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

by JV Love

  Katya slid her hand into Petya's. It was something so simple, so basic, and yet Petya was overcome with gratitude. He'd let himself be vulnerable and felt supported and understood, and not judged, as he feared he might be.

  The candles cast dark shadows on the wall, and Petya was mesmerized by the edge, where the darkness disappeared so suddenly, so completely. He shifted farther up the bed so his head was beyond Katya's and he could feel her hair touch his face. It was all so wonderful, but at the same time he noticed this sense of sadness he couldn't explain. "Why do we Russians suffer so?" he asked.

  Katya pulled back until their faces were in front of one another. "Because we understand that there's this incredible connection between ourselves and all other living beings and the earth and the trees and the sunshine, and . . ."

  "And," Petya interrupted, "we mourn that life isn't lived that way - with that comprehension. Right?"

  Katya nodded and brushed her bangs away from her eyes.

  "You know, I've had that same thought," Petya said. "There's this sense I get when I read Pushkin or hear Tchaikovsky's music. It's so sad sometimes that I want to cry, but I love it and don't want it to ever stop. It's like joy and sorrow are indistinguishable in that moment."

  "Yes, I know what you mean," Katya said. "I've always believed that joy and sorrow come from the same fountain." She was starting to slur her words.

  "What about all those poor souls who don't understand that?" Petya asked.

  "They're doomed," Katya said. She giggled and repeated the word, "Do-o-o-omed."

  "Doomed to what?" Petya asked. "Doomed to live in Siberia harvesting icicles?"

  Katya laughed and tried to make scary shadows on the wall with her hands. "Doomed to live their lives over and over as forever hungry ghosts," she said in her best attempt at a scary voice. "Do-o-o-omed because they can never consume enough of anything to end their misery."

  Petya laughed as he watched the figures she was making on the wall. "Is that a dog?" he asked.

  "No, you dummy," she said. "It's a hungry ghost. See how it's eating and eating."

  "That's not a hungry ghost," Petya joked. "That's a dog who's really old and has only one ear for some reason."

  Katya fell into a fit of laughter, and Petya wanted time to stop so he could stay in that moment forever. If there was a heaven, he was sure it was something like this.

  "Next, you tell me," Petya said, "what it's like to be Katerina Selenaya."

  "What do you want to know? My favorite color?"

  "No, how about who's been the biggest influence on your life?"

  "That's easy," she said. "My grandmother. She was my hero growing up. She was the one who taught me what love was. She did it not by telling me, but by showing me in her day to day actions. She was the greatest person I ever knew."

  "I've often thought about what your family life must have been like as you grew up," Petya said. "You always sparkle when you talk about your grandmother. It makes me bitter to think that I might have been born into a family like yours. Instead, I was surrounded by ignorance and dogmatism."

  "I'm sure your aunt did her best, Petya. At the very least, she loved you," Katya said.

  "Yes, probably. But that didn't matter to me. That I was loved meant nothing." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly like he was smoking a cigarette. "I know that my aunt and uncle loved me. They loved me as family members always love one another - distantly, thoughtfully, and all too often, reluctantly. But to be loved means nothing to the unhappy. But to love! To love means to live! It means there's something in the world for you and gives you a reason to get out of bed in the morning." He ran his fingers through Katya's hair, then held her head close. He so wanted to kiss her on the lips. "I want to both love and be loved," he added.

  "Speaking of love," Katya said, pulling away from him. "Isn't it time for our third toast?" By tradition, the third toast was always to love.

  "Yes, of course," Petya said. "Forgive me my bad manners." He got up and poured them each another shot, then handed Katya her glass. "To love," they said in unison and toasted.

  After Katya finished drinking, she tried to set her glass back on the tray, but missed and it fell onto the floor and rolled under the bed.

  "Whoops," she said, "sorry about that."

  "Don't worry about it," Petya said absently. He was contemplating how love had always been the villain in his life, never the hero. He laid down and listened to the fire crack and pop. "Do you think you could ever love me?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure how to answer that," she said and paused. "I always feel constrained with the number of words we have to express this thing called love. We have one word, but it refers to so many different things - from the way you feel about a pet, to the way you feel about your parents, to the way you feel about your boyfriend. On the one hand, I think it's deep never-ending love that makes the world go round. But on the other hand, I don't think of love as something that's static, something that never changes. I can love someone one minute, but not the next. And then of course . . ."

  She's evading the question, Petya thought. "Of course she is," he heard a voice answer. "She doesn't want to answer you. She hates you."

  Petya hoped if he ignored the voice, it would go away. "What about this minute?" he asked after Katya finished speaking.

  "In this minute . . .," Katya said, pausing again.

  Petya held his breath. "She'll never love you," he heard the voice say. "Why should she? You're a snake." Petya saw things starting to spiral downward. The voice was so convincing.

  "What are you grinning about?" Katya asked.

  "Oh, nothing," Petya said. "Nothing I can't handle."

  "Is it something painful?"

  "You could say that." He closed his eyes briefly and begged the voice to leave him alone. "But you're evading my question," Petya said.

