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

by JV Love

  Field Marshal Ritter von Leeb, the 65-year-old commander who had triumphed over the Maginot Line in France, was in charge of the forces from the north. His army, Group Nord, was to have taken Leningrad by July 21 - a mere month from when the invasion of the Soviet Union began.

  Now, in early September, von Leeb's forces consisted of about twenty divisions, including Panzer and mechanized corps, and numbered around 500,000 men. The fall of Mga had effectively closed the circle around Leningrad. The only remaining connection with the "Russian mainland" was by air or over Lake Ladoga to the east.

  Men, women, and children still living in Leningrad at this time numbered about three million. Though the Soviet forces facing the Germans were nearly equal in numbers, they were anything but equal in terms of artillery, rifles, machine guns, ammunition, and organization. The German forces had every advantage, including two tank divisions to the Soviet's none. In addition, the German Luftwaffe controlled the skies.

  After winning the battle for Mga, von Leeb consolidated his forces in preparation for a new offensive against Leningrad on September 9. It was designed to be the final blow that would break the spirit of the Russians and lead to the city's surrender. If the ground assault did not succeed, then Leningrad would be annihilated by air and artillery bombardment just like Warsaw and Rotterdam had been. Von Leeb and the German Supreme Command anticipated a quick victory over Leningrad, so they could then move on to Moscow and perhaps end the war in October - only slightly behind schedule.

  * * *

  Petya held the envelope a few inches above the whistling teapot. He was a self-taught professional at opening letters and then resealing them so that recipients never suspected. He'd already finished with the first envelope and was now steaming the seal of the second one.

  He'd actually stopped reading other people's mail about a year ago because he found their letters (not to mention their lives) so boring. But he was very eager to read the two letters he was opening now. Katya's father, Grigori, had asked Petya for a favor before he'd left for Moscow. He knew there was a chance he might not return to Leningrad. He told Petya he was worried about the Germans cutting off his return route, but Petya had a feeling that was only part of his fear. Considering how badly the war had been going so far, Petya wondered if Grigori had been picked to be one of the many scapegoats. He knew that when senior Party leaders were called to Moscow these days, it usually wasn't to congratulate them on their achievements. There were two groups for those deemed guilty in the Party's blame game: the lucky ones, who were reassigned to new positions in different, less desirable regions of the country; and the unlucky ones, who were shot after they got off the plane.

  Grigori had asked Petya to be on the lookout for a letter with a return address of the Bureau of Archives and Records. It was "of the utmost importance" that Petya intercept the letter if, a.) Grigori was "unable to return from Moscow for any reason," and b.) Katya was still living in Leningrad. When - and if - that letter arrived, Petya was to mail an envelope that Grigori had already sealed and addressed. Under no circumstances was Petya to open the letter from the bureau nor let Katya know of its existence. To ensure compliance, Grigori had reminded Petya that a certain region in the far north was still terribly short of workers for its mining operations. Petya had gotten the hint and vowed his loyalty.

  With the precision of a surgeon, Petya pushed his special not-too-sharp but not-too-dull knife under the seal and carefully slid it the length of the envelope. Then he removed the letter from the bureau, postmarked yesterday, September 3rd, and read it.

  Comrade Grigori Selenii,

  As you requested, this is a notification that the specified individuals, Felix Varilensky and Katya Selenaya, visited our office. They arrived in the morning on August 29, 1941 and requested a marriage license. Per your instructions, they were denied.

  - Stepan Rostovich

  Bureau of Archives and Records

  "Petya," Oksana Petrovna's weary voice rang out, "are you making tea?" She was in her room, yelling through the closed door.

  Petya tucked the letters and envelopes under his shirt. "Yes," he replied, waiting to see if her door was going to open. "But I just used all the water. I'll put some more on." He was startled that she was home. He'd listened at her door for a minute before starting the process and concluded that she was at her job. She worked at the Mariinsky Opera Theater as a technician on the set. Since the war had started, all the technicians had been reassigned to making artillery guns and tanks out of canvas and plywood. They scattered the props around the city to fool the Germans.

  "No, don't bother," she said.

  Petya went to his room, closed and locked the door, and read the letter Katya's father had written.

  Dear Nikolai Semyonovich,

  I know you are busy fighting the war and I apologize for taking your time. But if you are reading this, then my fears have come true and I have been separated from my daughter, Katya. You know from our many late night talks that she has been seeing a certain Jew originally from Ukraine - Felix Varilensky. It has always been my belief that their misguided courtship would be short-lived, that it was merely a phase she was passing through. I have tried to be patient, waiting for their eventual break up, but I fear the war may have brought them closer together for the time being. I am greatly concerned that she may make a terrible mistake in my absence and so I would like to speed up the process, so to speak, of their going their separate ways. I know you too would be alarmed if your daughter was seeing a Jew. So from one parent to another, I ask for your help in seeing that F. Varilensky is reassigned from his clerical duties back to the front, where we desperately need more men anyway. If you can do me this favor, I will forever be in your debt.

