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

by JV Love

  The captain left without another word. Stepanovich watched him walk away and then turned his head slowly from the far right to the far left, seemingly looking for something that wasn't supposed to be there. Misha could smell garlic on his breath and perhaps alcohol, though he wasn't sure about that.

  Stepanovich looked intently at the rows of planes ahead of them. He poked his pinkie in his ear and twisted his wrist slowly one way and then the other. Misha couldn't help but notice what disproportionately wide and flat fingernails he had. Never in his life had he seen such large fingernails. It was grotesque.

  Stepanovich seemed to survey his surroundings forever, and Misha started to wonder if he had forgotten that he was standing next to him. To remind him, Misha scraped some dirt under his boot and cleared his throat. But Stepanovich still paid no attention to him.

  "So, where you from?" Misha asked meekly.

  Stepanovich turned toward him with a look of surprise on his face. "What?"

  "Where are you from?" Misha repeated.

  "Moscow."

  "Ahh, I thought so!" Misha said and smiled. "A fellow Muscovite! You've definitely got that Moscow look about you. It'll be nice to have someone with half a brain to talk to - not like these simpletons from the villages. The guy before you was a complete idiot. We couldn't talk about anything. He believed anything anyone told him. One time I told him that the Earth was the center of the universe. Another time I told him that the moon was actually the old sun that had burned out five hundred years ago, and he believed me!"

  Stepanovich looked grimly in Misha's direction but said nothing in response.

  "Don't you just hate people like that?" Misha asked, forcing himself not to stare at those inhuman fingernails. "They're not like us, you and me. We're from the city. We know Jupiter from Saturn, and geometry from geography. But these people from the villages, you have to tell them what's what."

  To escape the sweltering heat of the late-day sun, Stepanovich stepped off to his right and into the long shadow of one of the hangars. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  "You know the kind, right?" Misha asked, casting a hopeful glance. "The ones who can't think for themselves, who buy everything the Party sells them."

  A short silence made Misha uneasy, and he recalled the warnings his mother had given him about his "dangerous habit" of always saying what was on his mind.

  "I hate those fuckers from the villages," Stepanovich finally answered.

  "Ha-ha," Misha laughed nervously, but Stepanovich neither laughed nor smiled.

  "You know today is my three month anniversary," Misha said.

  "What?" Stepanovich said.

  "Today - June twenty-first - is my three-month anniversary of being stationed here."

  "So."

  "So, I just thought I'd tell you. It's nice being able to talk to someone without having to worry about every word you say." Misha cracked his knuckles as he stretched his arms. "Have you heard anything about the war? They tell us that Hitler's going to invade England, but I'm not so sure. If they're going to do that, then why are they flying all these reconnaissance flights over us?"

  "I guess Hitler doesn't trust us," Stepanovich replied and then scratched his crotch.

  "Maybe," Misha said as he swatted a fly away from his ear. "Back in March, a German reconnaissance plane made a forced landing here. I figured we'd arrest him, but instead we received orders to tow his plane in, give him dinner, refuel his plane, and then send him on his way. Makes no sense to me."

  Stepanovich grunted and looked Misha in the eye for the first time.

  "It's true!" exclaimed Misha. "Ask anybody."

  Several gnats began flying around Stepanovich's head, but he made no effort to swat them away. Misha watched as one of them landed on his bushy left eyebrow.

  "So, you want me to show you what we have to do for the next five and a half hours?" Misha asked.

  There was no response - not even an acknowledgment that his words had been heard. Misha continued anyway. "Every seventeen minutes, we have to do rounds and check the hangars and planes, and . . ."

  "Why?" Stepanovich interrupted.

  "Why? Because that's what we have to do, that's why. Sure it's stupid, but you and I both know that that doesn't matter. If you ask me, it's because there's only one damn viewpoint allowed. Don't get me wrong, I was in the Komsomol in school, I just think that this top-down order is bad for us. I mean, you can't even take a leak around here without permission."

