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

by JV Love

  Felix couldn't tell if he'd be able to get off a shot from the bomb crater Dima had pointed to. If he couldn't, he'd be a sitting duck once they saw him. There was little cover there and nothing to run to. The plan seemed so desperate to Felix. Either one of them, or maybe even both, might be killed before they even got close.

  Dima crept to the edge of the wall and prepared to run. "Varilensky!" he shouted. Felix turned. "Make them count. There's only two bullets left in that gun." Then Dima dashed into the open and the machine gun followed him. Little clouds of dust rose from the ground all around him.

  Felix took off running for the crater, and though it seemed like an eternity, made it there in just a few seconds. He looked through the scope and saw immediately that he didn't have the angle to get a shot off. He'd have to move further to his right, but there was absolutely no cover there. When he got up and started running, another German soldier arrived at the machine gunner's side. He was carrying more ammunition for the machine gun. When he saw Felix, he alerted the machine gunner, and Felix knew he had only a second or two before the machine gun swung around and started spitting its poison at him. He found the machine gunner's head in the center of the scope, aimed for the man's nose, and fired. The bullet went high and hit the man's helmet just above the eyes. The man was stunned for a second, but then quickly finished swinging the gun around and started spraying the ground around Felix with bullets. Felix took aim again. He knew he had to hit the man with this shot. His life depended on it.

  He blocked everything out, carefully aimed two inches lower than last time, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet smashed through the man's right cheek and he slumped forward.

  The other soldier immediately started pulling the dead man away from the gun so he could fire it. Felix was out of bullets and had no choice but to try running back to the schoolhouse. He doubted he could make it in time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone running straight at the machine gun. It was Dima. He had a grenade in his hand and when he was close enough, he lofted it high in the air and then dove to the ground. The grenade landed just behind the machine gun's nest and exploded. The German soldier crumpled into the sandbags just as he fired his first round.

  Dima jumped to his feet and ran up to the machine gun. He fired an additional bullet into each of the fallen Germans, then picked up a rifle and some ammo, and ran over to Felix. "Here," he said, handing the rifle to Felix, "those German guns seem to suit you."

  At first, Felix thought Dima's remark a provocation, but then he saw him wink.

  "Let's get the others and move out," Dima said.

  They ran toward the trench and when they were within shouting distance, Dima yelled, "Comrades! Let's go!"

  Nobody responded.

  "Fedushkin! Ivanovich! Let's go!" Dima repeated.

  Still no response.

  They ran to the trench and jumped in. Felix expected them all to be gone or dead, but they were still there. They sat in the same position as when he'd left, staring blankly ahead.

  "Come on, men! For the Motherland! For Leningrad!" Dima shouted.

  Two of the men started to move, but the others remained motionless. Dima withdrew his pistol and pointed it at them. "Cowardice is no different than treason," he said. "Those of you wishing to remain here will be joining Kazinsky in permanent slumber."

  The men still hesitated, and Felix thought Dima had erred by threatening them with eternal sleep. That probably sounded quite appealing to most of them.

  "Listen!" Felix said to the men. "You're exhausted. You want some rest and water and food." A mortar whistled over their heads and exploded 50 yards behind them, sending mounds of dirt flying into the air. "You didn't ask for any of this. You don't want to be here. But we are not going to die in this miserable trench from a German shell launched a mile away." Felix had to shout to be heard above the din of battle. "If we are to die today," he continued, "then let our deaths have meaning! Let us die defending our wives, our children, our parents." Every man had now turned their head to look at Felix. He went down the line, looking them each in the eye as he said, "We don't fight for the generals. Or for the Party. We fight for ourselves and our family, for our right to exist!"

  There was a pause while his words sunk in, then one by one, the men slowly picked up their rifles and tumbled out of the trench. Dima was out in front, leading the charge, but the men stayed close to Felix. There were no shouts of "hurrah."

