Final COLD Posting #16. Siberian story wraps up––THANKS to readers who took the journey...

This is where the EwaldLoeffler/Erich F. Schmidt (my father's) Siberian saga ends. Thanks to those who have read my novel-in-episodes online. COLD paperback: <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076VBJB62>.

(COLD/Final Posting, #16)

Ewald tries to recover from the river crossing…)

When I awoke I had no idea how long I’d been out. It could have been one day, two, or even a week. The paste had worn off, and I hurt most at old scars where bullets had torn into me on the Eastern Front. The old bullet wound to my butt hurt the most. I tried not to roll over on it. And the arm that was pierced was also throbbing. But at least the pain told me I was still in battle, still had a chance to...win.

It was bright outside my tent, so that supplied a little optimism too. The fire had died, so with a great deal of effort I pulled out the last of my birch bark from my pack and struck enough sparks to get it going. What would I do once that fire ended? Well, unless I wanted to freeze to death I would need to get myself outside and strip more bark from a tree. While that didn't seem impossible – I was, after all, in a birch forest, with trees as close as ten feet – I was frightened that I couldn't even perform that simple task.

I would have to crawl ten feet and back.

But my body, it seemed, simply didn't want to do that...or anything. Maybe I had used up all the willpower that a person is born with. It had taken a lot of fortitude to climb out of the trench as a soldier, leading my men against guns and sure death. I'd watched as the platoons before me killed themselves in this manner. We, the emperor's finest, were simply forcing the Russians to deplete their ordnance. If each soldier took five bullets to fall, then we were rendering the enemy bullet-poor. Some accountant must have done the math. Five times one-hundred-thousand men, equaled 500,000 bullets. How much did that cost Russia? How much did that weigh? Oh, we were certainly beating them. For sure! Weren't we Germans the crafty ones. Let our men steal all those bullets. And none of us dead would require a pension at war's end. Two bird with one stone.

At any rate, I had forced myself to stand up straight back then, regal like a proper German officer, and with sword high, led my trusting men into the hail of lead. That had taken some focus and mental capacity, hadn’t it? With the river, hadn’t I again proven my ability to complete a task? Yes, I had. Like before, I had again been a survivor.

I was still alive.
I might be dying and not know it. That was certainly a possibility.

I might have killed my feet, freezing them so severely that my journey home would be short lived after recovering from the icy waters.

I couldn't be expected to know everything. I couldn't know what God had in store for me around the corner.

Did I really believe in God? Cellmates in the camp had asked me that. Everyone had asked. Well, did I? Whenever that question came up it seemed that all I had to do was look around. Ready to leap the trench to get myself killed, watching others die, didn't help me believe in God, or man. Nothing I’d seen since leaving home for military school had helped me believe in God.

I had seen overbearing military teachers repeatedly prey on the weakest classmates of mine, humiliating them in front of everyone during parades, calling them names with an accent that further singled out their shortcomings. Finally the poor victim of their abuse was gone, just disappeared from our lineup. What had happen to Thomas? William? Others? Had they been sent home to be further punished by their disappointed parents? We never learned.

But, was there a God? And how did he or she sit inside the shell of man?

Some people used the idea of God to inflict pain, kill people who they identified as ‘godless.’ Everyone had witnessed this process. The Jews, for instance, had been questioned as to whether or not they believe in the one, true God. The idea of a singular god had always been a contentious, arguing point. What did it really matter, if one or many?

How could I really believe in a god or gods after seeing all my Corps of Cadets friends killed?

Believe me, I was ready to die when my turn came. Sure death was the ultimate proof that no God was in charge.

Lying helpless on the frozen bank of a Siberian river, the question of God resurfaced. Had God helped me push through the frigid waters? Had God made sure I selected a shallow part of the river? If not, I could have ventured into a watery pit, dropped down into sure death. So, had God led the way? I had certainly called out his name enough, prayed for his help. Was I thankful to God now? Was He watching over me still?

My mind kept spinning, analyzing the very nature of faith. Even with the painkilling paste I couldn’t shake the pain. I continued to suffer. I had taken the maximum dose that Nanra had prescribed. I had to hold off from using more until nighttime. I’d been warned.

I took a new inventory. I couldn’t feel my toes. They were still numb. How could I gather the birch bark I needed for another fire?

