by JV Love
"Yeah, is that too much to ask?" Felix said. "This position is killing my back."
Dima laughed again. He felt grateful to be spending this time with Felix. "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry about that earlier incident - hitting you in the back. It was a cheap shot and I regret it."
"Oh, that was you? I couldn't tell which one of you did it," Felix said.
One of the German soldiers again got out a piece of smoked meat and started eating it.
"He's making me hungry," Dima said. "He took my bottle of booze. The least he could do is give me a bite of that sausage."
Felix laughed. "Perhaps you'd like a cricket instead?" he said.
"A cricket?"
"Yeah, you don't remember? When we were eleven, I bet that you couldn't eat a live cricket every day for a week," Felix said. "I thought there was no way you could do it. You were so easily grossed out back then. If my mom made us eggs for breakfast, the yolks of your eggs had to be completely cooked through. If they were the least bit runny, you wouldn't eat them."
"Huh," Dima said. "I'd forgotten all about that."
"You had this magnifying glass that I just loved, and I got you to bet it," Felix said. "I remember counting the days until it would be mine."
Dima gave Felix a sidelong glance and grinned.
"So the very first day," Felix continued, "I nearly won. You almost spit the cricket up three times before you got it down."
"Those things tasted so nasty," Dima said.
"But then you seemed to get the hang of it, and for the next four days you ate them in one gulp. I started to get nervous and made all these plans to keep you occupied for the entire last day and evening so that you would forget about our bet. Then I would wake you up at one minute past midnight to tell you you'd lost."
"You had your dad take us to a soccer game," Dima said. "And in the evening you served us bowl after bowl of ice cream. Then you told ghost stories for two hours and I fell asleep. I remember I had a strange dream about being chased by giant crickets and I woke up fifteen minutes before midnight, ran outside, found a cricket under a rock, and gulped it down just before your grandfather clock started chiming."
"I was so mad," Felix said.
"You bet your brand new soccer ball that you got for your birthday," Dima said.
"Yeah, and you never let me forget it. Every time we would play soccer, you'd say, 'Guess how I got this great ball!'"
Dima laughed. "I still have it," he said.
"After I was done being mad," Felix said, "I remember being so impressed that you were able to do it."
"I did it because you and everyone else told me that I couldn't and I was going to prove you all wrong."
"That's the Dima I admired," Felix said. "You loved to prove people wrong about you."
"Yeah, but I never stopped," Dima said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean all my life I've been trying to 'prove myself' once and for all and be done with it."
"Prove yourself to who?" Felix asked.
"To everyone," Dima said. He took in a deep breath and sighed. "But I've never been able to. I've had to keep proving myself over and over and over. I've never found a point where I could stop."
"You could stop now," Vladimir said, "and figure out how to save us."
"You know," Felix said to Dima, "I think we played out this situation about a hundred times when we were kids. How did we get out of it then?"
Dima thought a minute. "I remember what we did," he said. "They'd have you tied up, and I'd jump out of that old willow tree and wrestle them to the ground."
"Yeah, but you always died when you did that," Felix said. "You'd rescue me, but get shot while doing it and have this big, dramatic death. For ten minutes, you'd flop all over the place, grunting and groaning and telling me to go on without you. Your last words would always be in this strained whisper, saying, 'Felix, promise me you'll never give up. Promise me.'"
"Yeah, I remember that," Dima said, laughing.
There was a sound in the distance and both of the Germans stood up to look. It was the first time they both looked away, and Dima used the opportunity to pull his pantleg out of his boot, undo a few laces, and get a small folding knife out.
"You still have your knife?" Felix said. "I know you somehow kept your pocket watch when the Germans had us - though I have no idea how you managed that - but I didn't know you were able to keep your knife as well."
"They found my knife," Dima said. "This is a different one I just got from the old farmer that sells the booze."
"He gave it to you?"
"No, I traded my pocket watch for it."
"Oh," Felix said, sounding surprised. "I owe you an apology then. I thought you'd traded your watch for the booze."
"No," Dima said, "I told you I was through with drinking. I thought about some of the stuff you'd said and decided you were right. I am too young to give up. The old man liked the watch so much, he just gave me the booze. I took it to give to Misha."
Dima was sawing his way through the ropes.
"Hurry," Vladimir whispered.
"I didn't think you'd ever get rid of that watch," Felix said. "I thought it meant more to you than anything."
"Yeah, it used to," Dima said. He was three-fourths of the way through the rope tying his hands together. "But not anymore," he said, grinning. He strained to pull his hands away from one another, and the last bit of rope snapped in two.
Both of the Germans were still looking off in the distance, but they lowered their rifles and seemed to relax. The taller one began walking in the direction the sounds were coming from.
"It must be the rest of their platoon from the north," Vladimir said.
Dima was sawing furiously on the rope that tied his feet together.
"Give me the knife when you're done, then make a run for it," Felix said. "We've only got a few more seconds."
"That ain't gonna work and you know it," Dima said. "We've got one chance of getting out of this and one chance only." He cut through the last few threads of rope that bound his feet.
