, far into the rye. Tell the witch to

leave; tell the witch to leave. This crop has been blessed….

Early one midweek morning in August, the air seemed oddly still. No birdsongs were

heard from the swallows, quail, and other winged creatures that typically flew low over the

fields after breaking of the rosy Volgaland dawn. At morning respite, the workers gathered

near a blackthorn thicket at the edge of the field to refresh themselves with water and

flavorful rye rusks topped with soft white cheese. The clatter of Atzeln (magpies) sounded

in the distance.1

“So where’s our kraut and sausage and wine?” kidded “Sleedja” (Sled) Pete, young

Peter’s uncle and namesake. “Here I travel all this way to do my part but eat all week like

these children,” he smiled with a glance toward the boys.

“Well, had I known we had a member of the tsar’s own household here in our midst,

I would have had Katya send the linen tablecloths,” laughed Peter’s father.

“You can’t be sure these days, Johann,” piped “Garte” (Garden) Heinrich, one of the

oldest members of the colony who had served honorably as Marsfeld’s first mayor. Heinrich

had finished working his own sons’ harvest the previous week and now hired out to families

like the Kaisers and Deckers with fields nach dem Khutor.

“Perhaps you have not heard,” explained their broad-shouldered elder, “but word

came through a Russian peddler last week that the infidel Pugachev and his rag-tag horde

was marching down the Volga toward Saratov.”

The boys grew excited at such talk and listened more intently, and Hannes noticed a

hawk circling high above. “But Saratov threatens no one,” suggested Peter.

“Well tell that to the madman Pugachev!” Garte Heinrich continued. “They say he

claims to be the long-lost Tsar Peter, the murdered husband of our Empress Catherine

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returned from the dead. He and his misfit serfs and Tatars think they own the steppes, the

whole country, and everything that’s in it.”

“I suggest they take your wagon before it falls apart,” Andrew joked. “I wasn’t sure it

would make it out here with that creaking axle. Already the grease-bucket is just about

empty.”

“I suppose it’s not really a laughing matter,” observed Johann. “I’m not sure how well

we’d fare with scythes and clods against horsemen carrying broadswords and muskets.”

“Well I’m not the Vorsteher (mayor) and you’re not the Gemeinde (council),”

announced Johann. “So let’s leave these things to others. I say it’s back to work so we can

finish this field before the snow flies, maybe even tomorrow.”

The men folded and retied cloths around their food and gulped another round of

cool water. Hannes pointed out to Peter an immense nest high in a stand of sturdy sosna

pines. The grove flanked the far side of a meadow on the northern edge of the field. Beyond

the feathery dark green branches of majestic linden trees and white birch descended down

into a shallow valley. Talk of throwing dirt clods had given Hannes ideas about an assault,

and both boys gathered several from the stubble beneath their feet.

As they stealthily headed around the uncut grain, Andrew yelled, “You can make

yourselves useful by bringing back some of that cold spring water.”

Peter quickly returned to fetch two of the group’s wooden water casks and then

rejoined Hannes. As the boys disappeared over the rise, and the men lined up diagonally in

rank order beneath the broiling sun with Johann setting the pace at the front. Soon the

familiar swish-swish of scythe blades drifted across the field. In a few minutes the team had

worked their way over the hillock where the meadow was visible in the distance.

The boys heard water trickling, and Peter followed toward the sound through a

tangle of wild grass and ripe strawberries to fill the containers in a small stream of cold and

clear water. Meanwhile Hannes raised his hand and let go with an earthen ball, though it

missed the nest wide to the right. Peter put the heavy casks down and threw a clay clod as

both boys stepped closer to the tree. His throw struck the side of the target and instantly the

noise of several aroused nestlings filled the air. The shrill sound only encouraged the boys.

But before Hannes could release the next volley, he noticed from of the corner of his eye a

rapidly approaching shadow. The hawk’s warning flight came overhead close enough for the

boys to hear the flutter of its wings, but they were undeterred in their mission.

