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

by JV Love

  "We got him tied up, Misha," Igor announced. "He can't get away. Are you going to hit him now?"

  Misha leaned his rifle against his pack and stepped in front of the pilot. He stretched his arm over his head, then swung it around in circles to loosen it up. He inhaled the last bit of his cigarette and flicked the butt to the ground. Then he blew smoke in the pilot's face as he cracked the knuckles of his right hand one by one. He was going to make this Nazi pay for what he'd done.

  Igor giggled. "Break his nose, Misha!" he yelled.

  Misha, who had never actually been in a fight, who had never actually hit a man in the face before, clenched his fist and flung it wildly at the German's face. He hit him just below the left eye - squarely on his cheekbone.

  "God damn it!" Misha yelled, shaking his hand in agony. The pain was so intense that he was sure he must have broken a bone. He held it still for a second to look at it, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Behind half ear, a group of boys and girls had gathered round to watch what was going on. Misha looked their way as he shook his hand. He was surprised at how big one of the boys was and decided he must be Siberian. He was almost as tall as the pilot and had arms bigger around than Misha's. From his chubby cheeks and hairless face, Misha guessed he was about twelve years old.

  Misha looked back at the pilot, expecting to see a big bruise and feeling angry when he didn't. The pilot had his eyes closed tightly and seemed to be reciting something. His lips moved at a feverish pace, but no sound came out.

  "Children," Misha shouted, "would you like to get some revenge against the Nazi pilot who attacked your train?"

  None of the children said yes, nor did any say no. They made no response at all to Misha's offer.

  Misha scanned the twenty or so children standing by to see which of the boys were big enough and old enough to step up and let the Nazi have it. He didn't want to hit the pilot again - his hand was already starting to swell - and he doubted he could get half brain to hit him, though he more than any of them had the strength to inflict some serious pain. Misha was fairly sure he could get Igor to hit him, but the boy acted a bit scared, and besides, then what? That would be the end of it. No, the Nazi wasn't getting off that easy.

  "It's time you older boys became men," Misha said. "Who wants to be a Soviet soldier and defend the Motherland? Raise your hand."

  A short girl who was cross-eyed and had her hair in pigtails raised her hand determinedly. Three of the oldest boys followed suit, and then another half dozen younger boys raised their hands.

  "He said boys, Masha. Put your hand down," one of the older boys said to the girl.

  "No, that's all right," Misha said. "She was the first to put her hand up. She can keep it up. Now, which of you are brave? Step forward."

  Again, the girl was the first to step forward. She wore a plain brown dress and carried a small piece of driftwood that she had fashioned into a toy pistol. The boys followed her lead and stepped forward as well.

  "Excellent. That was your first test. Only the brave can be soldiers in the Red Army. Stalin would be very proud of each of you." Misha paused to look each boy in the eye for emphasis. "Now, by the power vested in me as a lieutenant in the Red Army of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, I hereby designate each of you a volunteer soldier in the Red Army. Raise your right arm and repeat after me."

  Standing tall, faces solemn, the children raised their arms. The girl still clutched her driftwood gun - pointing it harmlessly to the sky.

  "I, a citizen of the USSR, stepping forth in the ranks of the Armed Forces," Misha said and paused while the children repeated it, "take the oath and solemnly vow to be an honorable, brave, disciplined, diligent fighter, strictly guarding military and state secrets," he continued. He only knew part of the actual oath, so made the rest up as he went along, ". . . and defend the Motherland - the glorious birthplace of socialism - with every drop of my blood."

  Half ear stood off to the side with his massive arms folded in front of his chest. From time to time he would shake his large head slowly from side to side, then look down at the ground and kick at the dirt.

  Misha finished giving the children the oath and saluted them. "I congratulate you, citizen soldiers, and welcome you to the Soviet army," he said. The children saluted back, proud expressions emblazoned on their young faces.

  "Now line up here," Misha said. "Your first duty as Red Army soldiers is to serve justice against this Nazi pilot."

  Misha looked over at half ear pawing at the dirt. "Good idea, huh half brain?" he taunted.

