The End of Sorrow: A Novel of the Siege of Leningrad in WWII

by JV Love

  THE END OF SORROW

  __________________________________________

  A Novel of the Siege of Leningrad in WWII

  __________________________________________

  John Verlin Love

  WingSpan Press

  The End of Sorrow

  Copyright © 2007 John V. Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews and critiques.

  This book is a work of fiction. Other than well known historical characters and events, names, characters, settings and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any ressemblance to actual events, settings or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by WingSpan Press, Livermore, CA

  www.wingspanpress.com

  The WingSpan name, logo and colophon are the trademarks of WingSpan Publishing.

  ISBN 978-1-59594-165-7

  First edition 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number 2007927281

  The poem "Prayer" in Chapter Eight is from The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova by Anna Akhmatova, Zephyr Press (from the Russian by Judith Hemschemeyer; edited and introduced by Roberta Reeder).

  Dedicated to my wife Inessa.

  And to all those involved in that fateful 900 day siege: the citizens of Leningrad, the Soviet soldiers who fought to defend it, and to the German soldiers who fought to take it. Good or bad, right or wrong, they were all in it together. It has always been this way, and always will be. This shared existence is the ground we stand on, and the actions we take today create the world we'll live in tomorrow. May we have the courage to try to understand those that would harm us, and the honesty to admit our fears.

  Preface

  This historical fiction novel attempts in every way to remain true to the events and circumstances that history has recorded for the siege of Leningrad. The stories within - though fictional - could very well have happened. The novel contains several real-life characters who interact with the fictitious characters created by the author. Some real-life characters may be obvious. Others not so. For the real-life characters, the novel stays as close as possible to the historic events they were involved in, whether it be deserting to the enemy lines, or buying tickets to a soccer game before the war started.

  Acknowledgments

  I have come to realize that this novel is not entirely mine. Like everything else, it is a conglomeration of the interconnectedness of the world I live in. The thoughts and ideas contained in this book are not all mine. They've come from my teachers, from books I've read, from people who've offered feedback on early versions, from the music I've listened to, the art I've seen in museums and nature, from casual conversations, and from sources which I don't fully comprehend. It is my honor to have been the receptacle for the characters and story of this novel.

  I am deeply grateful to Harrison Salisbury and his book "The 900 Days," to Kyra Petrovskaya Wayne for her novel "Shurik," and to Elena Skrjabina for her diary entries from the war ("Siege and Survival: The Odyssey of a Leningrader"). Without their wonderful details and stories from the siege, this novel would not have been possible.

  I would like to thank myself for keeping faith in my abilities as a writer, for persevering through those times when there was no encouragement, and for having the courage to quit my job to complete this novel. I am immensely grateful to my wife for her enduring support, both emotionally and financially. A special thanks goes to Felix Chevtchinskii for sharing his vast knowledge of all things, and to Lydia Chevtchinskaia for her help in taking care of our son. I am grateful to Kermit Moyer of The American University, Michael Neff, Charles Salzberg, Lihong Ma, Jack Mangold, Elisabeth Dearborn and Jeanine Cogan. And a special thanks to Susan Hadler for her unwavering encouragement and support.

  Prologue

  The two German soldiers huddled together, trying to deny their shivering by discussing the bitter cold and the strange blue tint of the moon. They spoke in soft, sad voices that the stillness of the night carried far and wide over the freshly fallen snow. They wondered how much longer it would be before the sun once again emerged from the horizon. Of all the unusual things in this country, they agreed, that was the one that took the most getting used to - the shortest days and longest nights they'd ever known.

  The moon was suddenly gone again - swallowed whole by another of the enormous dark clouds that floated through the black winter sky. One of the soldiers took out a flask, cursed the city of Leningrad, and then took a long sip. A small hole in the cloud allowed the moon to shine through, and for a few seconds, the entire area glowed pale blue. Tall, somber evergreens cast black shadows a hundred feet long, and a solitary tree stump in the middle of a white field stood out like a tiger on an iceberg.

  When the stump appeared to move, the strangeness of the night threatened to become surreal.

  "Dietrich, did you see that?"

  "See what?"

  "That dark spot out there," he said, motioning toward the open field in front of them. "I think it moved."

  No sooner had they begun to examine the spot when the light was again lost, and everything settled uncomfortably back into the dark.

  "There's nothing there. I knew you couldn't handle your liquor."

  "To hell with you! I'm telling you I saw something move."

  "All right, let's go to the nest. The moon should be back out in a minute. You'd better be right this time. I'm getting tired of your false alarms."

  What had been vague, borderless figures only an hour before could now be seen clearly by the Russian soldier. Felix Varilensky had excellent nighttime vision and even without the help of the moon could make out the two Germans as they trudged through the snow over to the machine gun nest and then disappeared inside. Under his breath, he cursed whoever it was that had been spotted. For most of the men, there had been no training in how to crawl in thick snow across an open field in the middle of the night. For most of the men, there had been no training at all.

