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

by JV Love

  Guzman shuffled his way slowly down the hallway of his apartment, keeping close to the wall and coughing every few feet. When he reached the door, he turned and shouted, "Vanya!"

  Petya was puzzled. "What did you say, Guzman?"

  "Vanya, please don't forget to feed my parakeet while I'm gone. Promise me you won't forget."

  Petya thought he might be joking again, but Guzman's hollow stare said otherwise. The old man was losing his mind. That was something Petya could sympathize with. "I won't forget," Petya said. "I promise."

  "Thank you, Vanya. Thank you. I know I can count on you," Guzman said and continued on his way to Katya's apartment.

  Petya collected Guzman's boots and another blanket he found in the closet and took them over to Katya's apartment. Guzman was laying on the couch there, still mumbling incoherently. "We'll meet again one day, Marfusha. I promise," he said. "Life is so very long and we're so very young. Vanya! Let's not be late this time. Have them get the sleigh ready."

  Igor was curled up in a thick, cushioned chair on the other side of the room. "Who's he talking to?" he asked Petya.

  "Ghosts," Petya said, and went back to Guzman's apartment to gather the firewood. Before he did that though, he went into Guzman's kitchen to see if he had any food he'd overlooked or forgotten about. Nearly every drawer and cupboard Petya opened was completely empty, and he wondered where all of Guzman's plates and bowls and silverware had gone. Perhaps he'd sold them at the market, Petya thought.

  In the last cupboard he checked, Petya found a little glass container with something black in it. He pulled it out, took the lid off, and was surprised to see that it was black tea. There wasn't much - perhaps enough for three or four cups - but it was a godsend nonetheless. Petya hadn't had tea in a month and missed that almost more than food.

  After he took the firewood over to Katya's, he decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet of Guzman's apartment and the still hot fire in his ceramic stove to try to write. He boiled some water to make tea with, then cleared a space on Guzman's piano, turned the bench upright, and sat down with pen and paper.

  Despite the slow, daily starvation, Petya continued to attempt to write. He was convinced that great works of art were often created when the artist was suffering. The more the suffering, the greater the work of art would be. Nothing else mattered to him besides his novel. If only he could complete his masterpiece, then he'd show them. Then everyone would know how great he was. They'd be sorry they ever doubted him.

  He picked out one of Guzman's books and tossed it in the fire, then held his frigid hands over the top of the stove. Transporting Guzman's things to Katya's apartment had been exhausting. He had so little energy these days and was always, always cold and hungry.

  After a few minutes, he sat back down, hoping inspiration would strike. His mind was dull from the lack of food, but he had no shortage of thoughts. Hundreds of them came and went every minute. Unfortunately, he didn't find any of them interesting enough to expend his precious ink and paper on.

  Petya believed he was destined to write something very profound - a novel that had an impact on society, that made people question their closely-held beliefs, values, and ingrained habits. This was his destiny, and all the suffering he'd accumulated in his life, including the immensity he was now enduring, was but preparation for this work of genius. All the pain and sorrow in his life was for educational purposes only, so that he might know that aspect of life that so tortured humanity. He needed to have a full comprehension of it if he was to have a chance at educating anyone. His suffering was the compost from which a new understanding would bloom for him. And then he could let others in on that profound understanding.

  He had faith that the particular path he was on would eventually get him to that place. As long, of course, as he stayed on the right side of the ice of sanity, as long as he could differentiate real voices from the imaginary ones from his head.

  He stared at an orange pot on the windowsill as he tried to think of what to write. The pot had been home to a plant that had long since died, and he noticed the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from underneath it. Petya slid the pot over, picked up the piece of paper, and saw that it was Guzman's ration card.

  There was a knock at one of the doors on the floor, and Petya tucked the card in his pocket and went to see which door it was. In the dim light of the hallway, he saw a young man standing in front of Katya's apartment.

  "Can I help you?" Petya asked, sticking his head into the hallway. He saw the man was holding a package in his right arm.

