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

by JV Love

  The German on the left spoke again, saying in badly broken Russian, "Soviet soldier, surrender."

  Deciding he had little choice, Dima raised his hands above his head and said in Russian, "I surrender. I surrender."

  * * *

  "Coming, coming," Petya sang as he hurried down the hallway to answer the door. "Who is it?" he asked cheerfully. He expected Katya to answer. Today was her birthday and he'd invited her over for a celebratory dinner. He'd decided to host it in his room in his old apartment so they would have some privacy.

  "It's Igor," came the response. Petya's good mood, enhanced by a shot of vodka and the anticipation of spending time with Katya, was immediately in peril.

  He opened the door and looked down at Igor's grimy face. He was sure the boy hadn't taken a bath in at least a month and a half now. "She's not coming over, is she?" Petya asked with an air of resignation.

  Igor furled his eyebrows and stuck his bottom lip out. "Who's not coming over?"

  "Katya."

  "How should I know if she's coming over?" Igor said. "She ain't home yet."

  "What do you mean she's not home yet? She told me she'd be home by now. She explicitly said she'd be home by 7:30." Petya heard a squeaky drawer open and close and looked down the hallway at Katya's apartment. "You little devil," he said to Igor. "She's there. You're just playing games with me."

  "No, that's Oksana," Igor said.

  Petya scratched the back of his neck, then held his hand to his cheek in thought. "Well, then what do you want?" he asked irritably.

  "Oksana says she knows we killed her cat, and . . ."

  "Shh!" Petya pulled Igor inside his apartment. "Not so loud," he said. He listened for more noises coming from Katya's apartment. "You never mind what that crazy old bitch says," he whispered to Igor. "She can't prove anything."

  Petya had pulled Igor close to him, and Igor bent his neck back to look Petya in the face. "But she . . .," he started to say before he was cut off.

  "I said," Petya reminded him, "to keep your voice down."

  "She says she knows ways of getting even," Igor said, still a notch or two above a whisper, "and that I'm not going to like it. She said if I tell her what I know that I won't get in trouble - that only you will."

  Petya wrapped his fists around Igor's blankets and pulled him to within a few inches of his face. "You rat on me," he said, "and you'll be sorry. You better just keep your mouth shut." He heard someone coming up the stairs and let go of Igor.

  Petya tried to recognize who was coming by their footsteps, but he couldn't do it. Everyone went up and down the stairs so slowly and carefully now that he couldn't differentiate them from one another. When the person got to the third floor, Petya leaned out his doorway and saw by the dim light that it was Katya. "Good evening, Katya," he called out. "Are you ready for your birthday surprise?"

  "Hi Petya," she said. "Yes, I'm very excited. I was thinking about it the whole trip home." She walked to her apartment door, then squinted down the hallway at Petya. "Oh my, you look so nice. I can't come over wearing this. Let me change my clothes," she said as she walked into her apartment, "then I'll be right over."

  Petya patted Igor on the head and pushed him out into the hall. "Don't worry, we'll be fine," he said. "We just need to stick together. Okay?" He winked at the boy, closed the door and went back to his room.

  He combed his hair again and rehearsed the evening in his head one last time. He knew this was his best chance of getting to Katya and had spent the entire day planning everything. Rubbing the last few drops of his cologne onto his face and neck, he double checked that everything was ready and in place. As he was smoothing out the wrinkles in his bedspread, he heard Katya's knock at the apartment door.

  He went to the mirror and plucked a stray hair from his right eyebrow, then brushed some lint off his sweater. He whistled as he walked on air to the front door. After he invited Katya in, he bowed, took her hand, pressed his lips to it and said, "Bon jour, mademoiselle."

  She smiled. "Oh, you Frenchmen are so debonair," she said and laughed. She was wearing a black sweater with knitted red and yellow flowers on the front and tiny blue ones on the sleeves. She'd been letting her hair grow longer of late, and it now reached the middle of her neck. Two earrings with hanging red and blue stones dangled from her ears. But more than anything, Petya's attention was drawn to her long black eyelashes and chestnut-brown eyes. He could look into those eyes forever and never get bored.