  "What question?" she asked, hiccupping again. "Oh wait, I remember. In this minute . . . I am in love with the whole world. So yes," she said, nodding her head gingerly, "I do love you."

  "She's lying!" the voice screamed.

  "No!" Petya yelled. "Shut up!"

  Katya pulled back, her face pale and frightened.

  "Oh no, not you, Katya," he said, stroking the side of her face. "I didn't mean you."

  "Then who were you talking to?" she asked. "As far as I know," she said, looking guardedly about the room, "I'm the only one here."

  "I heard someone outside," Petya lied. "You didn't hear them?"

  "No," she said. She sat up on the bed and grabbed her sweater. There was no sign on her face of the gaiety they had shared just a few moments ago. "I'm tired," she said. "Tired and drunk. I should probably get going."

  "No, no," Petya said. "Please stay. We'll have tea next. I just have really good hearing, that's all. I'm sorry about that. Really, I am." He picked up one of the candles and excused himself to go to the bathroom. "I'll be right back and we'll have tea," he said. "Wait for me."

  He seethed with rage. Here he was so close to getting what he dreamt about every night, and now after what just happened, it was probably out of reach. How he despised those voices in his head!

  In the bathroom, he banged his head against the wall, hoping to punish the voices with some pain. After a few minutes, he calmed down and decided he didn't want to give up just yet. He might still be able to salvage the evening. He reviewed all that had gone well so far. Katya was drunk. They had been feeling very connected. She'd already helped him along by taking off some of her clothes. And most importantly, there hadn't been a single mention of Felix. Then Petya remembered that Katya had said she loved him! How could he have forgotten that? As he returned down the hallway, he felt much better than when he'd left.

  He opened the door to his room and saw Katya curled up on his bed crying.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, rushing over to her side. "It's not because of what I said earlier, is it? I told you I wasn't talking to you. I was . . ."

  "No, it's not
that," she said. "It's probably because I've drank way too much. The room keeps spinning . . .."

  "What happened?"

  "I just suddenly felt so lonely after you left," she said. "Why does everyone always have to leave me? My mother left me when I was a child. My grandmother left me when I was a teenager. My father left a few months ago, and I haven't heard from him since. Felix left me. Shostakovich left me. Where are they all?" she asked through her tears.

  He put his arms around her to comfort her.

  "Everyone's left me," Katya cried. "Everyone!"

  Petya pulled her close. "My dear sweet Katya," he said. "Not everyone has left you. I'm still here. I'm still here for you and I'm not going anywhere."

  She buried her face in his chest and sobbed. Petya felt an incredible space open up within him. He felt whole, like an unknown part of him that had been missing had now been found and put back into place. He kissed the top of her head, then she pulled away slightly and he tried to pull her back in and kiss her on the lips.

  "No, no," she said. "Friends don't do that."

  "But we can be so much more than friends," Petya said.

  "I don't want to," Katya said. "I like our relationship as it is. Felix is my lover."

  Petya cringed at the mention of Felix's name. He moved in and kissed the side of her neck. She pushed him away, more forcefully this time.

  "Stop it," she said and got up from the bed.

  Petya stood up, wrapped his arms around her, and she collapsed into him. "It's okay," he said. "Felix is gone. It's been six weeks now. He's not coming back." He picked her up and laid her on the bed. She did not resist.

  One of the candles he'd lit started flickering wildly, and Petya went over and blew it out. He pulled his sweater off over his head, then smoothed down his hair. Katya remained in the same position he'd left her in. When he went back, he kissed her arms from the wrist to the elbow and then climbed on top of her. She didn't say anything and didn't move. "Katya?" he asked and ran his hand along her cheek.

  She didn't answer. She'd passed out.

  So many times Petya had fantasized about an opportunity like this. Now it was finally here. He could do whatever he wanted and she wouldn't resist. He leaned over her and kissed her once more on the top of the head. He ran his fingers through her hair and behind her ears. Everything about her was so beautiful to him.

  He knew he could have his way with her, and though the thought intrigued him, he wouldn't do it. He didn't want it to be like this. Maybe it was love, maybe it was respect, maybe it was cowardice, he didn't know.

  He lifted her head up, stuck a pillow underneath, and spread a blanket over top of her. Then he lit a cigarette and poured himself another shot of vodka. He wanted to get even more drunk - to have his thoughts get muddled and sparse, to shut up those damn voices. He liked to feel numb when all else failed. What he would have liked more than anything was for Katya to be madly in love with him and be his and his alone. But reality had never cared much about what he liked or disliked.

  * * *

  The two Germans sat on a fallen tree across from Dima. The tree had been dead a long time, its bark rotting and its once solid trunk spongy to the touch. The Germans were eating smoked meat and drinking water and looking at Dima with eyes of antipathy. Dima, with his hands and feet tied together, wondered why they hadn't killed him yet. There was something going on, he knew. These two Germans weren't alone out here in the woods.

