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

by JV Love

  "Looks like you're going to have to dig into your bag of tricks and get us another ride over that lake," Felix said to Misha.

  Misha didn't reply, and Felix turned around and saw he was still lying in the thick snow on top of the ice. "Misha," he shouted. "It's over. They're gone. You can get up now."

  Still no response.

  Felix felt his stomach tighten. "Misha!" he called out even louder and walked toward him.

  As he got nearer, he saw the awful red snow under Misha's head. He knelt down and gently rolled Misha over. His right eye was drenched with blood and he was unconscious. One of the nurses skied over and kneeled down next to Felix. She worked without her mittens, placing her fingers in her mouth from time-to-time to keep them warm.

  "He's still alive," she said after a minute, "but he needs to see a doctor. We have to get him to a medical station right away."

  "We passed one not too long ago," Felix said.

  "Yes, that's the closest one. It's about a mile and a half from here," she said.

  Felix hesitated, looking to the other side of the lake where Leningrad was. If he went back with Misha, he'd be delayed for several hours - perhaps even a day. He started to mull over his options, but then stopped himself. He knew what he had to do.

  He started looking for a means of transportation to take them to the medical station. The trucks were out, so that left the sledges. Carefully, Felix circled around the wide cracks in the ice that led to the numerous bomb craters. He saw four men gathered around the horse that had been wounded. They had cut open its belly and were emptying the still-warm carcass of its internal organs. They did it all with their bare hands, then dumped the inedible parts down one of the bomb craters. The horse's carcass was tied to one of the sledges to be dragged along behind. Its meat would not be wasted.

  Felix came up to one of the sledge drivers as he shoveled fresh snow over the blood stains the horse had left on the ice. "Help me bury those two men," the man said to Felix, nodding with his head toward two bodies a little ways away from them.

  Together they dragged the two bloody corpses to the nearest crater and dropped them in.

  "Did you know them?" Felix asked.

  "I was transporting them in my sledge," the man said.

  "So you have some free space now?" Felix asked hopefully. "Can you take me and my comrade who's been wounded to the nearest medical station?"

  The man shook his head. "My orders are to return immediately once I've finished. There's others waiting."

  Felix tried to think of what Misha would do or say to convince the man. "We have some cigarettes we could give you," he said.

  "I don't smoke," the man replied and started to walk away.

  "Wait," Felix said, taking him by the arm. "My friend is badly injured. He needs to get to a medical station right away."

  "There'll be a sledge along shortly to pick up the wounded," the man said.

  "No, he can't wait."

  "He'll have to. I'm not going that direction." The man tried to free his arm, but Felix wouldn't let go.

  "I'll make you a deal," Felix said.

  "What kind of deal?"

  "You agree to take us to the medical station . . ."

  "And?"

  "And I promise I won't shoot you."

  The man was taken aback. He opened his mouth but didn't say anything.

  "Yes?" Felix said.

  The man nodded his head slowly.

  They loaded Misha into the back of the sledge, then Felix jumped in and covered them both with some straw to keep warm. The driver cracked his whip and the horse started forward.

  It was a painfully slow trip. The horse moved just slightly faster than Felix could have walked. When they finally arrived at the medical station, it was dark and Misha was still unconscious. A pair of nurses came out of an ice hut and they helped roll Misha onto a stretcher and get him inside.

  A young female doctor inspected his eye and promptly decided they needed to operate. They took him behind some curtains and told Felix to go to the hut next door and see if they had any room for him to sleep that night.

  Felix didn't sleep well once again. He laid awake most of the night thinking either about Katya or Misha. He got up and left the hut just as the sun rose around ten in the morning.

  Outside, he noticed one other ice hut in addition to the one he'd slept in and the one that served as a medical station. Two men came out of the hut, talking about how this was the harshest winter they could ever remember. Felix wanted some company and was pleased to see them walk in his direction. When they saw Felix and the lieutenant insignia on his coat, they saluted and walked on in silence.