  He showed her to his room, then closed the door behind them.

  "Oh my, it's warm in here," Katya said. "That's nice. I'd almost forgotten what heat feels like."

  Petya had taken the stove from Guzman's apartment and had also chopped up several picture frames to use as firewood. "Yes, well that's the first of many pleasant surprises," he said. He invited her to take a seat on the edge of his bed (since he had no chairs, it was the only place one could sit in his room), then Petya unveiled a bottle and two small glasses. He poured two shots of vodka, then handed one to Katya.

  Katya sniffed the contents of the glass. "Wow. Real vodka?" she said, her eyes open wide. "I could probably get drunk just from smelling it. I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast."

  Petya held his glass up. "Happy birthday," he said. "May you live a long and healthy life, and may all your wishes come true."

  "To good friends," Katya said and clinked his glass.

  Petya grimaced slightly at the word friend. He knew that's how Katya thought of him, but he was out to change that tonight.

  They downed the shot in Russian fashion in one gulp, and each gasped a little at the end.

  "You are definitely full of surprises," Katya said. "If there's one thing I appreciate in people, it's unpredictability. It's boring to always know what's going to happen. I like not knowing. It's more fun that way."

  "Well then, on that note, close your eyes and get ready for your next surprise."

  Petya had prepared a tray beforehand. On a small silver platter he'd found in Guzman's apartment, he had arranged two teacups with loose tea leaves (courtesy of Guzman), a can of caviar (courtesy of Shostakovich), and four slices of bread (courtesy of Guzman's ration card). The tray was lying on his bed covered with one of his old shirts, which he now removed.

  "Okay," he said. "You can open your eyes now."

  Katya looked down at the tray and gasped. "Oh my goodness," she exclaimed, "where did you get all this?" Petya had never seen her eyes as big as they were in that moment and he felt proud of his accomplishment.

  "That," Petya said, "is a secret. Suffice it to say, I'm a lot poorer now." He pulled the tray closer to them. "Let's eat one slice of bread with caviar now," he said. "Then we'll have the second one a little later. And for dessert, we'll have some tea."

  "Sounds good to me," Katya said. "I think I lost two pounds just today. You can't imagine how hungry I am." She paused, then added, "I take that back. I'm sure you can imagine how I hungry I am."

  He laughed.

  Katya stared at the caviar. "Wow, I still can't believe it," she said. "Pinch me."

  Petya pinched her lightly on the arm.

  "I'm must be drunk already," she said. "I didn't even feel that."

  He pinched her again, but harder. "Ow," she said, slapping his hand but laughing all the while. She tried to pinch him back, but he grabbed her arm and wouldn't let her. "That's all right," she said, grinning. "I'll get you later."

  They caught each other's eye for a moment and neither looked away until Katya broke the silence. "You look quite handsome tonight," she said.

  "Mercí," he replied in French and spread the large orange caviar on two slices of bread. When he finished, he noticed that Katya was still staring at him and smiling.

  "You know it feels strange to say this," she said, "but you look so different since you've lost so much weight." She studied him with her eyes. "You look . . . healthier."

  "Ha-ha. Yes, it's this new starvation diet I'm on," Petya said. "
It does wonders, huh? It's the best diet I've ever been on. My skin has completely cleared up - no acne at all - and my double chin has been reduced to one."

  They both laughed for a long time.

  "It feels so good to laugh again," Katya said, placing her hand on his and squeezing lightly. "It's something you take for granted when things are going your way."

  Petya handed her a slice of bread with caviar. "All right," he said. "Enough talk. Let's do something else we used to take for granted - eat." He closed his eyes and sunk his teeth into the caviar, moaning as the tiny little eggs popped in his mouth. After he swallowed, he opened his eyes and saw that Katya hadn't taken a bite yet. She was praying.

  Petya usually got angry when he saw people praying or making the sign of the cross. Praying especially irked him. It reminded him of his aunt shaming him into praying for forgiveness for whatever 'terrible' thing he'd done that day - use a curse word, not do what she had told him to, not memorize a Bible verse correctly . . .. He wasn't angry now though - not with Katya. He was only curious. "What did you pray for?" he asked after she'd finished.