  "Is that so?" Stepanovich said and smiled for the first time. It was a strange smile and made Misha uneasy. Stepanovich looked satisfied, like he had just finished an exam and done well.

  Misha decided he wouldn't talk anymore. He'd said too much already. His mother had taught him that honesty was a virtue, but in this day and age, it was sometimes a crime.

  * * *

  Alfred's hand trembled ever so slightly as he pointed his pistol at Franz's chest.

  "I said, put your gun on the ground," he repeated slowly and in no uncertain terms.

  Franz did as he was told. "What the hell are you going to do?" he asked.

  "Shut up. Put your hands on your head and get on your knees." Alfred removed a rope from his backpack, forced Franz to sit up against a tree, and tied his arms around behind it.

  "What have I done to you to deserve this?"

  "You didn't do anything."

  "Then you're simply insane? Is that it? Do you know that you've gone crazy?"

  "I'm through arguing with you."

  "So you agree with me then? You actually know that you're crazy?"

  "Enough with the questions!" Alfred screamed.

  "Or else what? You'll tie me up and leave me to die?"

  Alfred became light headed for a moment and felt as though he was floating away from his body. He pictured himself up above everything, looking down on all the busy people below. The thought calmed him and the world stopped spinning.

  "You'll be all right," Alfred said. We're close enough to the road that someone will find you."

  "Nobody travels down that road, and you know it," Franz shot back.

  "Not true. There's at least two or three vehicles a day . . . and besides it'll probably be overflowing with tanks and jeeps soon enough." He picked up his backpack and put it on.

  "Where are you going?" Franz demanded.

  "I'm going to stop this war before it starts."

  "What? What are you talking about? You can't do anything to stop it. It's the will of the German people - their God-given right to defend themselves."

  "You don't defend yourself by starting a war," Alfred replied and started walking away.

  "We're not starting anything. We're protecting the Fatherland."

  Alfred continued on his way, stepping over a large fallen tree and ducking underneath the low hanging branch of a giant evergreen.

  "You're no German!" he heard Franz yell after him. "You're a coward! A traitor!"

  Alfred ignored him and contemplated once again what his father had told him so long ago. It was right before his father had divorced his mother, and Alfred was 18 years old. His father had said that there would come a time in Alfred's life when he would become wise enough to listen to his own wisdom. It might be a small change or a dramatic one, but in either case, a voice inside would yell enough is enough.

  On a large, flat rock next to a small stream, Alfred sat down and reflected on his decision. It was just as he always thought it would be. It was irrevocable. It meant being ostracized - or even death. He knew that it would forever weigh upon his mind if he failed to act. And he was sure that it would bring solace, an absoluteness of right and wrong, and a comfort, rather than a regret, on his deathbed.

  Alfred thought he'd heard that voice scream enough on the day he stopped speaking to his father. But now, he understood that had been a mistake. The point in his life when he was wise enough to listen to his own wisdom was occurring right now. He would never again see h
is home in Dresden, never again enjoy his aunt's homemade spaetzel, never again taste the splendidly bitter lager beer brewed by the old farmer up the road. That was the price he'd have to pay. And maybe, just maybe, he could prevent Germany, the country of his birth - the country he loved with all his soul - from making what he was sure was a tragic mistake.

  The Soviet guardpost stood at the foot of the bridge. It was nothing more than a tiny wooden shack. One soldier sat inside it - his head down, his weapon leaning against the wall. Another soldier sulked outside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other at ten second intervals. It had taken Alfred a little longer than he thought it would to find it, considering he'd been part of the scout team that had tracked up and down the river marking down every bridge, guardpost, and potential crossing.

