Burying the Sun

by Gloria Whelan

  Gloria Whelan

  Burying the Sun

  To Susan Rich

  In Petersburg we’ll meet again,

  As though we’d buried the sun there.

  —from Tristia by Osip Mandelstam,

  translated by Bruce A. McClelland

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  The Summer Garden

  Chapter Two

  War

  Chapter Three

  Preparing for Battle

  Chapter Four

  Marya Leaves

  Chapter Five

  Defending the City

  Chapter Six

  Spies

  Chapter Seven

  Under Fire

  Chapter Eight

  Alone

  Chapter Nine

  “The Road of Life”

  Chapter Ten

  Return

  Chapter Eleven

  Fyodor

  Chapter Twelve

  Spring Thaw

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Leningrad Symphony

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Other Books by Gloria Whelan

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SUMMER GARDEN

  June 21, 1941

  Later that day everything would change, but on that afternoon the six of us were sprawled on the lawn of Leningrad’s Summer Garden, our stomachs full, our picnic baskets empty. The last of the ice had long since drifted down the Neva, and now sailboats were sweeping along the river “like the wings of giant seagulls.” That was how Yelena described them. Like me, Yelena was nearly fifteen. She was a poet and looked the way you would imagine a poet looked, with lilacs tucked into her long honey-colored braid and a flowered dress. She was small, while I was a skinny six feet, so I always felt like a giant next to her. Though she looked delicate, she was as quick as a rabbit. When we raced each other, she could run as fast as I could.

  “Georgi,” she would taunt me, “catch me if you can.” Off she would go, laughing at me as I raced to keep up. School was over, and Yelena was going to work in the Leningrad Public Library among the books she loved. “Rooms full of them, Georgi,” she said, “maybe a million, and I’m going to read every one.”

  I would be working among the thousands of paintings at the Hermitage, the great museum that was a part of the Winter Palace. While Yelena was checking out books, I would be pushing a mop. What I really wanted to do was repair cars, which is something I’m good at. There aren’t many automobiles in Leningrad, so the auto mechanic who lets me fool around in his shop couldn’t afford to pay me to work for him. My sister, Marya, found me the job at the Hermitage. She works as a secretary to the director.

  That afternoon in the Summer Garden, my mother was there along with Marya. Yelena had come with her mother, Olga, and her grandfather Viktor. Yelena’s family, the Daskals, like our family, had been arrested for opposing Stalin and exiled to Siberia. Yelena’s father, like my father, had died there. Five years ago we had returned to Leningrad—St. Petersburg, Mama still called the city.

  We all had new lives now. We had put the misery of Siberia behind us. Viktor was a bookkeeper at an aircraft factory, and Olga played the violin in the Leningrad Radio Symphony. Mama worked as a nurse at the Erisman Hospital.

  Yelena’s grandfather Viktor still lived in the past. I think he was bitter because he had survived and his son had not. He had a long face, pinched in at the cheeks with great pouches under his watery eyes. The corners of his mouth were ever turned downward. Even Yelena, who could cheer anyone up, could not make him smile.

  “Katya Ivanova,” Viktor said to Mama, “I am ashamed to be a Russian. It sickens me that we should be allies with those Nazi barbarians.”

  Nearly two years before, in 1939, Russia and Germany had signed a friendship treaty. Russia closed its eyes while Germany fought England and the rest of Europe. Russia had even shared in the spoils as Germany stole one country after another, marching into Poland and Finland and the Baltic countries, swallowing them up like a greedy child.

  “Russia has left behind a trail of death and suffering, Viktor Alexandrovich,” Mama said. “I have a terrible feeling we will pay for our sins.” Even though there was no one near us, all this was said in a quiet voice, for any words against the government were dangerous.

  “Grandfather,” Yelena pleaded, tickling him with a dandelion, “must you spoil our picnic with your gloomy thoughts?”

  My sister agreed. “There is nothing we can do about such things now, so why make ourselves miserable?” And then she added, “But the day of reckoning will come for us. Germany will turn against us. You can’t trust her. Andrei told me German soldiers and tanks are threatening our borders. He says the General Staff is waiting for orders from Stalin to get ready to fight the Germans, but the orders never come. Stalin only says rumors of Germany breaking the treaty and attacking us are a plot by the British to get us to fight on their side against Germany.” Andrei was an officer in the Red Army assigned to the General Staff Building. He and Marya were engaged, and for Marya, Andrei’s word was law.

