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

by JV Love

  Their New Year's festivities got underway just after 8:30, their 'feast' consisting of Petya's small tin of sardines, several thick slices of bread, a can of condensed milk, a small piece of chocolate, two potatoes, a bottle of wine, and some loose-leaf tea.

  There had been rumors for a long time that extra rations - canned meat or fish, butter, sugar, chocolate, or maybe even vodka - would be given out in celebration of New Year's. But in the end it was all just wishful thinking. Bread rations had been increased slightly on December 29th, but the fact was that more people were dying of starvation now than ever before. New Year's Eve - one of the biggest holidays of the year - turned out to be only slightly less wretched than every other day.

  Petya took four pages from one of his old stories and handed each person a sheet of paper to serve as a plate. They had stopped using real plates a long time ago, as water was much too valuable to be expended on washing dishes.

  Katya got up from her chair and walked toward the stove, but when she got there, she stopped and looked perplexed. Petya had noticed this behavior become more pronounced the last few weeks. She'd started to keep pencil and paper with her at all times so she could write things down, then refer to it in case she forgot what she was about to do or say.

  She took her paper out now, but Petya could see there was nothing written on it.

  "What is it?" Igor asked.

  "I forgot what I was going to do," she said.

  "Probably get the potatoes," Petya suggested.

  "Oh yes," she said. "That's it. Thank you." She pulled the black, cracked potatoes from the coals and set them on the coffee table with the rest of their food.

  For a short time, the four of them forgot their grievances against one another and enjoyed the food and drink and conversation. It took only a few sips of wine to feel drunk and warm.

  Igor had the idea to put the condensed milk on top of the stove and add the chocolate to it. After the chocolate melted, they added some water and stirred it all together so they had enough for each person to enjoy some weak hot chocolate.

  Halfway through their meal, the building shook from nearby explosions. The Germans were shelling the city again.

  "Can't they leave us alone for one minute?" Oksana cried. She had her head wrapped in a white kerchief, and in the dim light of the candles looked like a mummy.

  When the shelling ended, the metronome-like ticking from the radio suddenly stopped and everyone quit talking. One by one, their heads turned to the faded black paper cone of the speaker. Nothing replaced the sound of the ticking. Was it the end? Had the Germans finally broken through? Would the street warfare begin now? Or would they wake in the morning and the Germans be in control? Petya felt both scared and relieved at the prospect. Then a voice spoke, "Govoreet Moskva," - Moscow speaking - it said. Then the sound of the Kremlin chimes played, and a few seconds later, the national anthem.

  As the music played, Oksana raised her glass of wine in front of her. Her arms were as thin as the twigs they put on the fire and her hands trembled badly. If her glass had been full, the wine would have spilled over the edges. "God willing," she said, raising her hand another inch higher, "we will prevail."

  They all touched their glasses together and had another drink of wine.

  "Of course we'll prevail in the end," Petya said as he set his glass back down on the coffee table. "God is clearly on our side."

  "Then why doesn't he snap his fingers and send all the Nazis to hell?" Igor asked.

  "He doesn't work that way," Petya replied.

  "Why not?" Igor persisted, looking to Katya for an answer.

  "I don't think we should be asking if God is on our side," Katya said. "We should be asking if we are on God's side."

  The building shook again amidst a loud salvo of artillery fire. The shells weren't incoming this time. The ships frozen in the Neva river were firing, letting the enemy know that the new year was going to be just as miserable for them. Hopefully more so.

  The festivities wound down rapidly, and by eleven o'clock, everyone but Petya was in bed asleep. It was the shortest New Year's celebration he'd had since he was four years old, and he felt cheated.

  He stayed up and gathered the used tea leaves from everyone's cup, spooning them into a small tin can. He added a cup of water and set it on the stove to boil. He hoped if he boiled the tiny black leaves long enough he'd be able to have one more cup of tea.

