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

by JV Love

  "And booze too," Misha added as he and Dima finally caught up. "Don't forget about that."

  Yuri finished his cigarette and flicked the butt at Misha and Dima. It bounced off Dima's coat, but he didn't even notice. A few steps later, Dima tripped and fell to the ground.

  "Leave him there," Yuri said. "Serves him right."

  Dima made it to his knees, but it looked doubtful that he would make it up to his feet.

  "Alcohol is the biggest poison man ever invented," Yuri said. "And you two fools are living proof."

  Misha went over to Dima, but then saw Felix was coming to help, so he continued walking. "What on earth possessed them to ever let you out of Siberia?" he said to Yuri.

  Felix rolled his eyes. He'd already heard this story a half dozen times.

  "They set me free to defend my country from the enemy," Yuri said and launched into his long explanation of how he'd ended up here with the partisans. Misha winked at Felix as they passed one another and Felix knew that Misha was patronizing Yuri. He did it for entertainment.

  Felix pulled Dima to his feet, then put his arm around him and helped him walk. They were quiet for a time until Felix turned his head toward Dima and said, "You can't go on like this, you know. You're killing yourself. You're going to go blind drinking that concoction the old man makes."

  "So what if I'm killing myself," Dima said, slurring the words. "What's it to you?"

  "You're my friend, and I want to help you in some way," Felix said, then paused. "But I don't know what to do."

  "You can leave me the hell alone," Dima said. "That's what you can do."

  "No," Felix said, "that's the one thing I can't do. I can't just stand by and watch you drown yourself. We're too young for that. You may have given up on yourself, but I haven't."

  "Who said I gave up?" Dima said. "Just because Misha and I drink a little bit to keep warm, you think I've given up?"

  Felix was pleased that Dima was even talking to him. His previous attempts at conversation had been complete failures. He tried provoking him into continuing. "Hell yes, you've given up," he said. "Look at you. You're a drunk. You can't even walk by yourself."

  Dima pulled away from Felix and began walking on his own, staggering from side to side, but managing to stay on his feet.

  "You think you're so fucking perfect, don't you?" Dima said.

  Felix didn't want the conversation to switch to him. "I'm not perfect," he said, "but at least I'm not a drunk. At least I don't deny what's bothering me. I face it head on, rather than trying to drown it with liquor."

  "I don't do that," Dima said. "I'm just trying to . . .. I mean I just want to . . .. Oh just leave me alone, will you!" He marched out in front of everyone, stumbling as he did so, just barely managing to maintain his balance.

  Felix tripped on something beneath the snow and stumbled a few steps himself, until he caught hold of a tree that prevented him from falling. Felix patted the tree's trunk and said thank you. He was impressed with how solid the tree was and wished for some of that solidity himself to guide him through these difficult days.

  He caught up to Yuri and Misha in time to hear Yuri talking about the Panzers breaking through their lines. Felix knew that the part about the Panzers meant he was approaching the end of his story.

  "We simply weren't prepared to fight against tanks," Yuri said. "Our entire regiment was in complete chaos only thirty minutes into battle . . . if you can call it a battle that is. I don't think we inflicted a single casualty on them. Anyway, after we were encircled, all the men wanted to surrender, but I wouldn't do it. I said they could be cowards if they wanted to, but I wasn't going to. I told them I was an honest man and took an oath to protect my country. I was going to make sure I lived to fight another day! I left them and made it past the German lines by going through a minefield and wading through a swamp."

  Felix knew there was still another ten minutes to the story - painfully boring details about how he made it through the minefield and swamp - so he tried to cut the story short. "So that's how you ended up as a partisan?" he said.

  "Yep, that's how it happened," Yuri said, puffing his chest out like he always did at the end of the story. "Been fighting those bastards behind the lines ever since."