  "Oh, it was just a short, simple one," Katya said. "I prayed that every man, woman, and child might find peace within themselves. I believe that's the only way we'll ever have peace in the world."

  Petya watched Katya take a bite of food, but as she chewed it and moaned with pleasure, he looked past her, at the bluish-gray wall and the drawing he'd placed there of a witch about to be burned at the stake. He'd put that drawing there to remind himself of the true nature of his fellow man. "Humanity scares me," he said.

  "How so?" Katya asked.

  "Its capacity for cruelty," he answered. "Its bloodthirsty vengeance, its craving to see others trip and stumble."

  She put her bread down. "You feel afraid when you see acts of coldheartedness, because you'd really like there to be more kindness in the world."

  "Yes . . . I mean no. I'm not sure. You don't expect us to be nice to the damn Nazis, do you?"

  "I struggle with that one," she said. "But I do believe kindness toward the devil still brings more kindness into the world."

  Petya nearly laughed, but saw she was serious. "That's easy for you to say. Things like this," he said, pointing to the drawing of the witch about to be burned, "don't affect you."

  "That's not true," Katya said. "I know exactly what you're talking about. Sometimes I get so afraid that I'm going to be crushed by the senselessness of this slaughter and destruction, this fire of madness that we keep feeding. This war is breaking my heart. I can feel it inside me. This tearing and squeezing and hardening. How can a heart survive day after day of that? I see these young children starving to death or being killed by bombs and I wonder why the world has to be like this. I even find myself questioning God sometimes, wondering how he could let this happen. I mean what does a four-year-old boy have to do with anything?"

  There was an explosion in the distance, then a crackle of gunfire, then a wailing scream that quickly faded into the black of the night. "Katya, if there is a God," Petya said, "I hate him."

  "Petya, don't say that! You can't hate God."

  "No, it's true. I've never told anyone before, but I'm telling you now. What kind of a God would let his people suffer the way he does?"

  Katya looked across the room pensively. The fire made a sudden hissing sound, and one of the candles flickered like it was caught in a draft. Petya leaned over and laid on his side, supporting his weight with his right elbow. "Katya," he said, "I just don't understand it. Does God want to stop evil, but isn't able? Then he's impotent. Is he able to stop evil, but not willing? Then he's malevolent. If he's both willing and able to stop evil, then why is there evil?"

  Katya looked at him. "Voltaire's argument."

  "Right."

  "But what if evil didn't exist?" Katya said. "That whole argument falls apart then."

  "Yes, but who could deny that evil exists? This war and the Nazi atrocities are proof enough. Did you hear what they're doing in the villages now? They're . . ."

  "I know what's happening," Katya interrupted. "But what if what people call evil is simply a result of men and women making bad decisions trying to get something they want?"

  "For example?"

  "For example, I heard the German newspapers said Germany needed security, and that's why they invaded our country - to prevent any future assaults to their peace and well being. But surely there were other, less violent, options."

  "They were lying when they said that," Petya said. "They never viewed us as a threat to their security. What they've wanted all along is to kill us and take our land. If that's not evil, then what is?"

  "But to me, if you look underneath the strategy they took, you see that what they're really needing is peace, and safety, and probably also respect," Katya said. "They want to be strong enough so that no one else will ever be able to do to them what was done after The Great War. There's nothing evil about wanting to be safe. The problem is with the strategy they chose to meet their needs - pre-emptive war. You know it's so easy for us humans to sink into that primal urge, that might makes right, that violence is an acceptable way to get what you want."

  "I didn't know you thought that way," Petya said.

  "Neither did I," she said, laughing. "It just came to me. I've been struggling with this ever since the war started."

  Petya poured them each another shot of vodka. "I have no idea how we got onto this subject," he said.

  "I remember," Katya said and hiccupped. "We were talking about God. Speaking of whom, you know it was his son, Jesus Christ, who taught that peace and understanding is the best route - not the easiest - but the best. It's unfortunate that so many of the people in this world who profess to follow his teachings don't adhere to it."