"Dima wait," Felix said breathlessly.
Dima turned to him.
"I saw 'the look' on your face earlier today," Felix said.
"You mean the look that tells you that man is going to die that day?"
Felix nodded his head. "Yes," he said, "that look."
Dima closed his eyes for a second. "Well then," he said, "give my best to Katya. You've been a good friend, Felix." He leaned onto his feet and prepared to stand. "I promise," he added, "no big, dramatic death this time." He smiled at Felix, looking just like that kid who'd won the bet.
He jumped to his feet and the two Germans immediately turned and saw him. Dima threw his knife at the closest one and it struck him in the shoulder. Then he charged at the man, letting out a furious scream - like all the rage he'd ever held inside was being unleashed.
The German was stunned from the knife wound and Dima's ungodly scream, but the other German, who was about fifteen yards away, took aim and shot Dima twice in the torso.
"No!!" Felix yelled.
But the bullets didn't slow Dima down. He kept coming. He kept charging until he tackled the German to the ground. Then he pulled his knife out of the man's shoulder and plunged it into his throat, killing him instantly. Dima grabbed the man's rifle to shoot the other German, but as he did so, he was shot three more times himself - once in the leg, once in the arm, and again in his torso. And yet again the bullets didn't stop him. He returned fire and his second shot struck the man in the center of the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"Hurry!" Vladimir yelled, "before the rest of their platoon gets here."
Dima pulled his knife out and staggered over to Felix. Blood was running down his arm and he felt like he was going to faint. He managed to cut the rope that bound Felix's hands together, then he handed the knife to Felix to finish the job.
While Felix cut the rope around his feet, Dima fired a few rounds a
t the approaching Germans. He could see at least thirty, maybe more, in the distance. "Felix," he called out. Black splotches started cascading in front of his eyes. "Felix, you have to get back to camp and warn the others."
Dima looked back and saw Felix cutting the ropes around Vladimir's wrists, and then everything went completely black. He could feel himself lying on the ground and wanted to get back up, but couldn't do it. He'd command his arms and legs to move, but they wouldn't respond. It was as though the signal his brain sent got lost somewhere along the way. He opened his eyes and saw a blurry figure over top of him. The person was screaming and yelling at him. Dima recognized Felix's voice, and couldn't resist using the last bit of energy he had to say, "Felix, promise me you'll never give up. Promise me." He wanted to laugh again, but didn't have the strength. His eyelids were closed again and wouldn't heed his instructions to open. The Germans were shouting and shooting, and over top of it was Felix's voice, arguing with Vladimir.
"He's dead!" Vladimir said. "Let's go, before we are too."
"No!" Felix screamed. "I can't leave him. Oh God, no. Dima! Dima!!"
Dima wanted to tell Felix not to worry, that everything had already been decided, that it was useless to struggle against fate. His death was meant to be that day.
He felt his body being lifted into the air and knew Felix must be picking him up to carry him. Always the hero. Fighting through the pain, blocking out all doubt. That was Felix.
As he was being carried, Dima noticed that a hollow sensation had sunk into his stomach and his chest felt tighter than it ever had before. Then he couldn't feel anything. His mind started racing - searching for something to think about, something to distract him. But there was no running away this time.
Everything slowed down. Thoughts and images moved through his mind as if it were a lazy river on a warm, summer day. He saw himself as a young teenager helping a man in a wheelchair cross a busy street. Then he saw himself as a young boy, laying under an apple tree with Felix on a beautiful fall day. He didn't know what they were talking about, but he felt a tremendous sense of gratitude and connection flowing through the two of them.
Dima thought it strange that these particular images were coming to him. Where was that big fight he'd had with his father when he was fifteen? Where was that time he'd won the school math contest? Or the time he'd received perfect marks on his report card?
Then Dima saw his mother and father and sister sitting around the tiny table in the apartment he'd grown up in. They were all so young. Dima was seated at the table too, and everyone was looking at him, telling him to do something. But he couldn't understand what they wanted.
Then the image became more focused, and Dima was no longer a young man being carried through a forest, but a small boy sitting at a table with his family surrounding him. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were tiny. They were the hands of an infant.
His family continued to encourage him to do something. His sister, with her short blonde hair and pink dress. His father, with his favorite brown sweater. And his mother, with her bright blue eyes and her long hair exquisitely wrapped on top of her head. What did they want of him?
He looked down at the table and saw some kind of food there. He didn't know what it was, but it smelled good and he saw that everyone else had a similar piece of food on a similar yellow plate in front of them. The food was rectangular and mostly dark, but the top of it was covered with some creamy white stuff. He grabbed it with his right hand and held a piece up to his face so he could get a closer look at it. His family started talking at him even louder now. They were all smiling and laughing and looking at him. His father was holding up the first finger of his right hand and pointing at Dima with his left hand. His mother and sister were pretending to chew and pointing at the food on his plate.
Dima tried to put the food in his mouth, but was only partially successful - most of it ended up smeared across his cheek. As he chewed this wonderful new food, he looked around the table once again and saw his family now clapping and cheering for him. He thought it was the most wonderful feeling in the whole world and hoped his entire life would be like this.