  In three hours of heavy fighting, the combined Soviet offensive drove the Germans from their second line of trenches. For Dima's men, the price of this success was steep. Of the forty men under his command at the start of the offensive, only eighteen now remained. The fighting had been like that of 1916: inch by inch, trench by trench. With very little ammo, Dima and his men had to work their way in close to the German lines, fasten their bayonets, then charge. The ensuing hand-to-hand combat was bloody and intense.

  Now, Felix and the others were in a large warehouse that the Germans had occupied only a short time ago. There were cigarette butts, tin cans with German labels, and pages from a German newspaper scattered across the floor. It was mid-afternoon and most of the eighteen men remaining were sprawled out on the bare floor catching an hour of sleep.

  Felix and Dima were about to begin their shift as lookouts on the roof. Dima was lamenting their ammo situation once again. Each man had an average of nine bullets left. Felix had more bullets than any of them since he was still using a German rifle. Another crate of ammo and grenades, as well as additional troops had been promised, but they were to have been there over two hours ago.

  Felix felt frustrated with the lack of organization and resources. "If we don't get that ammo soon, we have to pull back," he said. "It's only a matter of time before the Nazis rearm and bring in some reinforcements."

  There were several crates of mineral water stacked up next to them, and Dima was looking through them checking for an unopened bottle. "We're not going anywhere," he replied casually.

  "Are we to fight the Germans and their tanks with our bare hands?" Felix asked sarcastically.

  In the last crate, Dima found one glass bottle that still had some water in it. It had clearly already been opened, but Dima poured its contents into his canteen anyway. He pulled one of the crates toward the wall, sat down on it, and lit a cigarette. "Don't you understand, Varilensky? We can't let them rest. We can't let them plan, strategize, and regroup. We have to fight them with everything we have right here, right now, or else we're finished. By going on the offensive, we've tricked them into thinking we're stronger than we are. We can't let them know we're hanging on by a thread. Every battle counts now, no matter how big or small. We've got to hold on one hour at a time. We've got to destroy their tanks one at a time, and kill each fascist one by one. There's no other way." Dima took a long drag on his cigarette. "Every platoon's in the same shape we are. I know it's bleak, but I would rather die than see the Nazis take Leningrad. Do you understand that?"

  "I do understand that," Felix said. "I want to beat the Germans just as much as you. We only disagree on how to go about it. Sacrificing ourselves isn't going to defeat the enemy or make Leningrad any safer. Heroes and martyrs don't win wars; only those who stay alive win wars. The smarter one - the more cunning one - stands the better chance of coming out the victor. It's not glamorous, but that's how you win."

  "Well, when you're in charge one day, you can decide on the best way to go about it. For now, I'm in charge, and we're staying here." Dima exhaled a cloud of smoke, then started walking away. "Come on. Let's get up to the roof."

  They climbed up and relieved Fedushkin and Ivanovich. The roof was flat, with a three-foot wall running all the way around it. Dima used his binoculars to pan back and forth where the Germans used to be. "I know you're there," he said. "Where are you?"

  "What do you suppose they're doing?" Felix asked.

  "I wish I knew," Dima said. "I can't see them anywhere now. We used to be able to see them just over tha
t long, rolling hill. But they seemed to have disappeared."

  They had an excellent vantage point and could see nearly a mile in front and behind. There were no buildings or trees nearby blocking their view. In fact, the only object around besides the warehouse was a bombed-out Soviet army truck that sat dejectedly fifty yards away.

  Gunfire and explosions continued to echo in the distance. Felix had gotten used to it now and actually found it comforting. Only when it stopped and silence took over did he get nervous.

  Felix took his rifle from his shoulder and wiped both ends of the scope. After the first rifle Dima had given him ran out of bullets, Felix took the scope off and mounted it on this new one. He used the scope now to check on the other Soviet forces next to them. Dima's platoon had been part of a broad offensive and had moved up to this location with the help of other, better equipped regiments. Felix couldn't see any of them now and wondered if their platoon was out here all alone.

