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

by JV Love

  The night air was warm and comforting, and Katya watched the fat anti-aircraft blimps sailing silently high above the buildings. They looked like oblong meatballs. Their floating in the sky would catch her off guard sometimes and she would have to ask herself if she was dreaming.

  Sometimes she would "wake up" within her dreams at night. She always loved it when that happened. She would rise up out of her body, turn and look down on it laying in bed, then spread her arms and start flying to wherever she wanted to. She would fly high into the sky and back down again. She would do somersaults, and flips, and dance ballet with the clouds. One time she flew straight up as far as she could fly until there was no more sky, no more birds, no more anything. She stayed there looking down at the shiny blue and white marble below until she had the thought that there was no oxygen in space and that she shouldn't be able to breathe. The thought startled her so much so that she promptly woke up and found herself back in her bed, disappointed to be in the mundane reality of her physical existence.

  But she wasn't dreaming now. It was sometime between two and three in the morning, and she was on the roof of her apartment building, alone, and on guard for fires from the German planes that never came. It had been six days since Felix had left for the front. She had no idea if he was dead or alive. She worried about him incessantly, and then chastised herself later for expending so much energy on such a useless task. Life without him was unimaginable, so in her mind he was of course always alive. She pictured him on the front courageously rescuing a fallen comrade or rallying the men around him - telling them to be brave, to stand their ground and hold the line to protect the citizens of Leningrad. She never pictured him killing enemy soldiers. The image was too barbaric for her sweet Felix.

  The door to the stairwell creaked open. In the dim light, Katya saw her neighbor Petya appear next to all the fire fighting equipment. He accidentally kicked one of shovels, and it knocked over an ax which then fell between the water buckets and sand pails. He limped toward her, his bad leg lightly scuffing the spilled sand on the roof. A moth fluttered in front of him and slipped inside the door before it closed.

  "What a prodigious evening," he said.

  Katya watched him approach, curious why he was there, but also grateful to have some company. She wasn't interested in him romantically, but she did consider him a friend and someone she wanted to get to know better. He seemed to know so much about the world, and he had a dark side to him that deeply intrigued her. She found she could 'figure out' most people, but not him. He seemed to have a thick shell around himself nearly all the time, and she enjoyed the challenge of trying to break through it.

  He sat down beside her, tilted his neck back, and looked up at the stars. "It's always so peaceful up here," he said. "I used to come up here for inspiration all the time. Just to lie back and stare at the stars and listen to the sounds of the city. But now, of course, it's so quiet. No cars, no people, nothing."

  "Why did you stop?" Katya asked.

  "I'm not sure. There are so many quiet activities in our lives that we love to do and give us pleasure, but we stop doing them for some reason. It's strange. We decry all these busy activities that we claim we have to do everyday. But the truth is, we choose to do them. We choose to do them instead of the quiet activities. I've done it all my life, and I see others do it, and it's never made any sense to me."

  He sighed and his arm brushed against Katya's as he stretched. The hairs of his arm tickled her skin and gave her a pleasant shiver.

  "It's all because of Original Sin," she said to him.

  "I knew religion had to play some role in it," he sneered. "Tell me more."

  "Original Sin taught us that we're inherently flawed beings. Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden for failing to control their urges, their curious nature. They were made to feel guilt and shame for who they were and learned they weren't good enough 'as is.' Ever since then, we've expended a good deal of energy trying to prove that we are good enough, and deserve to be allowed back into the Garden of Eden."

  "Hmm, that's interesting," Petya said. "So you're saying that we do all these things we don't like doing because we think they're the way to prove our self-worth? That's probably why the Germans are invading our country - out to prove to the world they're not the culprits they were made out to be after The Great War."

  "I hadn't thought of that," Katya said, "but I think you're right."

  "And what about you, Katerina Selenaya? What do you expend your precious energy on?"

  "On silly, bourgeois things, like worrying about my Felix," she half-joked.

  "Oh yes, he went to the front, didn't he? Have you heard from him?"

  "No, I haven't heard from him. And it's driving me crazy."

  Katya scratched an itch on her shoulder and then ran her fingers through her hair. She thought she smelled cologne.

  "Yes, it's no fun being in love with a soldier. You shouldn't get too attached to him."

  Katya turned her head to look at him and even before she said anything, Petya was already backtracking on his last statement. "I mean you shouldn't get too attached to him being around you very much. I've said it crudely, but I mean that as a friend. He's a great guy, and war is a difficult time for lovers. I just want you to know that if you ever get lonely and want someone to talk to, I'm available. I'm always around you."

  The last sentence made Katya a little uncomfortable, but she brushed it aside. "Thanks," she said meekly.

  They sat in silence for a while and stared up at the sky.

  "They say the Germans will use gas," Petya said.

  "Yes, and they also say Leningrad will be taken in a month. These rumors fly all around the city like pigeons. I've learned not to put too much faith in any of them, except for the ones about a potential famine."

  "You mean you don't believe our diligent, honorable officials and their assurances of massive food supplies?" Petya said sarcastically.