  Your friend and comrade,

  - Grigori Selenii

  Petya grinned as he put the letter back in the envelope and resealed it. What a pleasant surprise to learn that Felix would be leaving for the front again. He combed his hair straight back, put on a clean shirt, and set out to mail the letter that very afternoon.

  He glided down the stairs, whistling a whimsical tune that he'd picked up, quite involuntarily, from his roommate Boris. As he exited the building and felt the sun on his face, he whistled even louder. He saw Katya and Igor in the distance, examining an apartment building that had been struck by a German shell. The side of the building had crumbled, exposing the interiors of several apartments - yellow wallpaper, hanging pictures, toys on the floor.

  Petya walked over to them. "Bon jour, mademoiselle," he said to Katya, bowing regally.

  "What did he say?" Igor asked.

  "He said hello in French," Katya answered. "Hi Petya."

  "It's so lovely to see you this afternoon," Petya continued. "You look absolutely ravishing, as usual." He admired the low cut neckline of her dress and the glimpse of the top of her breasts it offered.

  "In this outfit," she said, looking down at her faded dress. "You must be kidding."

  "Au contraire," he responded. "You wear it very nicely. Those comely flowers on your dress must be terribly jealous though. They simply pale in comparison."

  Katya wasn't one to fall easily for compliments. Most of the time she'd laugh them off, but Petya knew he'd succeeded this time. He wondered if she'd been feeling a bit vulnerable and he'd caught her at the right time. In any case, Petya's day was getting better and better.

  She was blushing slightly and gave him a sidelong glance. "You're a sly one, Petya Soyonovich," she said, grinning.

  "Why are you in such a good mood?" Igor asked Petya.

  "Well, my little lummox," Petya said, "war makes one cogitate on the meaning of life, and appreciate it more. I'm just grateful that I'm alive, that you and Katya are alive, and the sun is shining."

  "That's a good point. I've done nothing but worry lately," Katya said. "Thanks for the reminder."

  "Happy to return the favor," Petya said.

  He couldn't stop looking at her. She was like an exquisite work
of art in the Hermitage. No matter how long he looked, he never got tired or bored. He was transfixed by her beauty.

  "What's a lummox?" Igor asked.

  Petya ignored his question. He was studying Katya's childlike ears, those delicious pink lips, and the thin brown eyebrows that gracefully arched over her chestnut-brown eyes. It was such a shame that social rules dictated that he not stare at her for a prolonged period of time. That he had to look away seemed so unfair.

  "Did you hear Shostakovich on the radio on Monday?" Katya asked.

  "Yes," Petya said, "he's quite the worker-bee - completing new scores, serving as a fireman during air-raids . . .."

  "Wasn't he just brilliant?" Katya said. "One part in particular nearly made me cry. He said, 'Remember that our art is threatened with great danger. We will defend our music. We will work with honesty and self-sacrifice that no one may destroy it.' I just loved that."

  Petya didn't want to talk about how great Shostakovich was. It was yet another painful reminder of his days spent in the orphanage. There had been another kid there, Alexander, who was just as smart as Petya. The two of them were similar in many ways and became friends. But the one big difference between them was that everyone loved and praised Alexander, while Petya was constantly picked on by the other kids and criticized by the adults.

  Petya changed the subject. "Were you able to read any of my novel yet?" he asked Katya.

  "Oh yes! I almost forgot. I was going to tell you how incredible it is. I finished it this morning. It's so unlike any of the other stuff you've given me. I'm amazed at your diversity. I think this one is going to make you famous for sure."

  Katya's last sentence was like balm for his jealous heart. If only others could know how great he was, then life would be worth living. "I'll take you on my publicity tours to Paris and America one day," he said and laughed.

  "I'm going to hold you to that, you know," Katya said and pinched him playfully.

  Petya felt so happy just to be near her. She was so enticing. "Well, I'm pleased you like it," he said.

  "Just one thing though that was rather strange," Katya said. "The chapters were really short."

  Petya had been afraid of disappointing her that he actually didn't have three chapters done yet, so he'd divided up the chapter and a half he had into three. "Yes, I'm trying a different approach," he said.

  "I see." She looked thoughtfully from Petya to Igor. "Oh, before I forget, I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to have Igor stay with you on the night of the eighth - that's this coming Monday. Felix is coming over that night."

  "Certainly, certainly. It would be my pleasure to have Igor's company again," he said. "Perhaps we'll tell some more ghost stories," he added, winking at Igor.

  "Thank you, Petya. I really appreciate all the time you spend with Igor. It's important for him to be with other men - especially someone as educated as yourself."

  "Perhaps I'll teach him a few words of French," Petya said. "Parle vous Francais, Igor?"

  "I don't need to learn no stupid French," Igor huffed.

  Petya laughed, then noticed that Katya was looking at the two envelopes in his hand. He shifted them to his other hand and made sure the blank side of the envelopes was facing her. He tried to do it as naturally as possible - as if he hadn't noticed her looking at them.

  "What are those letters?" she asked.

  "Oh, nothing special," he said, "just a couple of letters that I need to mail."