  After trekking through the Polish woods in the heat and humidity of late June, Alfred's army fatigues were drenched. He tried to wipe down his hairless head, but his green rag was already too soaked with sweat to do much good. The back of his neck and his muscular forearms were dotted with tiny, red mosquito bites that he scratched absent-mindedly from time to time. But his blue eyes - those sparkling blue eyes that were the first thing anyone ever noticed about him - were still intense, still burning with desire.

  As he watched the Soviet soldiers smolder in their boredom, he gently laid his gun on the ground and took his army-issue knife from its sheath and clenched it in his left hand. He squatted behind some bushes for several minutes doing nothing more than taking deep breaths.

  As he kneeled in the bushes, images came to him of that day eleven years ago when he had finally gathered the courage to confront his father about the miserable childhood he'd had. The conversation hadn't gone the way Alfred had rehearsed it in his mind. Instead of the expected sympathy and regret from his father, he received recriminations and denial. He could still see his father standing near the fireplace, his arms folded, his fists clenched, his face red. "You ungrateful bastard. You don't appreciate anything!" he'd yelled. "I fed you and clothed you and put a roof over your head, and all you can do is complain." Alfred had wanted to tell his father how he'd always criticized him, how he never spent any time with him, how he never seemed to give a damn for him. But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he'd stood there facing his father - arms folded, fists clenched, face red - and said nothing. After his father had finished his tirade, Alfred went home, broke three of his knuckles punching the wall, and vowed never to speak to his father again.

  The sun was coming in at such a low angle in front of Alfred that he had to look straight into it if he wanted to see the guardpost. It was almost nine o'clock and the sunset would be complete in a few more minutes. He watched as the Soviet soldier who had been standing, went over and kicked the other soldier to wake him up. Alfred (who understood Russian fairly well but could only speak it in short, broken phrases) heard the soldier tell the other that he was going somewhere to do something - exactly where he was going and exactly what he was going to do, Alfred couldn't make out. As he started walking in Alfred's direction, Alfred hid further behind the bushes that, just a second ago, he'd been positive made him all but invisible.

  The soldier approached with his rifle haphazardly hanging from his shoulder. When he got to the bushes where Alfred was, he stopped, set down his rifle and began to take a piss. With one quick move, Alfred could jump him and slit his throat. But Alfred hadn't come to kill, he'd come to surrender. He wasn't going to sit idly by this time. He wasn't going to regret his inaction again.

  When the man finished, Alfred stood up with his arms over his head, startling the Soviet soldier so that he took a quick step back, and fell over a stone. Alfred simply stared straight ahead. He didn't move. He didn't speak. When the Soviet soldier got to his feet, he pointed his gun at Alfred, and motioned him toward the guardpost.

  Though a mere 40 yards, the walk seemed much longer to Alfred. Doubts about his decision fought valiantly in his mind, but Alfred crushed them one by one. He reminded himself that nothing really mattered; indeed, he didn't matter. He was small, insignificant, almost entirely inconsequential. When he died - just as everyone in this whole bloody conflict eventually would - he'd be judged the same as they would. With that in mind, he marched in pride, in belief, and in trepidation and fear toward the guardhouse and his destiny.

  As Alfred lay on his stomach, with a guard's foot pressing hard between his shoulder blades, he listened and tried his best to understand what the other guard was saying into the phone. "That's correct. I said that I have a German soldier here who has surrendered."

  After a short pause and an exasperated sigh, he heard, "Yes comrade, you are correct that he could not have surrendered when we are not at war. That was my mistake. We have a German soldier here who has deserted. He says that the German army will commence an assault tomorrow at 4:00 a.m.. What shall I do with him?"

  Alfred again heard muted mumbling from the other end of the line, then another sigh from the guard and a response. "Yes Comrade Captain, I understand that any provocations against Germans will be dealt with severely, but he came up to us with his arms in the air and said he had something important to tell us. He says he's a member of the 222nd Infantry Regiment of the 74th Infantry Division. And he says he heard his commander, a Lieutenant Schultz, state the date and time of the attack. He has also observed troops being deployed for the attack."