  "I'm looking for Katerina Selenaya," the man said. "Do you know if she's home?"

  Petya walked over and unlocked the door, then held his finger in front of his lips. "Shhh, the boy is sleeping," he said. He didn't know if Igor, or Guzman for that matter, were actually sleeping, but he didn't want them to overhear. "You have a package for Katya?" Petya asked. "I can give it to her for you."

  The man pursed his thin lips and shifted the package to his other arm. "I have special instructions to give it only to Katerina Selenaya," he said. "I ask you again, comrade, is she home?"

  "No," Petya said, "she won't be home until late this evening. I am her brother. Can't you just give it to me and I'll give it to her when she returns?"

  The man licked his chapped lips as he studied Petya for a moment.

  "Surely you don't want to have to come back here again this evening," Petya said.

  "You're her brother?" he asked.

  Petya nodded. "You see," he said, pointing at the number on the apartment door, "we even live in the same apartment."

  "Then why did you just come from that other apartment?"

  "I was over there helping our neighbor," Petya said. "He's ill and not doing so well." He tried to get a look at the writing on the top of the box. "Who is the package from? Is it from our father?"

  "No, it's from a . . .." The man tilted the package toward the light coming from the apartment. "It's from a Comrade Shostakovich."

  "Ahh, it's from Dmitry," Petya exclaimed. "We've been expecting it for quite some time now. We'd nearly given up on it." Petya held out his hands and the man reluctantly handed it over. "Don't worry, comrade," Petya assured him. "I'll make sure my sister gets it."

  The man looked like he was about to say something and Petya quickly closed the door before he could do so. He listened for the man's footsteps to turn and walk down the hallway. But instead, the man knocked on the door again.

  Petya gripped the package tightly with both arms and remained quiet. After a few seconds, he heard the man mutter, "Ah, to hell with it," and walk down the hall.

  When Petya could no longer hear any footsteps, he opened the door again and went back to Guzman's apartment. His hands were shaking as he tore open the box and read the letter lying on top:

  Dear Katya,

  I made some calls as you requested and found out what happened to your father. I'm so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this. I was informed that he died of a heart attack while in Moscow.

  Such is life that all our best men are taken from us when we need them most. He will be sorely missed.

  I've pulled a few strings to send you this little package, because I worry terribly about you and Guzman getting enough to eat. Please don't give it all to Guzman. I know you, Katya. You'll need your strength too, so make sure you get enough to eat as well.

  I hope this finds you in good health and spirits. I'm sure Guzman has been telling you how things were better "in the old days." But don't listen to him. The times are rough now. There's no arguing that. But the more Russia suffers, the more her soul shines bright. It does no good to reminisce about the good old days, because there were none. Times were rough before the Germans invaded, and times were rough before the revolution. The tsar was a butcher, and the people of Russia were poor and hungry. Russia was in constant turmoil and the vast majority of people were miserable while the fat bourgeois pissed on the backs of the workers and peasa
nts. How conveniently the great Western humanists forget this!

  They'll never understand the people of Russia. They don't want to understand, because we're different than they. Our skin may be the same color, but we're nothing like them and they can't accept that. But I'm through thinking about them. Devil take them and their smug lives contemplating how they're always right!

  Sorry I've rambled on so. I've been a nervous wreck lately. I hope this letter and package get to you. It has been no small feat. I am in Kuibyshev now, and I was able to buy three cans of caviar, a bottle of vodka, and some cigarettes here. The vodka is the real thing, not that lethal stuff the peasants make and then pour into empty vodka bottles. I've included the vodka and cigarettes because I know they're in high demand there and you should be able to trade for something you really need, be it food or whatever. The caviar I leave at your discretion. You can probably trade it for more food, but if it's not worth it, then eat it yourself. These items are meant for you and Guzman equally (though I beg of you not to show him the vodka or cigarettes, for I know he'll want them. Please trade for them first). I don't know if I'll be able to get any more packages to you (assuming this one even made it), but I'll try.