It was terribly cold in the tent. I stared at the lace job at the entrance. Pretty good work. How had I managed to do that properly before I collapsed and slept earlier? Nothing made any sense. I had started a final fire, but would need another one. And that seemed like an impossible task.

***

I made it to nightfall and took more paste to counteract the chills. The fire was dead and there was no more fuel. As the medicine took effect and I started to fall into a haze of false wellbeing, I had a final thought. If I woke up again, without being able to move, I would take all the rest of the painkiller and end myself properly. What else to do?

I did the rest of my halfhearted evaluation. Arms were numb, legs cold and numb, torso numb, head hurting. It appeared I was done in. If I couldn't move then I would surely die inside my tarp enclosure. And if any wolves attacked, I was a sure meal for them. I was completely defenseless.

The birches called my name. I reached for the laces and undid them.

—————-

End Note:

This is where the journal abruptly ended. It was discovered in 2010 among Ewald Loeffler's personal effects, sandwiched between early drafts of his University of Nebraska dissertation on Ponca and Omaha Indians. It had been in storage since the time of his death in the early 1980s. His wife, Dorris Loeffler, explained in an interview that she heard only a partial account of his trek back to Stuttgart, Germany. Only upon one occasion, she said, did he breach his silence on the topic. He offered no details regarding his survival following the river crossing.

There has been speculation that Loeffler was rescued by Siberian tribesmen, who discovered him on the eastern shore of the river. Only immediate medical attention, along with a warmed environment to defrost his extremities, could have saved him. After that, he would have needed extensive bed rest, which again implies he spent time in some established tribal dwelling. But what tribal community would have rescued Loeffler, a transient German prisoner, much less supplied him with precious food and almost unattainable medical assistance?

While it has not been corroborated that a woman named Nanra-Naw ever existed in the upper tribal regions of Siberia that Loeffler traversed – researchers found no proof when they inquired about her in 2011 – this is not entirely surprising. The closed-community aspect of tribal settlements would make obtaining such information almost impossible. Any child born to a single tribal woman in 1919 would have been immediately incorporated into a married family, given the strict tribal rules governing childrearing in the most northern Siberian provinces.

In summary, there is no knowledge of any other existing Ewald Loeffler descendants, aside from a son, Andrew, and a daughter, Adele, children of his marriage in 1949. The mystery of Loeffler’s survival will probably never be fully resolved.

In the 1980s, Mrs. Loeffler met with a University of Nebraska biographer and related only the sparest of details regarding her husband’s Siberian trek. She confirmed that his journey home took two years. And she mentioned something about a train Ewald and others had stolen along the way. It was a vague reference, to something she thought she’d heard. Lastly, she revealed how Loeffler’s mother did not welcome him warmly as expected, when he finally reached home in 1920.

When Loeffler arrived at his family’s duplex on a quiet street in Stuttgart, he’d fully anticipated his mother’s great joy at seeing him alive. But at first sight she became ‘instantly gloomy’ (Ewald’s words, as related by Mrs. Loeffler).

Mrs. Loeffler’s dictaphone transcription (courtesy of University of Nebraska) supplies the words his mother spoke, that day at the doorstep:

“Upon seeing Ewald his mother asked, ‘Why did it have to be you who survived the war?’

Then she added, ‘Why couldn't your older brothers have been the ones?’”

END

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See my father’s bio and happy photo: (below). YOU get to decide if you believe what my mother told me, what her husband’s (my father’s) account was of what his mother said to him when he unexpectedly arrived home to Germany six years after being presumed dead. OR you may buy the “official” story: (…he learned that his mother and three siblings had died during World War I or shortly afterwards.). He DID learn his brothers had lost their lives in the war, but…

Erich F. Schmidt (middle) standing happily with two skilled assistants, excavating ruins in Arizona, 1924-26, for his PhD at Columbia University, almost a decade before being hired Director of the excavation of Persepolis, Persia/Iran, in the mid-1930s. (Photograph courtesy of “A Treasury of Art, Part 3,” by Rick Schmidt, ©2023).

<https://isac.uchicago.edu/sites/default/files/uploads/shared/docs/erich_f_schmidt_bio.pdf>.

<https://www.researchgate.net/publication/343588497_Oriental_Institute_Pioneers_of_Archaeology_in_Iran_Erich_F_Schmidt>.