  Petya handed Katya her glass of vodka, then picked his up in preparation to make a toast. "To hypocrites," he said, holding his glass up high in the air.

  "To hypocrites," Katya repeated and laughed. "Ourselves included."

  "Here, here!" Petya said. They clinked glasses and downed another shot.

  Katya ate more of her bread with caviar, and Petya tried to stare at her without being noticed. He was so happy just to be with her. She had such wonderful thoughts. He wanted to sit there and listen to her forever. Listen to her talk about God and philosophy and art and poetry. "I've never met anyone quite like you," he said. "You're so open to new ideas and so unattached to your existing ones."

  "I enjoy talking to you too," Katya said. "My conversations only go so far with Igor." She giggled infectiously and Petya couldn't help but join her.

  "So," Petya asked as she took another bite of food, "how is it?"

  "Mmm, without exaggeration, it's the best thing I've ever had in my life. Talk about a surprise!" She pulled her sweater off over her head, reducing her to only two more layers of clothes. "It's so warm in here," she said, then grabbed Petya by the arm and added, "Not that I'm complaining. It feels wonderful not to have to wear so many clothes. You don't mind do you?"

  "By all means," Petya said, grinning, "feel free to take off as many clothes as you like."

  Katya didn't laugh, and Petya knew he'd blundered. He busied himself spreading the last two slices of bread with caviar, all the while chastising himself for what he'd said.

  After another minute or two, the tea kettle boiled and Petya got up and took it out of the stove. When he turned back around, he saw Katya sprawled out on the bed and feared she might have passed out. But then she spoke. "Your ceiling is spinning around in circles," she said.

  "Yes, I'm glad you noticed," he said. "That was your next surprise. It took me forever to set that up."

  Katya laughed uncontrollably, covering her mouth with her hands and rolling from side to side. Petya laid down beside her and she playfully punched him in the arm.

  "You're so funny," she said. "I never would have guessed it. I remember when my father and I first moved into this building, I thought you were this dark and my
sterious figure. You always seemed to be deep in thought and tormented by something."

  "You got the tormented part right," he joked.

  "Seriously," Katya said, "what's it like to be Petya Soyonovich?"

  "Well, before you moved in, my life was very simple," Petya said. "I was all by myself. I was bitter, depressed, and without hope. It was great fun."

  "And now?" Katya asked. "After I moved in?"

  "Now," he said and sighed. "Now, I suffer even more, because I have hope. I have hope that I might one day find someone like you to share my life with."

  "I've never heard of someone suffering more because they had hope," she said.

  "You've never met anyone like me either."

  "That's certainly true," she said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

  Petya stretched his neck behind him and then down toward his chest until it cracked. He heard a voice say, "You miserable snake. Nothing but lies come out of your mouth."

  "Katya, did you just say something?" he asked.

  She shook her head no. Petya took a deep breath. Not now, he pleaded. Please don't let the voices come back now.

  "But I was just about to ask you something," Katya said. "I want to hear more about the tormented part."

  Petya was desperate to tell somebody about the strange things going on in his head, but decided he couldn't come right out and tell Katya about the voices. That would scare her away for sure. But he could talk about it in a roundabout way. "Well, I'm confused a lot," he said. "Some days I don't know what to think. Lots of ridiculous memories flood my mind and I have no control over them. I wonder sometimes if that's a sign of delirium - when you lose control over the thoughts that come into your mind."

  "What kind of thoughts?" Katya asked.

  "For instance," Petya said, "I'll be walking down the street and, for no discernable reason whatsoever, remember when I was a child in a school play and forgot my line in front of everyone. Or I'll be preparing dinner and suddenly recall the time I told an inappropriate joke to some people I didn't know that well." He moved the tray from the bed and slid closer to Katya. "I don't know what's worse, this chronic remorse or losing control of when and what I want to recall. Isn't that exactly what happens to someone who's a lunatic? They have completely random thoughts - things they would just as soon forget, like drowning a puppy because it wouldn't shut up, or being molested as a child. These thoughts and memories force their way to the front of the line, and one grows weary of fighting them and gives up. Then these random thoughts have the run of the house. I'm so afraid of ending up like that - of letting them win."