  All was quiet for several seconds, and then Alfred heard the guard explain, "No sir, he doesn't speak Russian. He speaks German, and no, I don't think it's a trick."

  The longer the conversation went on, the more distinctly Alfred could hear the irritation in the guard's voice. "I learned how to speak German at the university, sir. It's in my records if you care to check."

  After the guard finished the conversation and disconnected, he whispered into the other guard's ear, "Ohn durak."

  Alfred understood that he was the one being referred to, and understood all too well what the guard had said, "He's a fool."

  * * *

  In the center of Leningrad, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan sits quietly on the main thoroughfare of the city. The proud, Romanesque structure, more commonly called the Kazansky Cathedral, has held a quiet authority over the city ever since the first stone of its foundation was laid by Tsar Alexander I on August 27, 1801. Stretching its massive wings out to the east and west, it always seems to be ready to fly away to the more perfect place it surely must have come from. But it never leaves, and perhaps that's why it holds such a special place in the heart of so many Leningraders. It's always there, in repose, patiently watching the cars, buses and pedestrians as they move in steady streams up and down the stately Nevsky Prospekt.

  In 1931, the cathedral was shut down and transformed into the "Museum of the History of Religion and Atheism." But for Felix, it would always be known as Kazansky Cathedral. He'd fallen in love with it the first time he saw it and promptly learned every detail of its storied history.

  It was now after 11:00 p.m. and the setting sun colored the sky beyond the cathedral with soft pastel hues of violet, gold, and crimson. Felix and Katya walked slowly by the rose bushes in front of the cathedral. It had been a long, but fun day, and Felix hated to see it come to an end. He was walking Katya back to her apartment building, trying to squeeze every minute he could from the day. He reached his arm out and pulled her close as they walked. He loved to run his hand slowly up and down her side, feeling how her waist seductively curved into her hips. Leaning over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, he suddenly changed his mind, dropped the picnic basket and took her in his arms. He kissed her on the lips and squeezed her body tightly to his - delighting in the firmness of her breasts as they pressed against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  After a few seconds, Felix heard a mother with small children approaching and he reluctantly pulled away. As he and Katya prepared to cross the street, he switched the picnic basket to his left arm so he could hold her hand a
s they crossed.

  He smiled at Katya, then looked back one last time at the cathedral and the dozens of giant Podoust stone columns that marked the front facade, wondering what it must have been like to be part of the Romanov royal family and been married within Kazansky's majestic confines.

  "Did you talk to your father?" he asked Katya.

  "About what?"

  "You know perfectly well what," he said, annoyed that the pleasure of a minute ago was gone so quickly. "Don't make this into an argument again," he added.

  "Don't talk to me like that," she said testily.

  "Like what?"

  "In that tone. You talk to me sometimes as if I'm a child and you're the parent, and I hate it."

  Felix reflected for a second. "You're right," he concluded. "I'm sorry. It's just that I get tense even thinking about this subject. Have you talked to him yet?"

  "What's there to talk about? I know what his answer will be - the same as last time."

  "So you're not even going to try anymore?" Felix stopped and turned to face her.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "But Katya, why do you need his approval? We're both eighteen now."

  "Why do you ask questions like that? It's annoying."

  "Come on, so what if he sits on the City Soviet. He's only one man."

  "Felix," she said, the volume of her voice climbing a notch. "He's friends with Party Secretaries. He doesn't just know powerful people - he plays chess with Kuznetsov; he has tea with Zhukov."

  "But you can't tell me he's going to ruin the life of his only child out of mere spite. He may not act like it, but I know he loves you. He wouldn't hurt you."

  "You don't understand, Felix. You don't know him. He thinks he knows what's best for me and it doesn't matter what I think. He'll never change his mind."

  "But he can't do this. It's your life."

  "He can do it. And he is."

  "No, he can't. I'm going to have a talk with him."