  "I remember my father telling me about the food shortages here in the 1920's," Katya said. "I hope we don't have to live through anything like that."

  "Did you also hear the Germans are planning a paratroop attack on our fair city?"

  "Yes, the Supreme Command announced it just last week, right?" Katya brushed a mosquito away from her bare arm. "Do you think we'll wake one morning and see Nazis falling from the sky like hail?"

  "Boy, I hope so," Petya said, "maybe that would enkindle my creativity."

  Katya didn't laugh.

  "I'm only kidding," he said.

  "I know. I guess I'm just not in a joking mood. It feels inappropriate to laugh when our men are dying on the front defending us."

  Katya smelled cologne once again and stole a glance at Petya. His chubby face was clean shaven. He was wearing a fashionable shirt she'd never seen before. His dark hair was freshly washed and neatly combed.

  "Your shift is about over, isn't it?" Petya asked.

  She nodded.

  "Who gets the glorious job of defending our building from those cursed Nazi planes next?"

  "Guzman," she answered.

  "Really? I saw Shostakovich going to visit him earlier," Petya said. "He was telling me how he and other musicians were sent to dig trenches beyond the Forelli Hospital. He said one pianist came in a new suit and was later covered in mud up to his thighs. Another one came with a briefcase and kept slipping off to a shady bush to read some thick volume of musical history every few minutes."

  "You can't expect musicians to be very proficient at those kinds of things," Katya said. "They can do so many amazing things with their hands, but wield a shovel? The authorities really should have done a lot of the preparations like that beforehand."

  "That's what he said too," Petya said. "He went on and on about how Tukhachevsky was the only one to have started preparations, how he was such a brilliant man, the best marshal the Red Army could have asked for."

  "So he doesn't believe Tukhachevsky was a German spy?"

 
"No, he thinks it was all made up," Petya said. "They were close friends, you know."

  A mosquito landed on Katya's arm and she pursed her lips and blew it away. "Did you know Shostakovich is applying for the Volunteers?"

  "Yes," Petya said. "Dmitry's quite the patriot, and after all he's been through too."

  "I doubt he'll be accepted," Katya said. "Even he seems to think they'll probably assign him to air-raid duty."

  Petya ran his hand over his hair, patting down a spot that was sticking slightly out of place. "You know," he said, "I've never understood why they've never arrested him - that evil formalist. They brand him an enemy of the people, and yet he's allowed to walk around and write new symphonies as if everything's fine."

  "I certainly don't envy him," Katya said. "He told me he keeps a bag packed and ready to go should they come and arrest him in the middle of the night. He said he's been expecting that knock on the door every night for several years now. It must be tremendously stressful, living like that."

  Petya slapped his arm, killing a mosquito. "What do you think of the charges? That he's a formalist," he said. "Some of my friends say that Stalin himself wrote the articles in Pravda condemning his work."

  Katya heard her father's voice inside her head telling her to be careful of what she said on contentious political matters, and her first reaction was to not answer Petya's question. But she was tired of doing that. Silence felt somehow dishonest. Besides, she trusted Petya.

  "I think calling him a formalist," she said, "is just another useless label. We seem to be so fond of labels these days. 'He's a counter-revolutionary.' 'She's a Trotskyite.' 'He's a formalist.' It's just a way of dumbing down complex issues. You don't have to examine the specifics of anything. Labels make everything black and white. In reality, they're gray."

  Petya smiled. "Beautiful," he said. "Honesty seems to have gone out of style. It's refreshing to hear it once in a while." He stretched his neck around in a slow circle. "Do you ever feel intimidated around him - Shostakovich?" he asked.

  "Intimidated? Why?"

  "What do you mean, 'Why?' He wrote his first acclaimed symphony when he was just eighteen, and he's a star, not only here, but throughout Europe and America. They've played his symphonies in Rome and London and . . ."

  "No, I'm not intimidated by his success," Katya interrupted. "I'm inspired by him. His music is so moving."

  Petya said nothing, and Katya sensed she had erred in her response. "Do you feel jealous because you'd like the attention and recognition he's getting?" she asked.

  "Absolutely, I feel jealous," he said. "But the thing is, I know I could be just as successful as him if only I could apply myself and simply write more. I wish some of his productivity would wear off on me."

  "You need to be patient. I think . . ."

  "No," Petya interrupted, "that's one thing I don't need. Things have been expected from me for a long time now. You're still young and there's no pressure on you to make something out of your life yet. When you get to be my age in another eight years, you'll understand."

  Katya looked up at the night sky. "My father's always telling me," she began, then jokingly imitated her father's deep, gruff voice, "'You think you've got it all figured out at your age. You know everything. But just you wait, every year from now on you'll realize how much you don't know.'" She paused, then added, "That scares me for some reason."

  "My uncle used to tell me that when we're adolescents that that's what we need - answers," Petya said. "After adolescence, what's important in life is the opposite of answers - it's the mystery of it all. He told me that most people never make it out of adolescence, that a vast majority of the world was stuck there. Stuck in the things that are important to humans of that age: sex, violence, being right, being 'cool.' I remember he always used to say, 'If people don't start growing up pretty soon, they're going to destroy the world.'"