  I miss my dear Leningrad. I hope she's holding up well. Take care of her for me.

  - Dmitry

  PS I've finished putting the final touches on my Seventh Symphony. I hope to have it performed soon - in honor of you brave Leningraders.

  Petya set the letter aside and dug through the wadded up newspaper in the box until he found the treasure. It was a beautiful sight: that brand new bottle of vodka, those cigarettes, and those cans of caviar. He nearly wept at the sight of them.

  * * *

  "Look at them," Yuri sneered, nodding with his head to someplace behind Felix. Felix turned and saw Dima and Misha sitting around the campfire passing a flask back and forth.

  "It's not even noon yet, and they're already drunk," Yuri said. He scowled and ran his fingers along his upper lip. "I think it's past time our leader stop tending to her rats and put an end to this." He started for Olga's tent, leaving Felix standing alone.

  The 'rats' Yuri referred to were actually five baby mice Olga had found in the woods and had taken in as pets. She spent lots of time lately feeding and caring for them.

  Felix sighed and looked up at the sky, wondering if the sun would succeed that day in its struggle to break through the thick clouds. He walked through the muddy snow toward the fire to warm his hands up. "Hey there Varilensky," Misha said, slurring a few words.

  Dima had his eyes closed and was holding his head in his hands.

  "I told you that stuff would make you go blind," Felix said to him.

  "Go to the devil," Dima replied.

  Felix poured some hot water into a tin can to make tea. "No, I think I'd rather just sit here," he said and sat down in between Dima and Misha.

  "Yes, yes, stay," Misha said, patting Felix on the shoulder. He offered Felix the flask, but Felix waved it away. Misha passed it over to Dima, who took a swig, passed it back, and then held his head in his hands once more.

  "You're just in time," Misha said to Felix. "I had an epiphany about God and was about to enlighten Dima. Now, you get to hear too." Misha paused to hiccup, then continued. "I say before you that God was, without a doubt, drunk when he created man."

  "That's not an epiphany," Felix said. "That's lunacy."

  "No, wait," Misha said. "Let me explain it to you. He'd been drinking a lot of his most recent creation - wine - and was feeling all this love and peace and joy. He was overflowing with it, and that's when he created man, in that state. He was ecstatic about it. He thought man was the best thing he'd ever created. But he sobered up later on and realized what a mistake he'd made. Man could only glimpse the state of bliss that he - God - had been in. It could never last for them. He realized how much pain and suffering they would create for themselves, and how desperate they would be to know that love, peace, and joy again, no matter how briefly."

  "So what's your point?" Felix asked.

  "My point, dear comrade, is that the only way one can know God is by attaining the same inebriated state he was in when he created us."

  "So that's why you're always getting drunk," Felix said. "So you can be one with God?"

  "You got it," Misha said, and took another sip from the flask. "I see things very clearly when I'm drunk."

  "No," Dima spoke up, "you're wrong." He took his hands away from his unshaven face and interlaced them in front of him. "God was completely sober when he created man."

  Felix was surprised to hear Dima speak on the subject of God. He usually avoided those conversations or else would try to convince others that evolution had already proved that God did not exist.

  "He knew what he was doing," Dima continued. "He knew that the odds of figuring out the path to him would be extremely difficult. He did it to make it interesting, because his previous attempts had all been too easy. He decided to triple the amount of greed and jealousy and vengeance and anger. 'Now let them find their way!' he laughed. That's how he is."

  Misha raised his eyebrows, looking puzzled. "How is he?" he asked.

  "Spiteful," Dima said.

  Nobody spoke after that. Felix poured some more hot water into his tin cup, and Misha rolled a cigarette. Dima leaned in toward the fire with his arms on his knees. He held the flask in front of him and seemed to study it. Then he took another sip and stood up. He stumbled slightly, then swayed in place for several seconds and Felix was afraid he'd fall into the fire. He started muttering to himself again, then shook his fist in the air and looked up at the sky. "Damn you, God!" he yelled.