“No bird is going to get the better of us Bauer-Brüder (farmer-brothers),” Hannes

laughed nervously, and the pair rearmed with larger ammunition they found among the

clumps of sod. This time Hannes’s throw hit the heavily branched mass to further

antagonize its downy residents. But as Peter prepared to follow, the darkly feathered

defender swept down even closer in a menacing, twisting motion. Just as Hannes was

leaning over hoping to find a stone, Peter screamed, “Hit the ground!” The great bird bore

down upon them with talons flared and might well have torn one of their scalps. But Peter

lurched violently ahead while Hannes crashed backwards into the heavy grass. Both boys

scrambled up to sprint back into the grain field as fast as possible with hands protecting the

tops of their heads.

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Hannes and Peter had not noticed that the men had stopped their scything. They

watched the amusing scene while sharpening their blades with well-worn whetstones

carried by each reaper. “So have you learned your lesson?” Garte (Garden) Heinrich shouted

to the two lads.

“Yes, lesson learned!” Hannes replied sheepishly.

“Well when you work up enough courage you’ll need to go back and fetch those

water casks!” Johann Kaiser scolded.

The boys stared blankly at each other. “Well, maybe after a little while,” sighed his

son.

By noon the next day the band of weary harvesters could glimpse the last stand of

rye, now down to an area about the combined size of the church and school yards. A

peculiar haze rippled in the hot air off in the direction of Saratov, and Hannes smiled at the

thought that the exhausting week would soon end. Finally he could return to his mother’s

cooking, soft bed, and visit with other friends about their summertime adventures.

“The end is in sight,” observed Johann reassuringly as Hannes and Peter gathered

sheaves nearby. “If no rain comes from these clouds blowing in, we all might be back home

by nightfall.”

“And may the Roggenwolf (Rye Wolf) grant us a good yield next year,” said “Sleedja”

(Sled) Pete; “and not attack us after the way you treated that hawk yesterday.”

Hannes and Peter had heard many stories before about the Feldgeisten (field

spirits). Such mysterious creatures were said to embody the fertility of the colonists’ crops,

and were allowed to safely steal away after taking cover in the last patch of uncut grain. If

able to escape unharmed, the wolf or hare or some other animal represented hope of the

following year’s abundance. Lately both boys had doubts about such tales, but the tone of

Sleedja Pete’s words left them wondering. They were still a bit on edge after the previous

day’s fright that had given them newfound respect for creatures that had lived on the steppe

since time immemorial.

As the boys continued piling sheaves into the wagon, they noticed Garte Heinrich

standing apart from the slowly moving worker column. His eyes were fixed on the

northeastern horizon far beyond the pine grove. The pair then heard him holler something

and saw the rest of the men halt their scything as he waved for them to gather. The boys

strolled over to the men.

“For the sake of the others I’m not sure that’s wise,” said Heinrich in reply to

someone’s suggestion. “I know we’re almost finished, but we can always come back early

next week if everything is fine.”

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Hannes looked up at Johann for further explanation just as his father spoke.

“Heinrich is right,” Johann explained. “He may be the eldest among us but his eyes are like

the hawk.” Pointing to the north, he continued. “That’s not dust or low clouds, but smoke

from the direction of Saratov.” Even as they stood watching, the boys could see small black

billows rising in the distance.

“Perhaps a field fire has overtaken the place,” said Sledja Pete.

“Possible, but Saratov has the river all along one side and is protected to the west by

walls and hills that are kept clean this time of year,” replied Heinrich.

“Sooo, what are you saying?” asked one of the younger men.

“Like he said,” repeated Johann repeated sternly; “for everyone’s sake we should

return to Marsfeld. This might be evil doings by the raiders we heard about yesterday.2 Our

families may need us back in the village.”

“Yes, and if by some chance they are heading this way,” Heinrich added, “there could

well be scouts already crossing the valley beyond the meadow. I doubt they’d take the main

river road and risk meeting the tsarina’s Cossack garrisons.”

The group hustled back up the slope to the wagons and threw their scythes on top of

the sheaves. Someone shouted, “Fahr nit so shnell, aber macht das Heim kommish (Drive not

too fast, but make home come quickly.)” Johann saw Hannes and Peter jump onto the back

of the Deckers’ wagon and both teams drove toward the threshing ground and trail on the

other side of the slope. But moments later Hannes remembered the wooden casks that he

and Peter had forgotten in the meadow.

“I’ll be back in no time,” Hannes told his friend. “I’ll join up with my father over on

the trail.”

And before Peter could answer, Hannes hopped down and disappeared over the

hillock. Since most of the men had already piled into Johann’s wagon, he continued along the

edge of the field toward the colony road while Andrew halted his team where several other

men were threshing with flails. Andrew shouted to the workers to get into his wagon as

Peter tried to explain what Hannes had done.