  In spite of all the pessimistic things that were being said, it was a perfect summer day, and I tried to put such worries aside. Yet I could not forget what had happened with the Lützow. The Lützow was a great cruiser that Russia had bought from Germany. It had been towed to the Leningrad shipyards. My friend Dmitry Trushin and I often walked over after school to watch the German shipbuilders readying the Lützow for duty. The Germans were hard workers and friendly. I had hoped they might take me on as a helper. We came so often, they recognized us and would look up from their work and wave to us. Then their number began to grow smaller. Not one German shipbuilder remained, and yet there was still a lot of work to be done on the cruiser. Dmitry and I couldn’t figure it out. Why had the shipbuilders gone back to Germany?

  Marya’s talk of a war with Germany may have answered the question, but on so fine a day I didn’t want to think about such things. I swallowed the last of the krendeli, the little heart-shaped cookies that Olga had baked, and took Yelena’s hand. Together we wandered away from the frightening talk. I chased Yelena around the fountain and in and out among the trees and statues until I caught her and, looking quickly to see that no one was near, kissed her.

  She darted away, calling over her shoulder, “I dare you to try that again.”

  University students recovering from their graduation parties of the night before were resting on the ground, as lifeless as fallen trees. Children had taken off their shoes and socks and were splashing about in the fountain. One boy, braver than the others, climbed right into the fountain’s spout and stood there, mouth open and eyes closed, as the waters washed over him. I could tell Yelena was tempted to jump in herself.

  Yelena and I settled down on a bench. The next day there was to be a soccer game at the Dynamo Stadium. I emptied my pockets, carefully counting my money to be sure I had enough for one of the cheap seats. Yelena shook her head.

  “For the same money,” she said, “you could get a ticket for the ballet. Ulanova is dancing Romeo and Juliet.”

  It was our old argument. She wanted me to read poetry and go to the ballet. Yelena lived in her own world, where only good and beautiful things existed. If there was ugliness, she would not admit it. She could even turn war into something beautiful. Secretly she wrote poems about the noble Finns and Poles who fought for their independence against Russia. She had showed one of the poems to me.

  The Russian eagle’s cruel beak

  seeks a prey small and weak.

  Blood on
Finland’s white snow—

  we shut our eyes, still we know.

  I had watched as she tore the poem into little pieces, little bits of herself gone forever. You didn’t dare to criticize the government. Yelena remembered Siberia as well as I did.

  It was early evening before Yelena and I followed the others down Leningrad’s main boulevard, the Nevsky Prospekt. It was June 21, the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Everyone was in a mood to celebrate. The summer of white nights was here. There would be no darkness tonight, only a thin veil across the sun in the early-morning hours. The crowded cafés and stores would be open all night. At one of the flower stalls I bought Yelena a single yellow daffodil. She laughed at me.

  “You are a romantic after all, Georgi.”

  I said good-bye to Yelena at her door and went into our own apartment next door. The wall between our apartments was like an eggshell, and I could soon hear Olga practicing some lively piece on her violin. I sometimes wondered if she didn’t take up her violin to drown out the sound of Viktor’s grumbling.

  If Viktor was too pessimistic, Olga was just the opposite. Like Yelena, she saw everything in a sunny light. If there was a shortage of white flour, she said there was nothing so good as a buckwheat blini. If the Daskals’ apartment was tiny, she said they were living as cozily as kittens in a basket. Olga was a romantic, dressing like a Gypsy with long skirts and fringed shawls. We all loved her for her cheerfulness.

  In our apartment Marya had her head buried in one of her art books and Mama was laying out clothes for her work at the hospital the next day, which was Sunday. Before the revolution Sunday had been a day for church and rest, but now it was a workday like any other. Few churches were open. The great St. Isaac’s Cathedral, where Mama had worshiped with the tsar and his family, was now the Museum of Atheism.

  I went out onto the balcony. It was the best thing about our apartment, which was only a mousehole with a cupboard of a bedroom for Marya and Mama and a sitting room with a bit of kitchen and a couch where I slept. The balcony, a great luxury, was left over from the time when our building of small apartments had been a mansion. In the winter the balcony was covered with snow, but in the summer it was like a front porch.

  I settled down on the bench we kept there and spent the next hour gazing at the people who were walking up and down the prospekt enjoying the white night. A friend from school called up to me, and I returned his greeting. It was a great relief to have the semester over. I had one more year of school, and then I meant to apply to the Academy of Sciences. I hoped to study geography. One day I would go back to Siberia, not as an exile but as a famous scientist.

  It was after midnight and the sun was still shining when Mama told me to get ready for bed. “Tomorrow is your first day at the museum, and you had better be rested.” She smiled. “The brooms and mops won’t do their work by themselves, Georgi.” I was glad enough to have the job so that I could help Mama out, but I hated the thought of spending all my summer days shut up in a stuffy museum.

  Since there was no darkness, when I was awakened by a pounding on the door, I had no idea of the time. I looked at the clock and saw that it was only five in the morning. A loud knocking on the door was a sign to everyone of danger. I had never forgotten the night the police had pounded on our door and taken Mama and Papa away.

