CHRISTMAS 1941, THE EASTERN FRONT NEAR MOSCOW

'Christmas was marked by the exchange of cards and messages, and with the Germans' expansionist ambitions in mind, Stalin's regime came up with a darkly witty twist. On 24 December 1941 Russian planes flew over enemy lines dropping sacks of “Christmas Cards”. They offered the Wehrmacht seasonal greetings from the Soviet Union. A snow-covered field was depicted, full of crosses topped with German helmets. The caption declared simply: “Living space in the east”.

Yet occasionally, amidst the horror of this war, opposing ideologies could be bridged in the most remarkable of ways. On the evening of 24 December Lieutenant Hans Shaufler's unit – the 5^th Panzer Brigade – moved into prepared positions in the small town of Kromy, near Orel. In the midst of the town was a half-ruined Orthodox church. In the aftermath of the Russian Revolution the Bolsheviks had attempted to blow it up. Later, they had used it as a storage area. When German troops entered it the snow lay knee-deep in the interior. Icicles hung from the broken windows and a thick hoarfrost covered the shattered remnants of the dome. An icy wind was blowing inside, yet the Germans were determined to hold an impromptu service. Schaufler said: “After weeks of desperate fighting, we simply wanted to thank God we were still alive”.

The men set to work. They cleared the snow as best they could, carried two spruce trees into the building and began decorating them with candles and hangings. Some of the soldiers pulled up the floorboards from a side room and made a rough-hewn alter and communion table. In the midst of these preparations, Schaufler was passed an urgent radiogram message. It read: “A Russian Cossack regiment is advancing on Kromy, and there is also partisan activity near the town”. Schaufler knew that if he read out the message – thereby formally acknowledging it – the men would have to take up battle stations and the planned Christmas service would be abandoned. The warning was serious, yet Schaufler and his comrades desperately wanted to celebrate Christmas. “I could not believe the Russians would attack so quickly”, he said. “I discussed the situation with a friend, and we decided to disregard the message”.

The divisional chaplain had arrived to conduct the service, and around eighty German soldiers settled into the vast interior of the church as Mass began: “The priest stood before us at the makeshift alter”, Schaufler recalled, “lit by the ghostly light of flickering candles. Snowflakes were quietly falling through the broken church roof and onto his shoulders”. And then, looking around, Schaufler could scarcely believe his eyes:

“Standing behind our small group was a mass of faces – the inhabitants of Kromy. Rough-looking men, with leather strapping entwined around their leg-wear, and women in scraped sheep furs and dark-coloured head cloths had joined us. Their clothes were humble, and yet I could not recall a more festive-looking gathering of people. Their eyes were shining in anticipation – and the thought struck me: 'How long has it been since these people were allowed to participate in a religious ceremony?' The men and women of Kromy, unable to understand a word of our service, wanted to be here nonetheless.”

The service continued. Wehrmacht soldiers stood up and gave readings. There was an air of unreality about it all. In the midst of one of the most terrible wars in human history, the German invader – who had brought so much destruction in his wake – was honouring God on high, and wishing peace and goodwill to all humans on earth.

Schaufler looked around again, and then shuddered: “In the background of the church I caught sight of a group of young Russian men, not joining with the others but standing aloof. Their fur hats remained on their heads. I looked straight at them and saw in their eyes an expression of uncanny, burning hatred. And then it struck me with the force of a blow – the radiogram warning!”

The men were Red Army soldiers or partisans. Transfixed in horror, Schaufler noticed one of them standing a little apart from the others. He had strong, intelligent features, and was probably their leader. The Russians were watching him too, as if waiting for a sign. A Russian grandmother with snow-white hair slowly went forward to the makeshift communion table, knelt with great difficulty and then, with a trembling, outstretched hand, reached forward and touched the cross. As she returned to her seat, Schaufler noted:

“I felt a change among the sinister group, standing in the darkness. Some were looking towards the alter, some were smiling. As everyone else was kneeling, I was able to see that the distinguished-looking man in their midst wore well-cut officer's boots under his fur coat.

The priest was giving the concluding blessing. Unaware that Red Army soldiers were now in the church, he lifted the cross and moved it from side to side, over the whole congregation, over Russian and German, over friend and enemy. And then the group's leader stepped forward, carefully removed his fur cap and slowly lowered his head. Nervously, as if fearing some sort of punishment, his men followed his example – hesitantly, but all did it, without exception.”