  Misha grinned and pulled a twig out of the fire and used it to light his cigarette. Felix wanted to shake Dima by the shoulders until he snapped out of this funk he was in. But he knew that wouldn't work. He'd learned that he couldn't 'educate' people out of their doldrums. He took a sip of tea and caught a glimpse of Dima's face as Dima turned and walked toward the woods.

  Felix didn't want to believe what he'd just seen on his friend's face. He was horrified. It was 'the look.'

  He wanted to run after Dima and look in his eyes again, hoping he was wrong. But he knew he wasn't wrong. He'd just seen the same look of impending death that he'd seen on Fedushkin's and the other's faces. The thought of Dima dying before the sun of the new day was too much for him to bear. He didn't know what to do. He'd tried subtly warning people before, but that hadn't helped. He couldn't let it happen to Dima, though. He couldn't, and he wouldn't let it happen. Felix decided he would personally make sure that nothing befell his friend for the rest of the day. He stood up and scanned the area now, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Yuri came storming out of Olga's tent alone. He marched over to Misha and Felix and picked the flask up from the ground. "The party's over, you miserable drunkards," he said.

  Misha watched Yuri empty the flask's contents onto the muddy ground around the campfire. He didn't seem to care, but Dima, who had finished urinating and was coming back, looked angry. "What the hell are you doing?" he said, as he drew nearer.

  "Something that should have been done a long time ago," Yuri said. "I'm through standing around watching you two contaminate this group."

  Dima clenched his hands into fists. "Then perhaps you'd like to sit," he said, and threw a punch at Yuri's face. It hit him squarely above the left eye, and Yuri retaliated with a kick to Dima's groin that sent him wincing to the ground in pain.

  A small crowd of partisans gathered around to watch the fight, and Felix rushed in to try to put an end to it. "Stop it!" he shouted to them both, but Dima had gotten back on his feet and was already charging at Yuri. Felix used the skills he'd mastered studying the Russian martial art form, Sambo. He caught Dima as he went by and used his own force against him. Felix then slid off to the side and used his arms to push Dima down to the ground. No sooner had he done it, than he began regretting it. He needed to protect Dima from harm, not i
nflict it.

  Dima got up quickly, mud and snow stuck to his coat. Yuri moved in and threw a punch at Dima's head, but Felix quickly moved inside and used his forehead to strike Yuri on the cheek. Not only did Yuri's punch strike empty air, Felix's retaliatory head-butt left him staggering from side to side trying to maintain his balance. There was now a small cut near Yuri's eyebrow and blood trickled down the side of his face.

  "Just let it go, you two," Felix warned, but neither man seemed to listen. They charged at one another and Felix jumped in between them at the last second and was struck by two hard blows: one to the middle of the back, and another that landed on his jaw. He couldn't tell who had thrown which punch, but it didn't matter. He wrapped his right leg behind Yuri's legs, then in one swift push, sent him to the ground. Then he slipped around behind Dima and locked his arms up.

  "Let me go!" Dima screamed.

  Olga stormed through camp and pushed people to the side until she reached the melee. "What the hell is going on here?" she demanded.

  Nobody answered.

  She saw Yuri, with the trickle of blood running down the side of his face, and Dima struggling to free himself from Felix's hold. "You again, huh?" she said, looking squarely at Felix.

  A young female partisan spoke up. "No, it wasn't him," she said. "He was trying to break up the fight."

  "Silence!" Olga shouted.

  Yuri left the scene, and Felix released his hold on Dima. Felix walked a few paces away and noticed there was blood in his mouth and that one of his teeth was now loose.

  "Consider this your last warning," Olga said to Felix. "The next time you cause a ruckus, you get the shack."

  'The shack' referred to a small, crude shed that had neither plumbing nor heat. The last man to serve the standard three day, three night sentence there had died of pneumonia a week after his release.

  Olga looked at Felix, then Dima, then spat on the ground, and then looked at Felix once more. "Varilensky," she said, "you've earned yourself double-guard duty for the next week." She turned to Dima next, but only grunted and walked away.