  While he waited for the water to boil, he listened to the radio. Someone was giving a patriotic speech about never giving up, about fighting the enemy with your last breath. Petya heard the words, but didn't feel the effect. He expended most all of his energy just making it from day to day. There wasn't much left for emotions.

  His cup of water still hadn't boiled after fifteen minutes, so Petya threw in some of the precious firewood Igor had brought. Sometimes it seemed like you could add all the wood in the world to that stove and it still wouldn't be enough.

  After another fifteen minutes, he tapped his finger on the top of the stove, hoping it would be too hot to touch. But it wasn't. It wasn't hot at all, and probably wouldn't be until spring.

  * * *

  Misha had somehow managed to get enough liquor for the partisans to throw a party in celebration of New Year's Eve. The alcohol was another homemade concoction nearly twice as strong as vodka. It had a brownish color, like cognac, and if you drank it straight, your throat would burn then feel extremely raw like you had a bad cold.

  But nobody cared about that. Their festivity was about the here and now. They celebrated because they were alive. No one took that for granted anymore.

  A group of partisans were decorating a small evergreen tree in honor of the New Year. They had learned to be inventive in combat, and that skill had carried over to other aspects of life. They decorated the tree with whatever they could make or find: miniature snowmen carved out of ice, painted pine cones on strings, shiny stars cut from tin cans, captured German medals pinned directly to the branches. At the top of the tree there was a small version of the red flag of the Soviet Union.

  It was close to midnight and the moon hung in the sky like one of the shiny ornaments on their tree. Felix leaned easily into the wall of snow and ice behind him, cigarette tucked neatly between the middle two fingers of his right hand. He looked up at the moon, inhaled deeply, then casually blew three perfectly formed smoke rings into the night air. "I agree," he said to Volkhov, "it's rather hopeless at this point."

  They were talking about the battle that had been raging to try to recapture Mga. The Germans seemed especially determined not to be defeated there. They had already lost Tikhvin to the Red Army. If they lost Mga, their stranglehold over Leningrad would come to an end.

  "I think we've lost the momentum," Felix added. "I don't see the lines around Leningrad changing until spring brings warmer weather."

  Felix's partisans were not engaged in the battle for Mga. They were still near Tikhvin, awaiting orders of where specifically they were to go behind enemy lines.

  Most of partisans were gathered around the campfire drinking. It was a cloudless, windless evening, and Misha was the life of the party. He had covered a pocket comb with cigarette paper, and, holding it to his mouth, was playing the national anthem. When he finished that, he led everyone in singing a round of "Dark Night," an appropriately melancholy song for the times:

  . . . You are waiting for me, standing by the crib,

  and wiping away the tears so no one sees.

  I am not afraid of death. I met him a few times in battle.

  And even now he is circling around me . . .

  After that, they sang the ever popular "Katyusha," about Russia's top secret mobile multiple rocket launcher that was much feared by the Germans:

  . . . Fly toward the clear sun

  And to the warrior on a far away border

  Bring Katyusha's greeting . . .

  Near the end of the song, Misha crouched down to the ground then leaped in the air,
then bent low again and alternately kicked each leg as high as he could - performing the traditional Ukrainian Gopak dance clumsily but with enthusiasm. By the time he finished, there wasn't a single person who wasn't laughing.

  When the stroke of midnight finally came, the night sky erupted with shouts and yells and gunfire. Volkhov was standing next to Felix and was the only sober one of the bunch. Misha came over and handed Felix the bottle of booze he was carrying around, then wished Volkhov "Happy New Year," slapping him on the back.

  "This is ridiculous," Volkhov responded. "What's there to celebrate? You think 1942 will be any better? It'll probably be just as miserable - maybe even more so - than '41."

  "Celebrate that you're alive, man!" Misha said. "You can't have fun when you're dead."

  "He's got a point there," Felix said and took a drink from the bottle. It tasted like gasoline and he nearly gagged. The other bottles Felix had drank from were either diluted or mixed with something. Misha's wasn't.

  "You can't tell jokes when you're dead, can't laugh," Misha continued, "can't read poetry, can't write love letters."