  Felix took his mittens off, then undid the insignia from his coat and put it in his pocket. He hated that a little piece of metal had such a profound effect on some people. It created a distance between them before they'd even met.

  A truck with a humongous black pot in the back pulled up and the elderly woman driver honked the horn a few times before climbing out. Felix smelled something delicious - stew maybe - and realized this truck was the field kitchen.

  "Good morning, young man," the woman said. "Are you hungry?"

  "Always," Felix replied. He never got to eat three meals a day anymore. He ate when he could and if he could. It was usually the case that he got one meal a day, then snacked on some bread before he went to sleep.

  The woman came closer and looked him over. "I can tell you're not from Leningrad," she said.

  "No, but that's where I'm going," Felix replied.

  "Well then you better get your fill now," she said. "Ain't no food in the city."

  She got a large ladle out of the cab and then climbed up on the back of the truck. When she opened the lid on the black pot, a cloud of steam rose up. She stuck the ladle inside and began to stir.

  "You got a bowl?" she asked.

  "No."

  "I've got one you can use then," she said. "But you have to give it back to me before I leave." She scooped a large helping of stew into a tin bowl and handed it to Felix. "There's some bread in there," she said, pointing to a bin next to the little fire under the pot. "Just pull that door up."

  Felix opened it and saw a hundred thick slices of black bread. He could tell just by looking at it that it was good quality. He took a piece and settled onto a snow drift. Then he pulled his spoon out of his boot and started to eat.

  The nurses, three in all, came out of the first hut and half a dozen soldiers out of the second and third huts. They all had their bowls in hand.

  Felix asked one of the nurses how Misha was doing.

  "He just woke up," she answered. "The doctor is checking him over now, but you can go see him in a few minutes if you like."

  "Yes, I'll do that," Felix said. "Thank you."

  When everyone had been served, the woman began packing things up to go to her next stop. Before she left, Felix went up to her and gave her the tin bowl back. She looked around and, seeing no one, slipped Felix a few extra pieces of bread. "Here," she said, "you're going to need this if you're going to Leningrad. Be safe."

  Felix thanked her, then she got into the truck and pulled away in a cloud of exhaust.

  Another truck pulled up just as the field kitchen departed and a woman opened the passenger-side door and hollered for Felix to help her carry a wounded man inside. The soldier was bleeding badly from his right leg and couldn't walk.

  Felix helped get him inside, then went to check on Misha. He found his friend in the far corner. A pretty, young nurse with curly blonde hair was feeding him stew one spoonful at a time.

  Felix held out his hand for the bowl. "I can do this," he said to her. "I'm sure you have plenty of other things you need to."

  She handed him the stew. "Thank you, comrade," she said.

  "What are you doing?" Misha said after the nurse was out of hearing range. "She completely adored me."

  Felix laughed. He was glad Misha seemed to be himself already. There was a patch covering the ey
e that had been wounded, but other than that he looked fine.

  "How are you feeling?" Felix asked.

  "I've got one hell of a headache," Misha answered, "but the doctor tells me I'm lucky to be alive. She pulled one piece of shrapnel out. She thinks there might be another one, too, but said she couldn't find it."

  "Is your eye going to be all right?"

  Misha shook his head slightly. "What eye?" he said. "She took it out."

  "I'm sorry," Felix said.

  "Don't worry about it. This could be a good look for me," Misha joked. "Women love war heroes. And plus I've always wanted to be a pirate." He laughed at his joke then sat up in bed. A second later, he got a glazed look on his face and his head began going in circles.

  A nurse rushed over and laid him back down. "Comrade, I told you not to try to get up. You've had a concussion and it's going to take a while for you to get your sense of balance back."

  "Looks like I won't be going anywhere for a while," Misha said to Felix.

  "How long will it take?" Felix asked the nurse.

  "A few days minimum," she answered. "Possibly a week."