Two harmonicas struck up the tune for a Christmas carol. The Red Army soldiers had now left the building. “Silent night, holy night” was sung resoundingly by the snow-covered assembly, and the wind carried the sound of the refrain out of the open roof. A cloud of white breath hung momentarily over the congregation – and then dissolved into the darkness above.

Slowly the place of worship emptied. Schaufler was the last to leave. Outside, the man with the officer's boots was standing by the porch. There was no one else around. Schaufler remembered:

“We looked at each other, looked into each other's eyes, for a long time. Then he said in halting German, first to himself, and then – solemnly – to me: 'Christ ist geboren!' - 'Christ is born!' Quite spontaneously he held out his hand. I clasped it, and matched the firmness of his grip.

Then he was gone, into the dark Russian night – not along the path the others had used, but confidently, in a different direction, through the knee-deep snow.”

Michael Jones, writing in his book: The Retreat: Hitler's First Defeat

QUOTE OF THE MONTH

     'The trouble with this nation is that we have been brainwashed for years into believing that “it can't be done”. Britain has become the “Mr Can't” of the modern world. There are too many who are glad to sit around her, like Job's comforters, explaining why no great change is possible and that therefore she had better like it or lump it. We moan and mope about our nationalised industries, which put nearly £1billion a year on to the borrowing requirement of the Exchequer and lose another £180million a year on top of that; but as soon as anyone suggests that if you don't like them, you had better set about getting shot of them and calling in private enterprise and the capital market to do the job, a whole chorus starts up to tell you not to think of such a thing. They don't even say “How wonderful it would be if that were possible! There must be some way or other to surmount the obstacles. Let's try and find it'. They seem not merely reconciled to the impossibility, but positively delighted about it.

     The same applies to taxation. We have got into a frame of mind in which we are resigned to carrying approximately the same load of taxation until Kingdom Come, and think ourselves mighty lucky if it gets no heavier. So we spend our time debating whether it wouldn't be a bit more comfortable if we shifted a little of the load from one shoulder to the other. Why, only yesterday the Conservative Party conference chose to debate not reduction of taxation – oh dear, no nothing so wild and irresponsible as that – but taking a bit of taxation off some people and putting it on to other people. Mind, you can hardly blame the public if they regard the tax burden as a whole as being something no more to be altered than the English weather or the other dispensations of providence. After all, during the thirteen years of Conservative administration they watched the proportion of public expenditure to national income move downwards until 1958 and then move back up again till it was at the same level when Labour came back in 1964 as when Labour went out in 1951. It begins to look as if there were some law of nature behind it all and that one might as well try to eliminate gravitation as reduce taxation. The same chorus make their appearance, like the chorus of old men in a Greek tragedy, to sing to you the dirge of fate and tell you that every other nation is taxed just as much, or nearly as much, and so you had better keep a stiff upper lip, and shut up about it.

     This is the perfect breeding ground for socialism. When the population are reduced to a condition of apathy and of disbelieving that it could ever be very different, the virus – I had to get that word in! - attacks them. The Tempter whispers in their ear: “Why struggle? In any case you can't escape. State socialism has all the inevitability of gradualness. So why don't you be sensible? Relax and enjoy it!”'

 

Thus Enoch Powell started his speech, in 1968, and after setting out his own proposals for the economy, and pointing out that, 'all government expenditure is popular with somebody, and large government expenditure is popular with large numbers of people,' he concludes his speech thus:

 

     'Of course it is not easy; the easy things have always been done before you get there. Of course, it demands an intensive effort, spread over the lifetime of a parliament, and the criticism and abandonment of institutions and attitudes, some of which we have ourselves defended and even initiated. Of course, it means that big vested interests, bureaucratic and sectional, must be confronted, and confronted openly and directly. All I say is: there is a choice, the choice is open, and it is yours. Let no one cheat you out of your right to take part in that choice, to make your voice heard on one side or the other, by telling you that there is no choice at all and the thing is impossible. We are surrounded all day long by the great throng of those who lecture us on what we cannot do, until in the end John Bull is replaced as the national type by Mr Can't.

     By all means, if you prefer it, go staggering along with you present growing load of taxation, with your present diminishing voice in the disposal of the national income which you create. The process slowed down a little at first when the Conservatives were in, and it has speeded up again since the socialists came in; but the caravan still move unmistakeably onward and upward. If that is you pleasure and your decision, by all means go along with it. But let it never be said that you took no decision at all because you thought that there was none to take. Only that is impossible which you have not the will to do.'