  "So what?" Volkhov said.

  Felix watched Misha lean back and look at the stars. "Look at that," he said to Volkhov and pointed into the sky.

  "At what?" Volkhov said.

  "The stars, man! You can't look at the stars when you're dead. Don't you get it?"

  "No," Volkhov said, "and you don't either. We're fighting a war."

  "But I do get it," Misha said, slurring his words. "If there's one thing I've learned from this war it's to never get distracted from what's beautiful in life."

  "You're drunk," Volkhov said.

  "Thank you," Misha answered, "I've been trying very hard tonight to reach that supreme state of bliss."

  Natasha emerged from nearby shadows, her nose red, her green eyes glossy, a smile on her cute face. She walked up to Felix and stood in front of him. "How about a New Year's kiss?" she said.

  Felix had drank his fair share that night and, without much thought, put his arms around her waist and leaned forward to give her a short kiss.

  "You certainly can't kiss women when you're dead either," Felix heard Misha say to Volkhov.

  After a couple seconds of kissing, Felix dropped his arms and pulled away. But Natasha didn't. She squeezed her arms around him and pressed her lips back to his. Felix resisted at first, but then gave in and they kissed long and hard. The softness of her lips and the feel of her tongue on his filled him with desire.

  "What are you trying to do?" he asked with a grin when she finally let up.

  "Give you something to live for," she answered, pressing her lips back to his.

  He hadn't thought of intimacy in such a long time, and it washed over him now like a tidal wave. There was nowhere to hide from this animal instinct, this primordial appetite of his body. Even through her many layers of clothing, he could feel her breasts pressing against him. His breath became short and he could hardly believe how strong his urge was to have sex. Within a matter of seconds, everything had shifted. He could think of nothing other than his own physical desire.

  "How about we go to my hut?" Natasha suggested. "We can be alone there."

  Felix couldn't find his voice, but managed to nod his head. He wondered why he had paid so little attention to her obvious interest in him thus far. He fantasized now how amazing it was going to be to touch her bare skin, to press his lips to her nipples, to hold her naked body up tight against his.

  Inside her hut, they resumed kissing. Felix worked his hands through layer after layer of clothing, until he came to her soft warm skin. It was so smooth, and she shuddered as he ran his fingertips up the side of her waist.

  They were there kissing and caressing for ten minutes when someone from outside the hut shouted, "Felix! Are you in there?"

  Felix recognized Yuri's voice and decided not to answer. Both he and Natasha were naked from the waist up, and Felix was blind with desire. He felt like a balloon that was going to burst if it didn't release some air.

  "Are you sure he's in there?" Yuri asked somebody.

  "Yes, I saw him go in there," Volkhov answered.

  "Felix! We have a New Year's present for you," Yuri hollered.

  "Give it to me later," Felix called out as he pulled Natasha's supple body up close to his.

  "No," Yuri said, "this one can't wait."

  Felix kissed Natasha again then reluctantly pulled away. "Wait here," he whispered. "I'll be right back."

  Natasha kept her arms around Felix's neck. "Don't go," she said.

  "I'll be quick," he answered. "I know Yuri, and he's not going to leave me alone until I do this." He dressed quickly and went outside.

  Yuri was standing with his rifle pointed at a young German soldier. Volkhov stood to the left of Yuri, and their commissar looked like a dwarf next to the massive Siberian.

  "Here's your present," Yuri said, grinning. He was wearing his white camouflage but had a dark fur hat on. An inch of fresh snow lay on top of his hat.

  Felix sighed. He had hoped to just grab some sort of gift of food or tobacco from them and then go back to Natasha. He was disappointed to realize that wasn't going to happen. "Where did you get him?" he asked Yuri.

  The German soldier's eyes darted from speaker to speaker.

  "On the road just south of us. There were two of them. I think they were lost."

  "So where's the second one?"

  "He was a little stubborn," Yuri said. "He didn't want to cooperate."