Andrew looked toward the road and saw that Johann had stopped and come down

from the wagon to speak with someone just as three riders appeared in the distance on the

road from Saratov. But Johann had paused to check the wagon’s axle, and then whipped his

team to speed off down the rutted lane. He didn’t that his son had returned to the meadow,

and was now on his own. The other workers had already gathered their belongings and

followed along the edge of the field and onto the trail leading back to Marsfeld. They saw the

three figures on horseback stop, and one reeled his mount and turned toward the nearby

grassy expanse.

Hannes saw the horsemen moments after he had retrieved the water casks, but

dared not head in that direction. Neither could he risk returning the way he had come

through the harvested field since it was now shorn of its cover. He quickly ducked down his

head, but the sudden movement caught the eye of one of the riders. The terrified boy buried

his face into the warm grass and felt his heart pounding and heard the dull thud of

approaching hooves. A jubilant shriek arose and Hannes risked slowly looking upward.

Sitting upon a dun-colored stallion was a grinning Tatar with a thick mustache as black as

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pitch and an enormous embroidered turban with scarlet topknot. Pointing a short-barreled

musket at him, Hannes’s captor hollered something incomprehensible while the boy

struggled to overcome his desire to run. Several Marsfeld colonists had guns, and Hannes

was aware of their devastating power at close distance.

The boy slowly raised his hands and sat up on his knees. By now the other two

strangers had come and seemed to loudly hail the exploits of their companion, who did not

appear to appreciate their commendations. The more distant pair wore faded maroon

kaftans and drooping gray wool caps while the man before Hannes was clad in a loose-

fitting dark blue coat. All three men sported black boots that met baggy gabardine trousers

just below the knee. With the authority of a village sotnik (constable), the larger man barked

orders and his two companions dismounted. One with a bloodied broadsword clasped to a

heavy leather belt tightly bound Hannes’s hands with a thin rope while snarling

incomprehensible threats. He was a stout, surly fellow with piercing dark eyes and ruddy

complexion marred by a jagged Narbe (scar) across his left cheek. He pulled Hannes to a

nearby pine, tethered him to the trunk, and pushed him down. After calmer conversation,

the two in reddish tunics returned to their steeds and rode back down the trail.

Sitting upon a dun-colored stallion was a grinning Tatar

Hannes’s heart was still pounding as he watched his captor walk toward the stream

and picked up one of his father’s water casks. Sotnik opened the top, examined the empty

vessel, and kneeled down. He removed his turban to reveal a scalp-lock atop his otherwise

bronzed bald head. He drew water with cupped hands and drank. Sotnik then returned to

the horse and pulled from a beautifully embroidered saddlebag a strap of jerked meat and

crust of brown-black bread. He walked over to the boy and offered the food with a slight

smile. Hannes remained transfixed in fear and had lost his appetite, but thought it sensible

14

to accept so stood up and took the food. He gave a nod of thanks and uttered one of the few

Russian words he knew—spaceba (thanks), to which Sotnik replied courteously,

“Pazhaulsta, malchik (you are welcome, boy).”

Sotnik then spent some time exploring the meadow beyond the pines to the slope of

linden and birch. He periodically struck the ground with a long, thin silver Cossack saber

that glistened in the summer sun. The Tatar horse had wandered over to the stream and the

man returned to tie the animal’s bridle to a low-hanging pine branch not far from the tree

the boys had assaulted. Hannes looked up and saw the hawk in its nest watching intently

the happenings below. Sotnik motioned for Hannes to sit down. He removed the saddle and

retrieved a large bedroll with bright green and red trim and laid upon the shaded ground.

For the first time since his fearsome encounter, Hannes’s nerves had somewhat

settled, and he considered how he might survive his circumstances. He had been a faithful

student of the catechism and had heard Grandmother Kaiser recite numerous Psalms

enough times to have committed some to memory. “Wenn ich mich sürchte, so hoffe ich auf

dich….” (“When I am afraid, I will trust in thee. …Wilt not thou deliver my feet from falling,

that I may walk before God in the light of the living?” —Psalm 56:3, 13.) Hannes fervently

prayed like he had never done before. He wondered why the men had not attempted to

rescue him, but also realized some, including his father, might well be killed in the attempt.