  The three of them had been sitting there for twenty minutes, and the shorter German came over now and tried asking Dima something in Russian. Dima, not understanding the man's badly broken Russian, answered in the form of a riddle: "Twelve pears hanging high. Twelve men passing by. Each took a pear and left eleven hanging there. How can that be?"

  Dima maintained a somber look on his face all the while, and the German scowled and walked away.

  Faint sounds in the distance announced more arrivals, and the shorter German went and hid in the woods, while the other one sat up close to Dima and held his knife tight against Dima's throat.

  Unlike last time, the newcomers walked quickly and boldly. Dima could see them approaching - two figures walking side by side in the pale moonlight. They were speaking in Russian, and Dima wanted to warn them to watch out, but the knife was too tight against his throat. He was afraid to swallow for fear that the movement of his Adam's apple would alarm the German soldier into cutting him. The German had his face right up next to Dima's, and Dima could smell the sweet and peppery scent of the smoked meat he'd eaten. He wasn't much older than Dima, and still had yet to outgrow his chubby cheeks of boyhood. His eyes were small, and darted back and forth from the figures in the distance to the spot where his partner was hidden.

  The newcomers were much closer now, and Dima recognized the broad chest and determined gait of the one on the left. It was Felix. He was carrying a pair of crutches.

  The unsuspecting duo walked right past the German soldier hiding behind the big bush. He stepped out - behind them now - and spoke in his horrible Russian for them to surrender. Felix and the other man stopped and raised their hands slowly. Dima swallowed, and the blade of the knife pressed harder into his skin until a trickle of blood ran down the shiny metal and onto the German's tightly-clenched hand.

  The three prisoners sat next to one another, each with their hands and feet tied together. The two Germans stood several yards away discussing something, but always keeping a close eye on their prisoners. An owl sat on a branch and hooted softly from time to time as Felix whispered to Dima the story of what had happened. The man Felix had arrived with was Vladimir - the same Vladimir that Olga had wanted to shoot earlier that day.

  At first Felix was going to go to camp to get someone to help him carry Dima, but Lestovo was much closer, so he decided to go to there instead. He went door to door looking for someone willing to help him get Dima back to camp, but no one wanted to help. They were all afraid. Some wouldn't even open their doors to him.

  The tenth door he'd knocked on was Vladimir's. He wasn't home, but his thin, frail wife was, and she answered the door. She'd been crying, and wrung her hands nonstop as she explained to Felix how the Germans had just been there and had taken her husband against his will. Her husband was known for his intimate knowledge of the woods, and they took him so he could show them firsthand where the partisan camp was. Felix thanked her for the information and ran to the next door. Again, no one would help, but they did offer him a pair of old crutches. He accepted them and started running back to Dima.

  On his way, he ran into Vladimir, who had managed to slip away from the Germans and was running ahead of them to go warn the partisans of the impending attack. Felix had been trying to get as much information from him as he could, such as how many troops were involved and which direction they were coming from, when the two of them had been caught.

  The shorter German came over now, pointing his rifle and shushing the three of them to be quiet. Then he went back and stood with the other one, who had his arms folded across his chest and was shaking his head from side to side. They were waiting for the rest of their platoon to catch up before they did anything with their prisoners, Dima speculated. It was also clear that they recognized Vladimir, but since they couldn't communicate with him, they would have to wait for the translator in their platoon to explain why Vladimir was caught walking through the woods with a Russian, and especially a Russian who was armed and appeared to be a partisan.

  Once the rest of their platoon arrived, Dima figured the end would come fairly quickly for the three of them. It would only take a minute for it to become clear that Vladimir had slipped away to warn the partisans.

  Vladimir whispered softly that he'd seen two groups of German soldiers, with forty to fifty men in each group. One group was coming from the north and the other from the south.

  "Our comrades are as good as dead," Dima whispered to Felix. "There's no way they can fight off two full platoons."

  "Why do you thin
k these two," Felix said, pointing with his head toward the Germans, "aren't with the rest of their platoon?"

  "I'm not sure," Dima said. "Maybe they were sent ahead to make sure they weren't walking into a trap."

  The shorter German soldier came over again and shushed them, this time raising his chin and crossing his right index finger under it, in imitation of slicing someone's throat.

  After the German walked away again, Vladimir whispered to Dima, "I think we better stop talking."

  "Or else what?" Dima said.

  "Or else they'll kill us," Vladimir responded.

  "They're going to kill us anyway," Dima said. "They're just not going to do it until the rest of their platoon arrives. All they're going to do for now is make threats." He was sitting on something hard - an acorn, he guessed. He tried moving an inch or two to his left, but the ropes made it difficult. "Might as well get comfortable," he said. "Enjoy the last few minutes of our lives."

  "Yes, I agree," Felix added, "but it's impossible to get comfortable like this. You'd think they'd at least give us a blanket to sit on so our asses don't get so cold."

  Dima laughed quietly. His own lack of fear surprised him - that Felix could poke fun at their current predicament amazed him. He never imagined the last few minutes of his life would be spent joking lightheartedly.

  "Maybe if we ask them nicely, they'll tie us up to a tree instead so we'd at least have something to lean back on," Dima jested.