  Katya continued looking at the envelopes. "You know," she said, "the handwriting on that one envelope looked just like my father's."

  "Oh really?" Petya said, holding up the envelope so he, but not Katya, could see the address. "No, that one's from Oksana. She asked me to mail it for her. Actually I better get going . . .. Need to mail these before the Germans take over the city." He laughed again and started to step away. "We'll talk later," he said, doing his best to move his large frame quickly without limping too much. "Bye, Katya," he shouted over his shoulder. "Bye, Igor," he said without looking back.

  * * *

  Katya sat at the table alternately taking tiny sips of her tea and trying to smooth some of the million wrinkles in the white tablecloth. Felix sat across from her, eating his food and staring out the window.

  "How are the potatoes?" Katya asked. "I fried them with lots of garlic just the way you like them."

  "Good. They're very good," he said, forcing a smile and glancing at her.

  Katya took another sip of her tea. "The weather's been so nice. It hardly feels like autumn. I guess summer is making up for its late start."

  Felix made no reply. He continued looking out the window, though at what, Katya had no idea. It was 6:40 p.m.. She saw the sun still floating high in the western sky and was comforted by the fact that it wouldn't be setting for nearly another two hours.

  Katya had been trying to make her tea last as long as possible, but she now finished the last sip. She pressed even harder on a patch of wrinkles in the tablecloth to try to smooth them, but it made no difference. "Would you like more potatoes?" she asked. "It's no problem for me to make more."

  At first, Felix looked at her like he didn't understand the question, but then he shook his head no.

  "Well how about some tea then?" she asked. "Would you like me to make you some tea?" She stood up, wringing her hands, anxiously awaiting his answer.

  "No, thank you. I don't want any tea," he said.

  She picked up her empty teacup and tapped her fingernails against it. The silence was maddening. The only sounds she could hear were Felix chewing his food and his fork clinking against the plate. She sat down again and joined Felix in staring out the window. Then she got up and put a kettle on and lit the stove anyway.

  "Why don't you just not go?" she finally said.

  "If I don't go . . .," he said, putting his fork down and watching Katya drum the side of her teacup. "If I don't go, they'll shoot me."

  "But your clerical duties are very important to the war effort," Katya said. "You told me your superiors think very highly of you and your work."

  "They don't want to see me go. The decision is out of their hands."

  Katya sat down, reached over the table and put her hand on top of his. "I'll ask my father to pull some strings and see if you can stay in your current position."

  "You haven't heard from your father since he left. You don't know where he is and you have no way of getting in touch with him. And besides, I don't think he'd lift a finger to help me," Felix said frankly.

  "That's not true," she said defensively. "Someone left that note a few days ago saying my father wanted to let me know he was okay and still in Moscow. I think it's just a matter of time before he comes back."

  "Time," Felix said, "is something we don't have."

  "Oh, don't say that! I can't stand it when you talk like that - like it's the end."

  "Katya, we need to face reality. There's no use hiding from it. We're going to be separated for a while." He brushed the back of his fingers against her right cheek. "But, my love, know this: I will be back for you. We will be together again, and we'll be married one day."

  Katya frowned thinking about their failure to get married. They'd finally found time two days ago to go down to the Bureau of Records again. Katya had brought two of her friends from the hospital to serve as witnesses, and they were cautiously optimistic they'd be able to get a marriage license this time. But when they got to the building, they found it in ruins - a pile of rubble with deep craters all around it.

  Felix's efforts since then to find out if the office had been relocated were all met with annoyed responses. "Don't you know there's a war on?" they would say, or "The Nazis are threatening to take the city any minute and you're concerned about getting a marriage license?" The reprimands hadn't deterred him, but neither had he been successful.

  He squeezed Katya's hand now and then finished his last bite of fried potatoes.

  "Well if you're going to the front, then so am I," K
atya said. "The hospital director is always saying how they're short of nurses there."

  "I'd prefer you don't do that," Felix said, fixing his eyes on her. "I've heard that nurses on the front suffer higher casualties than the men fighting." He leaned toward her and kissed her on the forehead. "Katya, just stay here please. I'll be able to get leave to come and visit once in a while. And we'll write."

  Katya was seething about the unfairness of it all. She hated the Germans for laying siege to her city and she hated the Soviets for taking Felix from her. She thought of the Bible verse her grandmother always used to say, "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you." How did that make any sense? How could she possibly love those she hated?

  "Yes?" Felix asked. "You'll stay?"

  She stood up, brushed crumbs off her dress, and nodded yes. She'd stay. It was the least worse out of all the wretched options she had. "Let's not talk about it anymore tonight though," she said. "We're together right now. That's all that matters."

  Felix stood up and leaned forward into her arms, and she suddenly understood how difficult this was for him too. They held one another for a while, then headed to the balcony.

  Katya leaned against the railing, and Felix put his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder. Her apartment was on the third floor, and the sun was hidden behind the buildings surrounding her balcony. There was a nice view of the wide avenue in both directions, and Katya liked to spend hours just watching the people and cars go up and down the street.