Better that they returned to Marsfeld.

Late in the afternoon Hannes heard shouts and the rumble of approaching horses

and wagons that also awakened Sotnik. The burly Tatar stood up and walked toward the

road where he hailed an approaching column of several dozen well-armed horsemen.

Hannes’s heart sank when he saw ugly Narbe leading several wagons pulled by sturdy four-

horse teams. Two of the vehicles were piled with great heaps of silverware, brass samovars,

and other precious objects in iron-bound wooden chests and kegs. The back of a heavily

carved walnut chair stuck up oddly between several rolls of heavy carpet. A young man with

a flowing pink scarf holding jewel-encrusted pistols jostled back and forth atop the chaotic

booty of one wagon until it lurched to a stop. Two others had high wooden sides roofed with

pink and green brocade and was crowned with black and yellow checkerboard flags. One

served as a makeshift living quarters for high-ranking bandits like Sotnik, and the other was

used by cooks and other rough women who accompanied Pugachev’s treasure column.

The noisy group soon settled into camp and several men prepared cooking fires.

Hannes noticed Sotnik arguing with Narbe as both men periodically looked in his direction.

Three unkempt women pulled two dented copper cauldrons and cooking utensils from one

of the wagons. They filled them with water while two raucous men sampled from a box that

clanged with long-necked bottles of brandy and vodka. The women opened large sacks filled

with vegetables and laughed and sang while cutting up great quantities of potatoes, beets,

and onions onto a silver serving tray and dumped into the steaming pots. A pair of wood

gatherers moved to a small herd of cattle and lean nags that trailed the column. They roped

a boney cow and led it to a pine near Hannes. Without hesitation one killed it with a large

knife and collected blood to thicken the soup while the other man started to butcher the

hapless creature.

15

Hannes saw Sotnik approach while calling to a young woman with long dusky hair

who was tending one of the fires. She brought a large metal ladle which she handed to her

master. Sotnik knelt beside him, and used the bent-handled utensil to show Hannes how to

dig a hole in the ground. He then pulled from his coat a beautifully engraved silver spoon

and placed it in the earth. Next he drew several bronze coins from his pocket which he also

tossed in before covering everything with dirt and grass. Sotnik then pointed to one of the

treasure wagons and then pressed his finger into Hannes’s chest, and smiled in hope of the

boy’s comprehension. Hannes nodded to acknowledge that he understood the task.

Sotnik then untied the boy and gave him the ladle while giving some orders to the

girl. “He says,” she explained in halting German, “that he must return to lead our

commander here. But he will come back tomorrow.” With that the Tatar captain mounted

his great horse and rode back down the trail toward Saratov. Others led Hannes to a group

of young men digging holes the size of graves with crude spades to bury their plunder.

Narbe and several older men periodically checked on the work and Hannes could sense

their cold-blooded stares. The nearby trees were soon wrapped in wisps of smoke but

Hannes could see in the hazy moonlight that well-armed guards wary of government troops

were posted all around the camp.

To avoid further encounters with Narbe, Hannes decided to slowly crawl behind a

tree. As he turned to move, someone walked nearby. Hannes turned to see the girl who had

interpreted for Sotnik approaching nervously with a small tin cup of stew. “Saxon,” she

whispered, “they will kill you tonight so you must hide. Then leave at dawn when most of

the sentries come for breakfast.” With that she dropped a dark brown velvet cape trimmed

with golden tassels and pointed to a hole in the distance that had not yet been filled. Hannes

took the cape and the girl quickly returned to the campfire where the bandits continued to

drink and sing. Hannes slid into the dark depression and covered himself. He sometimes

heard footsteps during the sleepless night, but remained out of sight.