  The truck driver who'd brought the wounded man, and the woman who'd hollered for Felix to help were in the hut. Felix overheard the truck driver saying his farewell to the woman.

  "Off so soon?" the nurse standing next to Felix said.

  "Yes," the driver answered. "Leningrad needs me."

  "You're going to Leningrad now?" Felix asked.

  The driver nodded. "You want a ride?"

  Felix hesitated and looked at Misha.

  "I know what you're thinking," Misha said. "You don't have to wait for me. I'll be all right."

  "You sure?" Felix asked.

  "Of course," Misha said. "Get out of here."

  "Yes, I'll go with you," Felix said to the driver.

  "All right. I'm leaving in five minutes," the driver said and left the hut.

  Felix turned back to Misha, grabbed him by the arm and squeezed. "Listen," he said, "you've done a lot for me and I want to thank you for . . ."

  "No, no. It was nothing," Misha interrupted.

  "You don't even know what I was going to say thank you for," Felix said.

  "Whatever it is, it was nothing," Misha said. "Let's just shake hands and say, 'Til next time.'"

  Felix thought a moment. "No, I'm not going to do that. We might not ever see one another again and I don't want to regret not saying the things that need to be said. You've helped me and supported me every step of the way, and I wouldn't have made it this far without you."

  Misha, clearly uncomfortable, started fidgeting with his hands.

  "You've been a good friend, and . . ."

  "Oh, come on, stop it," Misha said. "I'm just a drunk - a fool."

  "No," Felix said emphatically. "You're not."

  Misha was quiet, then slowly turned his head and met Felix's eyes. "Thanks," he said.

  Felix got up to leave. "I won't forget you."

  Misha smiled. His eye was watery. "You take care of yourself, Felix."

  "You too," Felix said. "Goodbye, my friend."

  "Do me a favor," Misha said as Felix started to walk away. "Before you leave, ask that nurse if she'll finish feeding me."

  Felix laughed. "Okay," he said. "I'll do that."

  * * *

  It was morning and Petya was on his hands and knees on the sidewalk in front of their building. He was looking for clues as to his mission in the ice underneath the snow. It was a tedious process - scraping away inch after inch of compacted snow until the ice underneath could be seen. He thought for sure this was where God would leave the instructions for him.

  For weeks, Petya had been using a magnifying glass to study the ice formations in the frost on their apartment windows because Katya told him that if he looked long and hard he'd find God's message there. She said God's message "was everywhere," but the ice crystals on the windows were a good place to start. Petya tried it for weeks, but couldn't find a single letter or number. He'd asked Katya to tell him what words she could see, but she only replied that God didn't communicate in Russian. When he asked what language he did communicate in, she'd only say that one had to figure that out for themselves.

  Petya didn't believe her anymore, and as he carefully scraped away another patch of snow and recognized the Russian letter "K" in the ice, he was sure she'd been misleading him all this time. Of course the crack in the ice could have just been a random squiggle that by chance looked like a "K," but that's exactly what God would want the average person to think. His message was meant only for Petya, and Petya knew that squiggle that looked like a "K" was no mere coincidence.

  It was a cloudless, windless day and the morning sun was shining brightly. It was bitterly cold out, and every time Petya exhaled, his breath obscured his vision. He used his hand to try to redirect the air from his mouth. After the "K," he found a "B" and was especially pleased to have found two letters in one day. He'd add them to the ones he'd found on previous days: "A," "C," "O," "X," and "E." That afternoon, he'd see if he could arrange the letters into a word.

  As he got up from the sidewalk, his left suspender came unhooked from his pants. He'd lost 83 pounds since the start of the blockade and suspenders were the only way he could keep any of his pants up. His weight - finally stable at 123 - was undeniably better than most. Many a man in the city considered himself fortunate if he weighed over 100.