  A small boy with bleach-blonde hair ended up at the front of the line. He wore glasses that were too big for him and kept sliding down his nose. Whenever he tried to move back, the older boys would push him to the front again.

  "No," Misha said to them, "you older boys go first so you can show the younger ones how to do it. Line up from oldest to youngest. You there," Misha pointed to the largest boy who'd caught his eye earlier, "you go first."

  The boy wore suspenders and pants that had been stitched together one too many times. He came forward and stood in front of the pilot, but didn't do anything. He swatted a fly away from his ear and glanced over at Misha repeatedly.

  "Come on!" Igor yelled. "Let's go. Punch him in the face."

  The boy made a loose fist and threw it lamely at the pilot's face. The pilot opened his eyes momentarily, but then closed them again and resumed his silent recitation.

  "Harder!" Misha yelled. "Hit him again!"

  The boy threw another punch and hit the pilot on the nose.

  "Again! Hit him again!" Misha yelled.

  This time the boy clenched both fists and threw sharp punches that struck the pilot's face on both sides. Each successive blow seemed to strike harder than the one before.

  Misha and Igor and the children in line cheered. Half ear frowned and folded his arms even tighter.

  "Excellent job, comrade," Misha said to the boy. "That's exactly the way to do it."

  As the boy walked away, those in line patted him on the back and shouted, "Good job, Sasha!" He smiled awkwardly at the kudos, revealing a large gap between his top front two teeth.

  "I want to go next!" Igor yelled. "Misha, let me go next."

  "You'll get your turn. Don't worry," Misha told him.

  Blood started dripping from the pilot's nose. It trickled over his lips and down his chin where it pooled slightly before dripping to the ground. The blood looked luminous against his pale, white complexion. He said something - curses, Misha guessed - and spit off to his left side.

  "Comrade, I beg of you," half ear said, "stop this."

  "Shut up," Misha said. "Who's next? Get up there!"

  Next in line was the girl. She was at least half a foot shorter and weighed a third less than the first boy.

  "Masha, you're too small," the boys behind her said. "You can't hit him."

  Masha crossed her arms in front of her and stood her ground. "He said line up oldest to youngest," she said, pointing her finger at them, "and I'm older than all of you."

  Misha thought about telling her to wait, to let the biggest boys go first, but he was intrigued to see what this dark haired girl with the thin lipped grimace could do. Her face and posture had an expression of determination and contempt that he liked.

  "Go ahead, little girl," Misha said. "Make him sorry he ever crossed the border."

  "I am not little," she told Misha, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm twelve years old!"

  Misha laughed. "Forgive me, comrade," he said, and bowed to her.

  Masha was too small to reach the pilot's head, so she tried jumping and throwing her tiny fists at his face at the same time. She had limited success. She could do it, but it wasn't hurting the pilot in any way.

  "She's too small," Igor said. "She can't hurt him."

  "Kick him!" Misha shouted.

  Masha kicked the pilot in the shin, but her shoes weren't very hard, and again she wasn't able to inflict any
noticeable pain.

  Igor walked over to the railroad tracks, picked up a fist sized rock, then handed it to her. "Here," he said, "throw this at him."

  Misha nodded approvingly. Half ear shook his head and walked off toward the front of the train.

  The girl took a few steps back and the others made room for her. Looking at the pilot, she squinted her eyes and bent forward slightly. She looked to be so cross-eyed that Misha wondered how she could possibly aim at anything. Gripping the rock in her right hand, she quickly wound up and threw it sidearm. Though the rock had tremendous velocity, it missed the pilot as well as the tree completely.

  The boys in line burst into laughter. "I told you girls can't throw," one of them said.

  Masha, undeterred by the teasing, ran and retrieved the rock and got set to throw it again.

  "Masha," a boy yelled, "you couldn't hit the train if you were standing right in front of it!"

  She seemed not to hear what the boys said or else had learned to block it out. She squinted, aimed, and threw again.

  This time she was on target. The rock hit the pilot near the groin. Igor laughed a high-pitched, "ha-ha!" The pilot screamed in pain. Several of the smaller children who were watching began walking away.