  They came to the now familiar village of Lestovo with its two dozen small clay houses and stone church that had been turned into a horse stable by the communists. Felix had already learned about the precarious life of those in small villages like Lestovo, and how difficult it was for the partisans to know who to trust. When the partisans weren't there asking for something, then the Nazis were there plundering the villagers' meager possessions and threatening their lives over information on the partisans.

  "Weren't there some goats there when we came this way last week?" Misha asked, pointing at a small, empty pen.

  "Yes, I remember them too," Felix said. "The Germans probably took them."

  The village used to full of cows, pigs, chickens, and goats, but every time a group of Germans came through, they helped themselves to some livestock. Fortunately, the villagers had enough potatoes, cabbage, beets, and canned raspberries and tomatoes stored away in various hiding places to get them through the winter. They even had enough food to sometimes give to the partisans.

  "The Nazis are such fools to treat the villagers so badly," Misha said.

  "I agree," Felix said. "For all their sophistication and organization and Blitzkrieg, they're clueless about how to make friends out of former enemies. It's like their invasion plans covered every single detail, except what to do once they won."

  "They haven't won yet," Yuri said.

  "I know," Felix replied. "And they're not going to either."

  They all stopped and looked at a crude wooden cross marking a new grave. A bouquet of dried flowers rested on top of the freshly dug dirt.

  "The worse they treat the villagers, the more our numbers grow," Yuri said, looking at Felix. "I'm glad they're so brutal with them. People are getting a glimpse into what life under their rule would be like."

  Felix studied Yuri's face for signs of 'the look,' as he now called it. Felix had seen it three more times since he first saw it on Fedushkin's face. And each time, the man had died before the sun rose the next day. One time the man died a few minutes after Felix saw it on his face - he had tried, unsuccessfully, to defuse a landmine. The other two times, the men had died much later after Felix saw it, but without exception each man died before the sun of the new day.

  Why he, and he alone, saw these things made no sense to Felix. When he least expected it - as he was casually talking to someone or happened to glance at them as they passed by - he would see an unmistakable look on their face that told him that person was going to die soon. It had become as clear to him now as if the word "death" was scrawled onto their forehead.

  Seeing nothing on Yuri's face, Felix breathed a sigh of relief and looked away. The villagers were gathering in front of one of the houses up ahead, and when they got closer, Felix could see that Olga had ordered one of the villagers to be taken into custody. The man's wife, who wore a thin, white apron and had been peeling potatoes on their porch watched as two partisans held her husband by the arms.

  The crowd grew larger by the minute. Men in tattered old coats like the partisans wore, women with scarves wrapped around their heads, and half a dozen children with frightened faces listened in as Olga preached her sermon to them. "The Nazis have started a war of extermination!" she shouted. "They want to destroy Russia - to annihilate us from the face of the planet. The only way to survive is if we all fight them to the death. And here," she said, pointing to the man in custody, "is a traitor, who, instead of fighting the Nazis, has chosen to help them destroy us."

  "Vladimir, what did you do?" one of the men in the crowd asked.

  "I'll tell you what he did," Olga responded. "He told the Germans where the farm machinery was hidden."

  Felix and the others were now standing a few yards away from Olga. They
watched as Vladimir, a bony man with long arms that hung nearly to his knees, hung his head, indicating that the accusation to be true.

  "We have no choice but to win this war against the fascist aggressors," Olga said. She signaled to Yuri, and he stepped forward and aimed his rifle at the man. "And this is what happens to German collaborators. Let this be a lesson to everyone."

  Olga nodded to Yuri, but Felix laid his hand on the barrel of Yuri's rifle and he did not shoot.

  Felix didn't want to speak up. Unbeknownst to the people who knew him, he actually hated confrontations. They tied his stomach in knots and set his heart racing. But he didn't let that stop him. It was more important to him how he felt after the event, than during. And if he wasn't honest, if he didn't speak up about something when he had the opportunity, then he would feel terrible afterwards. His neck and shoulders would be tight and he'd be filled with regret. No, he couldn't stand by and watch this. "Give him a chance to redeem himself," he shouted.