  "Looks like he was right," Katya said. "I fear this war might leave a scar that can't be healed."

  They were quiet for a time, then Katya asked if Petya still kept in touch with his uncle - an ambassador to Turkey.

  "No, he's too busy for me," Petya replied. "He always has been," he added bitterly.

  Like Katya, Petya had lost a parent as a child. In his case, both of his parents had died - killed before his very eyes. Katya couldn't imagine the immensity of something as traumatic as that and felt an endearing sympathy for Petya. She knew he'd built a lot of walls around himself so that no one could ever hurt him the way his aunt, uncle, and the other kids at the orphanage had.

  He'd written a story once that still brought tears to her eyes when she recalled it. The main character was a young boy who was not well-liked at the orphanage where he lived. One day some of the bigger kids decided he needed to be 'taught a lesson.' They'd held his arms while other kids took turns hitting him with their fists. The boy took every punch, every kick, every laugh. It was only after they'd broken his collarbone that he couldn't take it anymore and collapsed to the ground, crying and instinctively curling into the fetal position. Katya found out later it was a true story, and that Petya was the little boy who'd been beaten up.

  Katya hated those kids, hated that the world could be so ugly and mean. What had Petya done to deserve having his parents killed, his aunt abuse him physically and emotionally, and those kids at the orphanage beat him up? She shuddered to think of the scars he must have from those experiences. If those things had happened to her, she was sure she would have been broken, crushed by the cruelty of it all.

  She often learned more about Petya through his writing than by talking to him. He let her read drafts of his stories and asked for her feedback. She loved his writing, loved the honesty and sincerity of it. With a little support and encouragement, she was sure he could overcome everything that had happened to him and become one of the country's top writers.

  "How's your novel coming?" she asked. "Last we spoke, you were on the third chapter."

  A brief look of surprise flashed across Petya's face. "Yes, of course," he said, "the third chapter." He began to sigh again but then cut himself off and answered quickly, "Well, that's nearly finished. I mean it is finished. Well no, it's got a ways to go. Katya, can you keep a . . ." Petya finished his abandoned sigh, then said resolutely, "It will be done this week."

  "That's good news!" Katya said and squeezed his arm reassuringly. "When can I read some?"

  "Soon. Soon."

  "You've said that for the past two months."

  "All right, all right," he said, his voice trailing off peevishly. "I'll give you something next weekend."

  Petya's company and the warm Leningrad night gave Katya a wonderful sense of peace and communion. She looked up at the sky again and tried to connect the points of the constellation Ursula Major. When she was halfway finished, a shooting star streaked across the black sky.

  "Petya, did you see that?"

  "Yes," he said. "Pure resplendence."

  "We get to make a wish now," Katya said. She closed her eyes and made a heartfelt wish for Felix's safety. She smiled at the thought of him - his curly hair, his iron-grey eyes, how courageous he'd been at the train station when he had only a shovel to defend himself on the front.

  She turned to Petya. "Did you make a wish?"

  "Yes," he said. She noticed for the first time how close they were sitting next to one another. A light breeze massaged the hair on the back of her neck.

  "I wished for your happiness," Petya said.

  "You're not supposed to tell!" she said and playfully punched his arm. "Now it won't come true."

  "Oh. Then, we'll just pretend I didn't say anything." He stretched his arm around Katya's shoulder, squeezed her, then let go.

  The door started to creak open again, and Katya made her way to her feet. Dmitry Shostakovich walked toward them in careful, measured steps.

  "Katya?" he said in his tenor voice. "Is that you?"

  "Yes, Dmitry. It's me."

  "Your father jus
t called Guzman's place. He's been trying to reach you."

  Her father never called for her at home. It had to be an emergency. "What is it? What happened?"

  "He told me Felix was wounded at the front."

  Katya gasped and stared at him with her mouth open.

  "He's on a train on his way to a hospital here in Leningrad."

  She covered her mouth with her hands and struggled for something to say. Petya got to his feet and stood next to her. "How bad is it?" Petya asked.

  "I don't know. I don't think her father knows either or else he would've told me." He walked a few steps closer to Katya. "Your father said he'd be home in three hours to take you to the hospital."

  She wanted to say thank you, but couldn't get the words out. Crossing her arms in front of herself, she fell into Shostakovich's arms and he held her. Petya mumbled something to himself and lit a cigarette. The stars that made up the constellation Ursula Major continued to shine no brighter and no dimmer than usual.

  ~

  -- Chapter Four

  The Last Line

  ____________________________

  Once there was nothing,

  no thought could be found;

  But things soon changed

  when "life" was unbound.

  Along came logic,

  shortly after time

  Something from nothing

  has no right to define

  Out of touch

  but in control,

  Who are they

  to sell my soul?

  Thinking is dangerous

  for we all just might find

  Not the answers we seek,