  Misha felt pleased to see that the pilot's face - eyes closed tightly, nose bleeding, eyebrows furled - was no longer so annoyingly placid. "Good job, comrade," Misha said to the girl. She walked past the boys in line, sticking her tongue out and pointing her driftwood pistol at them one by one.

  Misha couldn't help smiling to himself now that he had everything under control: the pilot was getting his due, the children were learning how to be tough, he was the undisputed leader, and Igor was in awe of him.

  The boy with bleach-blonde hair was next in line. His skin was pale, like the pilot's, and light freckles dotted his cheeks. He inched closer to the pilot, more by the pushing of the boys behind him than his own volition. Judging by his place in line, Misha guessed he was probably eleven, maybe even twelve years old, though he looked to be nine at the most. Several seconds went by with him just standing there staring at the pilot, and the pilot with his eyes closed busily reciting something that only he knew. Misha grew impatient. He was afraid of losing momentum. "Hurry up!" he yelled. "Hit him with the rock." The boy just stood there, looking as though he would burst into tears at any second. "Come on, Vanya," the boys behind him said. "Don't be a sissy." He picked the rock up and raised it behind his head and held it there. "Throw it," Misha yelled. "What's the matter with you? He killed your friends!" The boy then threw the rock straight down at the ground and ran away in tears.

  Misha was disgusted with the bad example set by the boy and wanted to move on quickly. "All right, Igor, it's your turn now. Come on. Hurry up," he said. "And make it hurt!" he added.

  Igor walked up to the pilot with a malicious grin and picked up the rock. The older lady who wore the kerchief on her head and had been tending to the wounded children now came down. "What's going on here?" she demanded. "Who screamed? Is somebody else wounded?" She looked to Misha first and then saw the German pilot tied to the tree, blood running down his face, Igor standing in front of him with a rock in his hand. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. "You monsters," she said under her breath.

  "Babushka," - old woman - Misha said to her, "this isn't for women. Go back and tend to the wounded."

  Half ear was now on his way back from the front of the train. He held his right hand in his pocket. "Boris!" the woman yelled to him. "Boris, do you know what's going on here? Come stop this madness."

  He heard her and quickened his pace.

  "Half brain isn't in charge here. I am," Misha said.

  She ignored him and kept her gaze on half ear, who stumbled over a large tree root and fell to the ground with all the grace of a wounded buffalo. Misha and Igor laughed spitefully, and the children joined in as well. The woman hurried down to help him.

  "Ignore them," Misha said to the children. "I'm in charge here. Igor, we're waiting for you. Hurry up."

  With his left hand, Igor brought the rock back behind his shoulder and then threw it awkwardly. It wasn't thrown very hard, and it was obvious he didn't know how to throw. The rock bounced harmlessly past the pilot's feet.

  The children all laughed. "You throw like a girl!" the boys teased him.

  Igor's big ears turned beet red. "Shut up!" he yelled back.

  "He throws worse than a girl. Masha can throw better!" they shouted.

  Misha watched Igor's face contort in anger and rage and found it amusing. "Are you going to let them tease you like that?" he said with a smirk.

  As half ear and the woman approached, the children continued to taunt Igor. "Masha, come show him how to throw. He can't hurt the Nazi," they shouted. Igor glared at them all - lips downturned, fists clenched, back arched. "I'll show you," he said and pulled a knife from his belt. He ran up to the pilot - the blade sparkling in the sunlight - then plunged it into the side of the German's neck. Bright red blood started trickling down his chest and the pilot bent his head over the deadly wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

  Several girls screamed and ran away. Half ear ran to the front of the line and pushed Igor and the rest of the children away. "All right, that is enough!" he yelled. "That is enough!"

  "What are you doing?!" Misha shouted. "It's not over. Children! Stay here! The Nazi isn't dead yet."

  Half ear pulled a pistol from his pocket, and Misha dove to the ground. He was facing away from half ear when he heard the gun fire. When he didn't feel anything, he knew that half ear must have missed him. He rolled toward his rifle, grabbed it, and turned back toward half ear to return fire. But he saw that half ear had already put the pistol back in his pocket and was walking away. Behind him, the German pilot slumped from the tree - a gunshot wound to his chest.