  The villagers all turned to look at him.

  "There's no room for compromise," Olga said, her face contorted with barely concealed rage. "The only way we'll smash the Nazis is with an iron fist."

  Felix felt the familiar tension come over his body. He felt slightly nauseous and noticed his jaw was clenched tightly. He took a deep breath and continued. "Give him a second chance," he said, addressing the villagers. "He's made a mistake - as we all do. Give him an opportunity to make up for it. We could use him as a double agent and set a trap for the Germans."

  "There are no second chances in this war," Olga shouted. She looked squarely at Yuri and said, "I order you to shoot."

  "There are always second chances," Felix said. He put his hand on Yuri's shoulder. "This man was in a Soviet prison not long ago for crimes against the state. He was given a second chance, and here he is - defending his country, fighting the Nazis behind the lines every day."

  A few of the villagers nodded their heads. "And if he betrays us again?" one of the them said. "What then?"

  Another villager answered him. "If he betrays us again," he said, "we'll carry out justice ourselves - the old fashioned way, with a rope and a tree."

  "Yes, he's not going anywhere," Vladimir's wife said. "Give him a second chance."

  The crowd looked to Vladimir. "The Germans offered me money to tell them," he said, raising his weathered face to look back at the crowd. "But I wouldn't do it. Then they threatened to burn down our house, and I didn't know what to do. Where would we live? How would we make it through the winter without a house?" He looked expectantly at the faces of his neighbors. "If you give me another chance, I will make up for it."

  The partisans and villagers all turned toward Olga now. She pulled her hat from her head, spat on the ground, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Of course, we'll give you another chance, comrade," she said. Then she motioned for the two men holding his arms to let go. "And if the Germans burn your village down because of this traitor," she said, addressing the crowd, "you will have Comrade Varilensky here to thank." She smiled sarcastically at Felix, and the rapidly fading sunlight glinted off her gold tooth.

  Felix felt relieved that the confrontation was over. No doubt Olga hated him, but he couldn't let that stop him from being who he was. He answered to no one but his own guiding conscience - that voice inside him that saw everything clearly.

  "Let's move out!" Olga hollered, and the motley group of partisans started heading back to camp. Olga waited for Felix, then pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you kike?"

  "What I think," Felix said, ripping his arm away from her, "is that we're all in this together - you, me, the villagers . . . everyone. And we're not going to win this war until we start acting like it."

  "I've brought down many a man smarter than you," she continued. "Be happy with your little victory here today, because it was your first and your last."

  The partisans trudged the mile and a half to their camp in silence. The clouds had dispersed and Felix could see the thin moon low in the sky. He remembered reading that where the sun did not strike the moon's surface, the temperature would fall to -261 degrees fahrenheit. That made the 31 degrees he had to endure on earth a little easier.

  Yuri told him that in the village he grew up in, they called it a Blood Moon during the month of October. Felix thought it appropriate given the number of lives being lost across Russia recently. He'd heard earlier that day that Kiev had fallen. It was rumored that as many as 600,000 Red Army troops had been taken prisoner there. Kiev, in Felix's native Ukraine, was the mother of all Russian cities and Felix could hardly believe the news that they'd surrendered.

  The whole world was watching Leningrad now. If the city couldn't hold out, then Hitler would move all the troops stationed there on to Moscow. And with Moscow barely holding on as it was, a couple hundred thousand extra German troops would surely tip the balance. And if Moscow fell, then all of Russia would likely fall. Hitler could then focus on Great Britain, and how long could they hold out? At best, the war would end in stalemate, except now all of Europe and Russia would be under Nazi rule.

  Felix contemplated the moon once again. Only a small sliver of it could be seen, as though it had shrunk and would soon be extinguished. But the entire moon was still there, Felix knew. Even when one couldn't see any trace of it, it was still there. It was a matter of faith.