  He re-fastened the suspender and went to check the large bulletin board in the middle of their block. There were a number of pieces of paper on it, most of which Petya had already seen:

  Missing: Five-year-old girl with black hair and brown eyes. Was last seen walking from here toward Nevsky Prospekt . . .

  For Sale: Phonograph and records, man's leather boots and fur coat, baby crib . . .

  Will remove corpses for food . . .

  The last one was his. He'd put them up all over the city. It was the only way he was making it through the blockade. All the able-bodied men were at the front, and most Leningraders - whether man or woman - simply didn't have the strength to take dead bodies down stairs and then pull them on sleds to the morgues or cemeteries.

  Petya scanned through the notices quickly until he saw a new one. On January 8th - today - the Young Communists were having a winter coat and clothing collection for war orphans and soldiers at the front. As soon as Petya figured out what it was, he stopped reading and tried to quickly move on to another notice. But it was too late. That confounding voice in his head told him that he had to help, just as Petya feared it would. It was useless to try to fight it. If God told him to do something, he had no choice but to obey. He already had a lot to do that day but resigned himself to the fact that he now had even more to do.

  When he got back to the apartment, Katya was in her usual place seated in a chair facing the front door. Petya squeezed by her, looking over her shoulder as he did so. He saw she was drawing another one of her endless pictures of Jesus. That was all she seemed to do every day now.

  Each picture she drew was the same in one astonishing way - Jesus would be smiling and laughing. Petya still remembered the first time he saw one of those drawings and how stunned he'd been. Most every picture, painting, or drawing of Jesus he'd ever seen in his life was of the son of God in agony as he died of crucifixion. Or with a sad but peaceful look on his face as he looked upward in prayer. Or maybe Jesus with the crown of thorns on his head - blood streaming down his forehead, his face weary from the pain and humiliation. Never in his life had Petya seen pictures of Jesus like Katya's - with smiles and laughter, and happy expressions on all the disciples' faces.

  The voice of God in Petya's head was strangely silent on the subject and Petya didn't know what to think. He'd asked her to explain the drawings to him once, and she'd simply said, "My Jesus was full of peace and joy. And that's what he tried to teach others."

  Petya sat down across from Oksana, who was lying in bed moaning softly every now and then. Sh
e'd taken a turn for the worse in the past week and hadn't been able to make it into work. She complained incessantly that her stomach hurt, was convinced she had an ulcer, and that she was going to die. Petya thought she was probably right - half the food you ate these days was inedible. And ulcers were indeed fatal. He hoped she'd die soon; he had plans for her.

  He wrote the letters "" and "" in his journal. Then he grabbed a large brown bag for the coats and clothing he hoped his neighbors would donate, and left the apartment.

  The first apartment he came to on the fourth floor was one he didn't particularly want to stop at. The woman that lived there didn't like Petya and usually didn't try to hide the fact.

  "You?" she said, peeking through the crack in the door. She kept the chain on it locked. "I don't believe it. What are you up to?"

  "I already told you," Petya said. "They're having a coat and clothing drive for soldiers at the front and war orphans. I just saw the notice on the bulletin board. The Young Communists are sponsoring it."

  "I still don't believe you," the woman said. "You probably just want to sell whatever I give you on the market. Now go away." She slammed the door shut.

  Petya trudged down the stairs and back to the bulletin board, took the notice down, then went back to the woman's apartment and knocked on her door again. She wouldn't open it to him, so he slid the notice under her door.

  A minute later, she opened the door, keeping the chain locked, and squeezed a coat out the three-inch crack between the door and the doorframe. "Even if you are lying," she said, "ain't nobody gonna pay you a kopeck on the market for this old coat anyway."

  "Thank you. You are a most kind and munificent woman," Petya said sarcastically and moved on.

  At the next door, an old man covered with boils answered. After Petya's explanation, the man opened the door and let him in. The boils were another of the many results of malnutrition. Petya saw he even had boils on his fingers, several of them lanced and unhealed.