  He studied the night sky and calculated how much time he had in between the clouds - in between the dark and the light. In the dark, he was invisible, immeasurable. In the light, he was just another man.

  It wasn't long before the moon began showing its ashen face again. It crept along the edge of the monstrous black cloud - its frail light spilling over the rim and down to the frozen ground below. The light moved faintly from the top of the field where the Germans were, toward the middle of the field where he was. He dug a few more inches into the snow and stopped all movement as the light treaded up to, then around, and finally over him.

  The machine gun nest was off to his right on a slight hill, no more than 90 feet away. As he lay motionless in the moonlight, he tried to wiggle his toes, but they were too numb from the cold for him to tell if he'd moved them or not. He needed the dark to return. That was where he lived now - where he walked, where he ate, where he prayed, and most of all, where he unleashed his anger.

  And when the darkness did return, he slowly positioned his rifle at the machine gun nest. The ghostly light returned a few seconds later, just as he had calculated it would, and he found his target - a dim figure with binoculars looking out from behind the sandbags. Felix gripped his rifle tighter and slowly clenched his jaw until the gums around his loose upper tooth once again flooded his mouth with that thick, salty sensation he craved. He closed his eyes for a short second to concentrate on the sourness
of his own blood. Then he opened his eyes and pulled the trigger. The bullet went straight through the German's hand to his cheek, and one after the other, the binoculars, and then the man, fell from sight.

  The other German soldier quickly engaged the machine gun and bullets flew frantically in every direction. They struck all around Felix, but he remained still. Even when one of the bullets burned a hole straight through his left arm, he did not move.

  After several minutes, the tat-tat-tat of the machine gun ceased and additional German soldiers could be heard arriving - barking out orders and demanding answers.

  The snow underneath him turning red and the cold so intense that it was difficult to breathe, Felix waited. In his mind, he disappeared from the cold, and reappeared in that warm, familiar place where the sun refused to set, where the lazy afternoons went on forever, and where the shade of a tree was proof of God's unconditional love. In that peaceful place, he lay on the soft grass, Katya beside him - her seductive hips next to his, her outstretched forearm resting lightly on his bare chest. When he kissed the small of her wrist, the tender scent of lilacs and honey stayed on his lips. An insatiable zest for life and for Katya pumped through his veins, and the passionate love they'd made that morning seemed an eternity ago. He listened as she recited in his ear a poem she had written for him, the final words of it repeating themselves in his mind: Love is the beginning, and Love is the end, and here in the middle is where we must mend.

  It was all so real - that bright yellow sun, that clear blue sky, that cool green grass. But that warm day was long past. That warm day was before it all began . . .

  ~

  -- Part I

  A man's character is his destiny. - Heraclitus

  -- Chapter One

  Two Days in June

  ____________________________

  Eyes that pierce,

  Beauty so rare.

  Thoughts that intrigue me,

  love to share.

  I with my body, a mind, and a soul,

  I am but parts, you make me whole.

  Will so strong,

  with good intention.

  The road is long,

  our journey in question.

  Day 1: June 21, 1941

  Sunlight soaked every inch of Felix Varilensky's muscular back. His fair skin glistened with tiny beads of sweat as his shoulder blades tucked in and out of his torso in a mechanical rhythm. He was deep within himself, shutting out all sounds, all feelings, all thought. This focus - this inordinate ability to concentrate solely on what he wanted to - was his gift. In addition to helping him survive life as a Jew in the Soviet Union, it also made him a fearsome competitor.

  He counted to himself as he lowered his body to the ground and pushed it back up again. 56, 57, 58. Even when his muscles were tired and wanted to quit, there was still nothing but the count. 61, 62, 63.

  "Come on, Felix! You can do it!" one of his friends yelled.

  "You've got him, Felix! He's slowing down!" said another.

  "Let's go, Dima! Don't let Felix win again!" a girl yelled.

  But it was too late. Dima collapsed in mid-pushup, and the cheers exploded.

  "I knew I shouldn't have bet on you, Dima!" someone jested.

  "How about pull-ups?" Dima said, very much out of breath. "I know I can beat him at that."

  "No, it's hopeless. You'd think we'd know by now not to bet against a Jew - Felix always wins."

  But even after the cheers faded away, Felix continued his silent counting. 69, 70, 71. He hadn't heard the cheers, nor the quiet that announced the end of the bet. There was only the one voice that he heard, and it was that voice that he remained true to. He had no idea whose voice it was, nor did he care much. It was simply there, in his head, and it never left him. It reassured him when things weren't going well, complimented him when no one else would, and pushed him when he could push no further himself.