  When he looked farther over to the right, he was shocked to see a dozen blurry vehicles moving across the horizon. He squinted and saw they were tanks - surprising, since Soviet tanks were in terribly short supply. He steadied his arm and focused again and saw a black and white Death's Head emblem on the side of one of the tanks. He could hardly believe it. Something told him to turn and look in the other direction, and when he did, he saw the same thing, German tanks pushing their way past the Russian lines. They were using their favorite means of encirclement - the pincer movement.

  "Look over there!" Felix shouted to Dima.

  Dima looked to the right with his binoculars.

  "And they're on the other side as well," Felix said.

  Dima took his time, slowly turning to the left, then focusing his binoculars in that direction as well.

  "I don't see any of our comrades. They must have fallen back already," Felix said. "We need to get moving ourselves. We don't have much time."

  Dima lit another cigarette. "We're not going anywhere," he said, and sat down on the short wall running around the roof.

  Felix's ears turned bright red. "We have no ammo!" he yelled.

  "Doesn't matter. We're not retreating," Dima said. He tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air. "We're going to stand our ground."

  "Damn you!" Felix said. "Either we retreat or this warehouse will be our grave."

  "This warehouse," Dima said, scratching his chin, "is just as good a place as anywhere else to die." He looked Felix in the eyes, then added sarcastically, "Perhaps our deaths will have meaning here."

  The rest of Felix's face turned beet red and he clenched his fists. In a fury, he stepped toward Dima and swung at his face. Dima had no chance to get out of the way, and the punch hit him squarely in the jaw. His head snapped back, and then he wiped blood from his bottom lip with the back of his hand. "That's good," he said. "That is what we need to win this war - a little more hate and fear, and a little less desire to understand." Dima said the last word with contempt.

  "Consider this your final warning," he added. "Any further insubordination - I don't care how small - and you'll find yourself in front of a firing squad." He spit off to his side and a bloody tooth fell out and bounced on the roof. "Even," he said, "if I'm the only man left to do it."

  Word of impending doom spread quickly among the men, and they began to curse Dima openly when he wasn't around. A tall Siberian led the accusations against their commander. "Who is he to decide we should all die like rats?" he asked. "Why should we be sacrificed to appease a madman's ego?" When some of the men nodded their heads in agreement, he became even bolder. "We need a change of command!" he roared, clenching his fist and driving it into his other hand. "The Lieutenant isn't going to stop until each and every one of us is dead!"

  Mutiny seemed imminent as nearly all of the men murmured their agreement. Felix, who had been trying to rest, now gave up on that idea and listened to the conversation swirling around him.

  "Comrade," someone said to the tall Siberian, "you should keep your voice down. Sound travels a long way in a warehouse."

  "I don't care if he hears me!" he shot back. "He's threatened me for the last time. I'm leaving. If he tries to stop me, he'll get a bullet in the face."

  "What do you mean, you're leaving?" someone asked him.

  Felix watched as the man began stuffing items into his pack. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his face would sometimes become blank as though he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing.

  He looked puzzled for a second, like he didn't understand the question, but then quickly regained his senses. "I'm getting out of here. That's what I mean. I'm going back to our side of the line," he said. "If any of you have half a brain, you'll come with me." He stood up, towering over the men near him, and slung his rifle over his shoulder.

  "I'm going too," someone said.

  "Me too," another said.

  Felix saw several men start to pack their things and get ready to leave. He sat up and faced them. "Comrades, don't be foolish," he began. "We have to stay together. It's the only way we have a chance."

  "How about you take over?" An unusually quiet and reserved man turned to Felix. "I trust you," he said. "I don't trust the Lieutenant."

  A few other men echoed the man's sentiment.

  "Dima is the commander," Felix responded without hesitation. "We follow him."