  "Boris!!" the woman screamed and covered her mouth once more.

  Head bowed, arms hanging loosely at his sides, Boris slowly walked over to her. He dropped to his knees and leaned forward into her arms. She held his large head in her bosom, stroked his bushy brown hair, and said, "Boris, my Boris, what has happened? I don't understand anything anymore. I just don't understand."

  Misha's mind went blank momentarily, and then his contempt and rage turned to bewilderment. The German pilot looked like a gory scarecrow, his head lying limp and bloody over his right shoulder. Misha looked briefly at the woman holding half ear's head against her breast, and then he closed his eyes. He heard the wounded children whimpering softly to themselves, the crackle of the flames as the train continued to burn, the woman whispering, "Oh, Boris, my Boris. This is madness. What have we done? What have we done?" And beyond it all - like it wasn't even real - he heard a bird singing in the distance. It was a Greenfinch. He knew because he recognized its high-toned "schkeeee" and "chichichichit" song. When he was a child, the pretty green and yellow birds used to sit outside his bedroom window and serenade him as he awoke.

  Misha let go of his rifle and held both hands over his ears. He hated that bird and its song right then like he'd never hated anything in his life. He squeezed his hands tighter and tighter over his ears, but it didn't help. The Greenfinch's song went on and on and on.

  * * *

  Katya set her notebook aside, laid flat on her back and stared up at the night sky, smiling at the thought of God looking back at her. She'd been writing poetry for the last three hours, working and re-working lines until she was sure that they couldn't be improved.

  Much of her poetry was optimistic and inspirational, because that's who she wanted to be. To her and her friends she was idealistic. To her father, she was naive.

  She had a childlike quality about her that she consciously tried to cultivate. Whether it be skipping down the sidewalk on a sudden impulse, doing arts and crafts, singing that nursery rhyme she was so fond of, or just being silly and laughing at every little thing. She didn't want to grow up, didn't want to face the cruel world the adul
ts had created.

  It was her grandmother who had nurtured that side of her. Katya's mother had died when Katya was nine years old, and her father took her out to the countryside the week after the funeral to live in the small house on the edge of the woods with her grandmother. He came and visited often, but as the years piled up, Katya began to view him mostly as a generous stranger - someone who stopped by once in a while, brought food and gifts, and then disappeared again the next day.

  Though her father clearly loved and respected his mother, the two of them had a strained relationship and bickered often in front of Katya. They argued mostly about God and religion and what Katya should and should not be taught. Her grandmother, Katya came to understand, was a rebel. Someone who was a threat to the 'Powers That Be.' That was why her father had made her live out in the countryside by herself all those years, instead of in the city with the two of them. Her grandmother believed in some very dangerous ideas. She was a Mennonite.

  She'd become a member of the historic Christian church at age 67 by undergoing adult baptism. While Katya lived with her, her grandmother taught Katya all the church's essential teachings: that one's loyalty was ultimately to God and not the State, that people should be voluntarily baptized as adults rather than involuntarily as infants, and most heretical of all - pacifism. Mennonites, Katya learned, believed more than anything that Jesus taught peace, that one should 'Love thy enemies.'

  It wasn't until Katya got older that she realized just how revolutionary the teachings were. Since the war with Germany had started, she frequently found herself in conflict, either outright with other people, or internally. She was finding that living what you believe was not always an easy (or even safe) thing to do.

  She never understood completely who had taught her grandmother to be a Mennonite, but she did understand that her grandmother had been the last one left. The rest had emigrated to Canada as soon as it became obvious that the Bolsheviks would be victorious in the Civil War.

  Her grandmother had died two days after Katya's thirteenth birthday, and her father took her back to Leningrad to live with him. He loved her dearly but it became clear that his mother's teachings had had a profound effect on her. Katya and her father argued repeatedly, and he often told her how worried he was about the things she'd learned while living with her grandmother. When he discovered that he couldn't 'undo' the teachings, he resorted to threats, pleas, and warnings for her to be careful in what she said and did in front of others.