  The group, four young men and four young women, gathered around and began yelling once again.

  "You can stop now, you show-off!"

  "Hey, Felix! It's over. Let's eat now."

  Even Dima, his conquered foe, joined in. "Felix, I'm done. You beat me."

  But Felix, eyes tightly shut, arms bulging, a silent voice counting, kept doing pushup after pushup in a perfect, unbroken rhythm.

  A young woman made her way through the group, and when she got to the front, she paused to watch the commotion: Felix doing his seemingly effortless pushups and his friends yelling at him - trying in vain to get his attention. She smiled for a brief second, and the inherent sorrow of her chestnut-brown eyes nearly disappeared.

  "Katya, tell him to stop," a girl pleaded to her.

  "No," said a young man, "let's see how many he can do!"

  Everyone was laughing. Half of the group was yelling for Felix to stop, and the other half was yelling for him to keep going. Slowly, Katya bent her knees until she was sitting on her ankles and her head was next to his. "Felix . . .," she said softly. "Felix, you've won. It's over."

  His eyes opened immediately, and he stopped in mid-pushup. And as his eyes met hers, there was a period of time when he held the entire world inside his heart. In Katya's eyes - in those beautiful brown eyes that looked sad even when she was happy - he saw himself and knew he could do anything with her by his side. He wanted nothing more than to remain in that moment, but the commotion all around him wouldn't allow it. He noticed for the first time the crowd and the yelling and the laughter. Arms still extended, heart pounding vigorously, he realized suddenly how tired he was.

  "Let's see how many more you can do!" Dima shouted as he sat on Felix's back.

  "Yeah, let's see how many more you can do, Felix!" They all piled on top of him, and his arms finally gave way, sending the whole group tumbling to the ground amid a chorus of laughter.

  Overhead, the 4:00 p.m. sun sailed through a bright aqua-blue sky, and in front of them, tiny waves from the Neva river lapped at the shore. Summer had finally arrived, and it brought Felix more joy than he had ever known in his life. And when the thought occurred to him that it might be more than he ever would know, he quickly banished that thought from his mind.

  A soft breeze picked up the scent of freshly cut hay and blew it across the Neva river, past the large solitary oak tree where the picnickers sat, and on to the forest of birch trees that lay beyond. In the other direction, they could still see their home - the stalwart yet graceful Leningrad that never seemed very far away.

  Katya sat with her back against the oak tree and watched a column of ants above her march into a small black hole underneath one of the branches. It was a hot day, though comfortable in the shade, and after the spring that had been more like winter, no one was complaining.

  "I'm hungry. Let's eat."

  "No, we have to toast first."

  "Who brought the champagne?"

  "Dima did. Dima, open the champagne!"

  He opened the bottle of champagne and began filling glasses for everyone as they interrogated him about where he got it.

  "My father gave it to me," he said. "But only after he found out it was for Felix's birthday. He loves him like he was his own son."

  After he poured a glass of champagne for everyone, Dima led them in a toast. "Felix, may your next eighteen years be as happy as your first eighteen years."

  A gentle smile spread from one ear to the other on Felix's face, and he indulged in a quick look beyond his friends - at the vast, wide-open space ahead of him where he could see for miles on end. Only in Russia, he thought. Only in Russia could there be so much beauty crammed into one glimpse - the long, narrow fields of wheat with their scattered blue flowers, the peacefulness of the birch trees swaying in the wind, the calm authority of the Neva river . . .. And what better time to be in Leningrad than during the White Nights - that time of year when the sun graced the sky both day and night. It was all his to savor. "Thank you," he said, "it's a good time to be alive. Now, let's eat!"

  Spread out bef
ore them was a delicious medley of foods. All nine of them had brought something, and with very little planning, a festive meal was fashioned. A large smoked fish provided the centerpiece. It was surrounded by hard-boiled eggs, pickles, dark Russian bread, boiled potatoes with salt, thick eggplant spread, and a cucumber and tomato salad. For dessert, a large Napoleon cake awaited the picnickers.

  "Felix, I see Katya brought some real Ukrainian salo for you. I thought Jews weren't supposed to eat pork."

  Felix shrugged his shoulders. He didn't know much about his Jewish roots.

  "She must really love you to let you eat that."

  "What do you mean?" Felix laughed. "Salo is very good for you. You should try some."

  "Salted pork fat is good for you? You Ukrainians are crazy."

  "You saw how I won the pushup contest, didn't you? It's because I eat salo."

  "Either that or all that vodka you drink!" someone yelled, and everyone laughed.

  A large black fly landed briefly on the cake before Dima swatted it away. It then buzzed in front of Felix's face for a few seconds until he snatched it from the air.

  "Did you catch it?" Katya asked, her face alight in amazement.