  * * *

  "Guzman!" Petya shouted and banged on the door again. "Open up. It's me, Petya. Are you there?"

  Petya waited a few seconds, then kicked the bottom of the door. He was cold and hungry and didn't like having to stand in the hallway any longer than he had to. "Guzman, we're all moving into Katya's apartment today. I've come to help you. Open the door."

  Katya had invited everyone on the floor - Petya, Oksana, and Guzman - to move into her apartment so they could conserve their scarce firewood. Katya's apartment was also the only one on the floor that still had windows. All the rest had sheets of plywood and were as dark as night no matter if the sun was shining or not.

  No one would be expected to share their food, but they would at least be available to help one another out. Katya was particularly worried about Guzman, who seemed to move slower and speak less each day. Oksana and Petya's roommate, Boris, hadn't been heard from in a month, and Oksana speculated he was either dead or had found a way out of the city to rejoin his wife and daughter. Petya had already searched Boris' room for food, tea, vodka, or cigarettes, and had come up empty.

  "Guzman! I'm going to leave if you don't open up," Petya said and kicked the bottom of the door one last time. He knew Guzman was there. The old man was too weak to go anywhere. Petya was starting to wonder if he might be dead when he heard some shuffling and a few weak coughs that told him the old painter was finally coming to let him in.

  "I've been knocking on your door for five minutes," Petya said as Guzman opened the door.

  Guzman was covered from head to toe in dark blankets. He said nothing in response. His face was pale and ghostly.

  Petya felt awkward being so close to someone who was so near death. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  "Like a sprinn chiign," Guzman mumbled.

  "Like a what?" Petya said and turned his ear toward him.

  "Like a spring chicken," Guzman repeated.

  It took Petya a second, but he realized the old man was making a joke. He laughed, then added, "Yeah, like a spring chicken in a wolf's den."

  Guzman managed a weak smile.

  "What do you need to take to Katya's?" Petya asked, looking around his cluttered apartment. It was obvious Shostakovich hadn't been there in a while to play the piano. It was covered with newspapers and dirty clothes and the bench was lying on its side.

  "My pillow and sheets and blankets," Guzman said. His breathing was heavy and labored and he leaned against the wall for support. The hair from his long arching nose had started to blend into his newly grown beard. His lips couldn't
even be seen behind the curly black and gray hair that now covered his face.

  "And my hat and coat," Guzman added.

  Petya thought to argue with him about that. The next time Guzman went outside would be when they took his body to the cemetery. There was no way he was going to make it down those stairs and then back up again in his condition. His health had gone far downhill in the past two weeks.

  The apartment smelled like urine and Petya traced it to a bedpan in the bedroom. He emptied the bowl out the window, as everyone did these days, then collected the items Guzman wanted and took them over to Katya's apartment. When he returned, Guzman was still standing in the same place. He was staring at an oil-on-canvas painting hanging on the wall opposite him. "I painted that when I was twenty-seven," he said.

  Petya looked at the painting, but wasn't sure what to say about it. It was the Winter Palace, though all the colors were very dark - the sky was almost black, and the palace itself wasn't much brighter.

  "Isn't it the ugliest thing you ever saw?" Guzman said.

  Petya looked at Guzman, saw the slight smirk on his face, then laughed himself. "Actually, it is the ugliest painting I've ever seen."

  "Good. Good. There's hope for you yet, my boy," Guzman said and patted Petya on the shoulder.

  "Do you want to take it over to Katya's?" Petya asked.

  "No. It's better left here - where it's always been."

  "What else do you want me to take over?"

  Guzman scratched his chin and looked around the apartment. "My boots," he said. "I'll need those."

  "What about food?" Petya asked. "Do you want me to bring that? Or do you want to get it yourself?"

  "Food?" Guzman said. "What's that?"

  Petya laughed again, but he wasn't sure whether or not to believe him. "Okay then," Petya said, "why don't you make your way over there, and I'll get your boots and gather up your firewood."