At first light Hannes slowly peered out from his hiding place and saw only a few

motionless forms sitting by the smoking campfires. He decided to crawl in the direction of

the field and hope to make it to the edge of the meadow and over to the last remnant of

unharvested rye for some protection from enemy eyes. As the edge of the field slowly came

into view in the dim light, however, Hannes noticed one of the guards smoking a pipe a

short distance to his right. He didn’t dare move but had no sooner paused than the small

herd of horses on the opposite side of the clearing began making a ruckus. Seconds later a

volley of muskets thundered into the camp followed by an ferocious attack by screaming

Cossack soldiers.3

Hannes rolled over to look back at the commotion only to see Narbe throw down his

pipe and charge with drawn sword. Hannes rose up to flee but stumbled backyard and fell

into one of the pits. He looked up in terror into Narbe’s black eyes just as he stumbled and

stared ahead blankly. A musket ball had pierced his tunic and entered his chest. Narbe then

screamed in rage as he collapsed over Hannes and fell into the pit. The terrified boy stared

at the bandit’s expressionless face only to see eyes of wrathful red open and look directly at

him. Hannes twisted furiously to scurry out of the pit as Narbe struggled to turn and thrust

his sword upward. Hannas bent low and ran toward the field as screams and musket fire

16

continued behind him. Moments later he reached the sanctuary of the rye patch and slowly

moved toward the trail that led back to Marsfeld.

…After a century of life on the steppes of southwestern Russia, the residents of

Marsfeld and its neighboring Volga German villages could hardly still be called “colonists.”

Several generations of stalwart Kaisers, Deckers, Wagners, and other families had long since

overcome the hardships of life among Russians and frontier tribal peoples like the Tatars,

Bashkirs, and Kalmyks. The German settlers had overcome the early years of hunger and

want, and the ruthless campaign of the tsarist pretender Emelian Pugachev who had

terrorized the region until he was captured in late 1774 and executed in Moscow. Now Tsar

Alexander II—great-grandson of Catherine the Great, approached the twentieth year of his

reign, and the descendants of Marsfeld’s founding families were grateful for the benefits

secured by the sacrifice of their immigrant ancestors.

New challenges to cultural identity appeared on the horizon one hundred years

later, however, as an 1874 imperial decree authorized conscription of eligible Germans.

Rumors of impending conflict with Turkey also worried many villagers and reminded them

of stories passed down about the brutalities of the Pugachev era. These developments and

news of social unrest in faraway St. Petersburg and Moscow stirred rustlings of unease in

Saratov, as well as in surrounding communities like Marsfeld. Government schools were

now being established in the villages to teach Russian, and with limited farmland available

in the surrounding countryside, the prolific German families found themselves with less and

less property on which to raise their crops.

The hot days of early September caused blue-gray ripples to appear on the horizon

and create mysterious forms where distant land met distant clouds. Sixteen-year-old

neighbors Eva Kaiser and Marie Wagner lay the slope of a fallow field north of Marsfeld and

took turns identifying the slowing moving shapes in the pale blue sky to the south. “It’s a

grand parade of carriages followed by soldiers with feathers in their helmets!” exclaimed

Eva.

Eva and Marie were best of friends and had looked forward to a day’s trek

northward to gather firewood for the coming winter. Marie was one of five children in the

Wagner family, while Eva lived with her parents, Adam and Julia Kaiser, and two younger

sisters. Eva’s cousin, Simon, was a year younger and was spending the summer with the

Kaisers. The boy’s father was a Saratov merchant who wanted his son to know the value of

manual labor by spending time with his wife’s family in Marsfeld. One of the fair-haired

lad’s tasks was to accompany the girls and load their wood piles into a wagon for transport

back home.

17

“Your helmets are a long row of floating pumpkins,” laughed Marie as the continued

to the skyward view. “And you better know the difference,” she added, “because we’ll soon

be gathering them as well as the watermelons.”

“Well if you’d rather find something edible right now, oh imaginative one,” Eva said

to Marie, “don’t you know there’s still time to pick berries and mushrooms?”

“Vessie (Aunt) Weiss says there’s a beautiful spot between here and Bremdorf,” said

Marie, “where the nicest mushrooms push themselves out of the ground in September. Why

we’d have enough to trade at the market in Sontra for all the wool our mothers would need

for winter.”

“So what’s all this talk about mushrooms and berries?” interrupted Simon who

walked down the slope toward the girls. “If you spent as much time gathering wood as day-

dreaming we’d be finished by now. And if we bring this wagon back only half full your

fathers will think I’ve been the lazy one.”

Eva ignored her cousin. “Yes,” she said to Marie, “but if your aunt knows this special

place then so does everybody else.”

“Alright then,” Simon said more loudly. “You can both go home and tell them I’ll be

back by midday tomorrow with a full load of wood.”