  Felix understood that meant Yuri had shot the man. "All right," Felix said, "let's see if this one can tell us something interesting. Take him to our hut. Comrade Volkhov, could you go get Sergei." Sergei was the newly joined partisan who spoke German.

  "Already did," Volkhov answered. "He's waiting in our hut." Volkhov did a sharp turn and led the way. He took long strides for his size, and his boots made small, precise indentations in the snow.

  The hut Felix, Yuri, Misha, and Volkhov shared was the largest of them all. In addition to being the place where they slept, it also served as a gathering place. When Felix crawled inside it now, he found it full of drunk and boisterous partisans. They were passing a bottle around, eating chocolate, and trading black humor jokes about the war. Felix considered kicking them outside, but the wind had started gusting and dark clouds now blotted out the light of the moon. Besides, they were all having a good time, and Felix wanted them to enjoy themselves.

  He cleared people out of a corner of the hut and Yuri pushed the German down to the ground there. The German sat on the ground with his legs crossed, Yuri towering over him, gripping his rifle tightly and keeping his finger on the trigger. Felix wanted to tell him to relax, but had learned that never did any good with Yuri.

  Volkhov sat next to Felix. Their translator, Sergei, sat between them and the German prisoner.

  "Put out that candle," Felix ordered Sergei.

  "But why, comrade?" Volkhov asked Felix. "It's not very light in here as it is."

  Felix hated being in such close proximity to cockroaches, and the light made it worse.

  "There's plenty of light in here without that candle," Felix said.

  Sergei blew the candle out.

  Volkhov had a pencil and a small notebook in his lap. "Have you been a part of many interrogations?" he asked Felix.

  Felix thought back to when he and Dima were prisoners of the Germans. "A few," he answered.

  "I haven't done any," Volkhov said, "so I'll defer to you for now."

  Sergei asked the German something, got a response, then addressed Felix and Volkhov, "His name is Friedrich von Manstein."

  "I didn't ask for his name," Felix said irritably.

  "I'm sorry, comrade," Sergei replied. "I just assumed . . .."

  Felix didn't like to be reminded that the cockroaches had names. "Ask him where he was going tonight," he said.

  Sergei conversed back and forth with the German for a minute or two. "Well?" Felix asked
impatiently.

  "He won't say," Sergei said.

  "What?" Volkhov shouted over the din in the hut. "Speak up. We can't hear you."

  "I said, 'He won't tell us,'" Sergei said louder.

  Volkhov looked to Felix. Felix took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He didn't want to be doing this right now.

  "Tell him we'll kill him if he doesn't answer us," Felix said.

  Sergei told the man, then reported back, "He says we're going to kill him anyway, so what does it matter."

  Natasha came into the hut and asked Felix how much longer the interrogation would take. Felix smelled she was wearing perfume now and felt an intense desire rise from his waist and spread throughout his entire body. He shivered slightly and tried to refocus on the situation at hand.

  Volkhov wiped his glasses on his shirt and said to Natasha, "As long as it needs to take."

  Felix arched his eyebrows and gave Volkhov a sidelong glance, at which point Volkhov said, "My apologies, Comrade Lieutenant. She was obviously talking to you." He put his glasses back on and looked away.

  "Tell him we'll give him a drink of alcohol and a cigarette if he tells us how many men they have defending the big hills south of here," Felix said to Sergei.

  Sergei translated, then said back, "He says to give him the booze and cigarette first. Then he'll tell you."

  Felix yelled to the four men playing cards in the opposite corner to pass him the bottle they were sharing. Then he gave it to the German and motioned for him to take a drink.

  The young prisoner was dressed poorly for the cold weather. Instead of a winter coat, he wore an autumn jacket with a rain coat over top. His gloves were thin, and his thick, full beard was more likely out of necessity than anything else. There was a fresh scar on his left temple that looked like a bullet had recently grazed him. Felix reveled in the thought that it was probably from the rifle of one of his partisans. They'd been harassing the Germans for the past couple weeks.