  "But he's lost his senses," the man countered. "We could easily arrange for the Lieutenant to have a little accident and for you to take over command. I'd stay then. If not, I'm leaving too. I won't sacrifice myself."

  "Neither a mutiny nor a sacrifice will accomplish anything," Felix said. "Staying here is not a sacrifice. It's the best chance there is of getting out of this alive. We're already surrounded, and it's certainly safer here than in the wide open space out there. Our forces might repel the Germans. The reinforcements and ammo might still arrive. Any number of things could happen. We just need to stay put until things play out more. If we can hold on until nightfall, we might sneak back then, but to go out now in broad daylight is suicide!"

  "Staying here is suicide! At least we have a chance out there," the tall one retorted. "It'll be too late if we wait until nightfall. We have to go now!" He went to the door and opened it. Bright yellow sunlight streamed into the warehouse, and the ever present din of battle grew louder. "We're sitting ducks here. Now, who's with me?"

  At first, no one moved. Then one man walked to the door, then another, and then several more. Ten men in all had gathered around the door when footsteps echoed through the large chamber. Everyone turned and watched as Dima strode toward them from the other end of the warehouse. No one moved or spoke. The men standing near the doorway gripped their rifles tighter and fixed their eyes on their emerging commander.

  "Comrades," Dima said calmly, "could you tell me what's going on here?"

  The tall one closed the door and stepped forward. "We . . . We're . . ." he stuttered. "We're geaving." Then he cleared his throat and pronounced it correctly, "We're leaving."

  "Is that so?" Dima said, looking genuinely astonished, though Felix knew it was an act.

  "Yes," the tall one said, "and you're not going to stop us."

  "Well, you're all smart men," Dima said. "I'm sure you've thought this over and are aware of the risks. You've no doubt already figured out how you're going to get past a few thousand Nazi soldiers, and how you're going to make it to the Soviet lines without your own comrades shooting at you. And I'm sure you've already rehearsed the story you'll tell the commissars explaining why you're falling back toward the city you've sworn to defend."

  The men near the door exchanged nervous glances with one another.

  "What an interesting conversation that will be," Dima added.

  "We'll tell them the truth," the tall one said, "that our commander went out of his mind."

  "So you'll tell them that your commander - following his superior's orders - ordered you not to retreat, not to cede an inch of ground to t
he enemy?" Dima asked.

  Felix watched the men shrink before his very eyes. Their necks twisted one way to look at Dima and then the other way to look at the tall one. The tall one had nothing to say.

  Dima looked at the men who were not standing by the door and addressed them. "We have lots of work to do," he said. "The first thing I want us to do is strengthen our firing points." He stopped and looked back to the men near the door. "You might as well be on your way," he said.

  The men stood motionless until the tall one opened the door once again. "Davai," - let's go - he said. "Who cares what the Lieutenant says anyway. He'll be dead soon . . . dead and rotting along with everyone else who stays here."

  "Or," Dima said loudly, "if any of you have changed your minds about this treason to your country, you are welcome to stay and fight with us. And if we perchance die, we die with glory and honor, instead of shame and cowardice. But mark my words, once you step through that door, you will have become traitors, enemies of the people."

  "It's better than certain death!" the tall one yelled and walked out the door. Five more followed him, including Fedushkin. Four remained inside.

  Felix looked at the small group standing outside the doorway. Their faces were dusty and pale. Most of them stared at the ground or some other direction rather than into the warehouse. Besides the tall one, only Fedushkin looked back at Dima and his comrades who were staying. That Fedushkin was leaving surprised Felix and he studied his face for a clue why. But rather than a clue, Felix got a strange premonition that Fedushkin was going to die that day. The feeling made no sense to him. He had nothing to base it on. Each of them had absurdly high odds of dying on any given day at any given hour. Yet Felix couldn't shake the sense that Fedushkin would not live to see tomorrow. He found the whole incident disturbing and made a conscious attempt from that point on not to look closely at anyone else's face.