Eva then rolled over and shouted at Simon to return with them to Marsfeld, but

Simon was undeterred. “I left the horses over in the next field while searching for you,” he

replied, “and I have food and my bedroll for the night. You can save me some of your

mushrooms.” With that he disappeared back over the hill.

The girls stood up and brushed off grass and dirt before starting the long walk back

home. “My aunt is no worse than your Fedda (Uncle) Bohm, when it comes to telling

stories,” Marie scolded. “He told my father about what they buried long ago at Treasure

Meadow.

“Well, that may well be true,” replied Eva; “though Fedda doesn’t like to talk about

it.”

“I’ve heard it’s a ways beyond here off the old road to Saratov;” said Marie, “a place

that’s haunted and where there were ambushes.” She then asked Eva why her uncle hadn’t

dug anything up.

“Because it’s not just about the treasure,” whispered Eva; “it’s the haunted part, too.

Fedda Bohm’s grandfather, my Great-Grandfather Hannes, barely escaped from the bandit

army and he saw them bury things there. But then a big battle happened and many were

killed. They say people have seen and heard strange things thereabouts, maybe long before

our people came here.”

Several miles to the north, Simon drove the wagon across his uncle’s recently

harvested fields and spied a small stand of trees in the distance. The afternoon sun suddenly

hid behind a large dark cloud that came from the west, but moments later the blinding

brightness shone forth again upon the serene landscape. Simon marveled at the cloud

shadows that moved swiftly as a hawk. The sun again disappeared, and then appeared again

with a breeze brought the scent of wildflowers, pine, and linden saplings. As the sky

darkened he drove the team toward the grove and stopped along a small stream where the

horses could drink and feed on the luxurious meadow grass.

18

Simon strolled over to the trees and grabbed a handful of pine needles and several

small linden twigs to make a fire. Near them lay a bleached chain of several large vertebrae,

probably from a cow Simon thought. He also noticed the rotted fan-shaped remnant of a

broken wagon wheel and retrieved some of the loose spokes. Simon dropped the pile near

the horses and started a fire with the flint and steel strike he carried during the summer. He

then retrieved his food bundle from the wagon and ate a thick slice of rye bread covered

with cheese and sausage and watched the last amber gleams of sunlight close what had

been an exhausting day. He rolled out his sheepskin and blanket near the wagon, laid down,

and covered himself.

The wind sang in the pines and rattled the yellow and green linden leaves, and

Simon thought he heard the murmur of voices beyond the trees. One of the horses whinnied

and Simon turned to look through the foliage toward the dark outline of trunks and swaying

branches. A spectral figure seemed to dart back and forth and the boy’s heart began to race.

He tried to turn over and grab a heavy stick by the fire, but felt as if his arms and legs were

tied down by some invisible bonds. With great effort he managed to sit up as a gust of wind

brightly fanned the fire. A fiendish shout seemed to come from the ground and Simon

turned his head just in time to see a wild-eyed Tatar bandit rising toward him. Simon

struggled violently to get free and screamed just as the attacker thrust his sword.

“Simon! Simon! Wake up!” shouted the familiar voice of Fedda Adam. The boy

looked up and was stunned to see his uncle shaking his arm and his Vess Julia standing next

to him.

“God in heaven!” his aunt cried. “We had no idea you might camp here until Eva told

us where you had headed. How could we not have warned you about this fiendish place?”

“Some folks think it’s all make-believe, Simon,” Fedda Adam said; “but we didn’t

want to take any chances.”

Simon was still trying to comprehend all that happened, and realized that he must

have been dreaming. His shirt was damp with sweat but as he sat up he also felt a sharp

pain on the lower right side of his back. He rubbed it and felt a tear in the fabric and

bleeding cut. His aunt and uncle helped him to his feet and Simon looked down. Sticking up

out of the ground at the edge of his sheepskin was the rusty tip of a buried Tatar cutlass.

1In Volga German folklore magpies were portents of misfortune. 2Among the losses from Pugachev’s looting of Saratov were many records of the Office for

the Guardianship of Foreign Settlers which documented the earliest years of German

colonization on the lower Volga. 3Pugachev himself was a Cossack from the Urals, and the tsarist government maintained

many garrisons of Cossacks mostly drawn from Ukraine’s Don and Dnieper River regions. In

exchange for their service to the crown, these fiercely fighting Slavic people were granted a

measure of autonomy.