And then the light slowly faded to dark. He wanted to yell - to plead with his family not to leave him - but there was nothing. Not even the breath in his chest.
~
- Part III
What anger wants it buys at the price of the soul. - Heraclitus
A lie told often enough becomes the truth. - Lenin
-- Chapter Eight
The Lake, the Moon, and the Lies
____________________________
I live in despair,
feeding off your fear.
I am the darkness
that will never disappear.
I am that, which you know not,
and always will I stay
in the back of your mind
til your dying day.
The politics of success,
breed an emptiness so true.
And the suffering remains
as the truth escapes you.
In circles goes the mind
whose eyes cannot see
that the meaning of life
is the mystery of me.
When darkness settled over the sea between Peterhof and Leningrad, it came completely, and a million stars were visible high in the night sky. They were tiny points of light that never moved and never changed. They were there before the city existed, when it was flat and cold and populated only with bears and birds and squirrels. They were there on May 16, 1703, when Peter the Great paraded in and proclaimed a new city, a Venice of the North, for the Russian empire. They were there when a hundred thousand serfs died constructing the city out of the rock and woods and marsh. They were there in 1917 when the last Tsar, Nicholas II, was arrested and imprisoned, and a few months later as well when a little man gave a big speech that shook the world. The man, fresh from exile, spoke from a balcony to the crowd below. He proclaimed the freedom of the Russian people and a new dawn for humanity. He was Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and the city was named in his honor.
Adolf Hitler despised Lenin's ideas and despised the city where they were brought to life. Though never publicly announced to the German citizenry, Hitler had decided that Leningrad would not be allowed to surrender. The city's populace was to die along with the doomed city, which would be razed to the ground once it was captured. Random shelling of civilian objectives was authorized, and any inhabitants attempting to flee the city were to be shot down.
In early November, 1941, Leningrad was on the edge of catastrophe. Hundreds of people were dying of starvation or starvation-related causes every day, and winter had barely begun. The only meager supplies of food making it into the city were over Lake Ladoga, but the lake was stormy and ice-laden now. Very few boats could make the trip and those that did still had to dodge death from above, for the German fighter planes and dive bombers never ceased in their attacks. When German forces captured the city of Tikhvin, the last remaining supply route was severed and Leningrad teetered even closer to the abyss. The city had enough flour for seven days, cereals for eight, fats for fourteen, sugar for twenty-two. There was no meat.
After the fall of Tikhvin, Hitler spoke of the besieged city at Munich, stating, "No one can free it. No one can break the ring. Leningrad is doomed to die of famine." Indeed, if the city was to avoid a quick descent into oblivion, it would need help. But from where? The battle for Moscow was in full swing as the German's Army Group Centre under Fedor von Bock advanced closer and closer to Russia's capital. South of Leningrad, the great city of Kiev surrendered to the German's Army Group South. France had long since fallen, and the Soviet Union's sole ally, Great Britain, was fighting for its life from a relentless Luftwaffe bombing campaign. The United States remained isolationist - unable to keep completely out of the war, but unwilling to explicitly enter it either. Japan, Germany's ally in the Pacific, continued to overtake China and the rest of Asia as the Sovie
t government kept a wary eye on its far east borders.
So the stars looked curiously on as the Russians and Germans played their deadly game and the people of Leningrad slowly starved. They watched hopes for love and peace recede, taking their place in line behind hopes for food and warmth. The stars wanted to know - as did the rest of the world - what drama would the City of Dramas play out now?
On the eastern horizon, a small sun peeked cautiously over the edge of the earth and the stars gave way to another new day. Large clouds as white as the freshly fallen snow moved quickly over the still sleepy city. One behind the other, in perfect military order they flew across the sky - over the canals, over the frozen Summer Gardens, over the Winter Palace, and then out to sea.
And when they were gone, the shelling began, and then the screaming.
Always the screaming.
* * *
Katya awoke to the steady ticking sound playing over the apartment loudspeaker. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and was disappointed to recognize where she was. She'd had horrifying dreams of a dark, cryptic figure stalking her, and of her beautiful Leningrad being methodically destroyed by an unseen enemy. She had convinced herself it was just a dream, nothing to be upset about. But now she knew it wasn't a dream. The loudspeaker confirmed it. It plugged into a special outlet in the wall and gave warnings and instructions during air raids. Other times it merely ticked, signifying that the Germans hadn't taken over the city. Yet.
A shell exploded in the distance, as if to confirm that the ugliness was all too real. Katya got out of bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She was the first one up in the morning and was often out the door while the others were still asleep. Oksana was the next to get up, and lastly Petya. One never knew whether Guzman or Igor would make it out of bed that day.
Katya took great pleasure in this short time she had to herself. She always enjoyed the stillness of mornings: the tender light breaking around the low-lying clouds on the horizon, the quietness and clarity of those first few breaths of the new day. If evenings were when the wave of the day finally broke and crashed to shore, then mornings were when that wave was just becoming a wave - tiny, little ripples on a clear, calm lake.