  Marya and Mama hurried from their small bedroom into the living room. They had hastily thrown on their robes. Mama gave us a warning glance and opened the door a crack. With relief we saw it was only Marya’s fiancé, Andrei, but there was nothing in his behavior to take away our worry. Even now, in his excitement, he was in perfect order, tall and straight, his sandy hair cut short, his cap just so, his boots like two mirrors. I envied him his uniform, but I knew it was dangerous to be an officer in the Red Army. In Stalin’s terrible purges half of the officers of the army had been executed, which was why Andrei, who was only twenty-three, was already a lieutenant.

  “I have just come from a meeting at the General Staff Building,” Andrei said. “Lieutenant General Popov has sent me on an errand to Party headquarters, and this was just a block off my path. I have only a second, but I wanted to warn you. The Germans have detained our ships, and they are moving their tanks closer to our borders. German planes have been over flying Russia. A defector from the German army says the Germans mean to attack us this very day. It will surely mean war. God help Leningrad; we are not prepared.”

  His arm was around Marya, and I was startled to see tears in his eyes. It had never occurred to me that a soldier might cry. The tears alarmed me more than anything he said.

  He was already at the door. “I came to tell you to get some food,” he said, “as much as you can afford. Soon we will all be starving.” He gave Marya a last long look and shook hands with me, man to man, which he had never done before. A moment later he was gone.

  The early-morning sun was bright, but Andrei’s frightening warning was like an invisible black cloud filling the apartment. I was sure our lives would change, but I couldn’t guess how. It seemed to me that by his handshake Andrei was letting me know that I now had some responsibility, but what could a fourteen-year-old boy do?

  “I won’t take more than our share,” Mama was saying, “but we are low on sugar and flour. I must get to the stores before I go to the hospital.”

  Mama got ready at once, not even stopping for breakfast. As if she could read my mind, she turned to me as she was going out the door and said, “Georgi, don’t do anything foolish.”

  Marya and I had a hurried breakfast of bread and jam. Marya poured tea for the two of us. We sat together at the small wooden table. Though we were five years apart, and though she was always trying to organize me, as if I were a drawer and my actions so many socks and shirts that would stay where you put them, we were close.

  When I was eight and Marya was thirteen, we traveled together a thousand miles across Siberia to find our mother. We knew we could never have survived without each other, but I had become so used to her, I took her for granted. She was always just there. Now, for the first time in many months, I studied my sister and was surprised to see how grown-up she looked, with her hair pulled back into a fancy knot and her face carefully made up. Although I would never tell her so, I decided she was very pretty.

  She asked, “Georgi, how can we fight the Germans? Their army is huge. They have tanks and bombers, and Andrei says we are unprepared.”

  “Yes, but Germany’s army is scattered all over Europe. They send their bombers over England. They have to have soldiers in France to keep order, and the Netherlands and Belgium and Poland, and there is talk of their taking Greece. With all of that going on, I can’t figure out why they are turning on us.”

  “Andrei says they want our wheat and our oil, that they can never defeat England without them.”

  “If Germany fights us,” I said, trying to figure things out, “we will be on the side of England.” For years Stalin had been telling us that England and America were our enemies.

  Marya took my hand in hers. “Georgi, if there is war, what will happen to Andrei? He might be sent to the front and killed.”

  I tried to cheer her. “No, you’ll see. They will keep him right here on the General Staff to run the war. He is too efficient to send away.”

  “Don’t make jokes, Georgi. I’m frightened.” Even when Marya had marched into the office of the secret police to find out where our parents were, she had not admitted to being afraid.

  She stood up, anxious as always for some action. “I have to hurry to the Hermitage, but there’s no point in your starting work today, Georgi. Everything will be confusion until we find out what is fact and what is rumor. If there is truly going to be a war, you will live at the Hermitage for many weeks, and so will I.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The museum is full of masterpieces. We can’t leave them to be destroyed or stolen by the Germans.”

  Stolen by the Germans. That meant Mary
a was thinking that the Germans would march into Leningrad. I said nothing, but I resolved that I would not spend the war in a museum. As soon as Marya was gone, I hurried to the bedroom and looked into the mirror. Staring back at me was a face with even features, blue eyes that tilted down a bit at the corners, brown hair that looked chopped rather than cut, and a ruddy complexion still with a sprinkling of adolescent pimples. If I was honest, I would have to admit I looked little more than my age. I tried to think what I could do to pass for eighteen, the age at which you could enlist in the army.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WAR

  June 22, 1941

  I didn’t want to stay in the apartment when everything was happening somewhere else. I wanted to talk things over with my friend Dmitry, but he would be at his job washing dishes at the Hotel Europa.

  I wandered over to Fontanska Street and the offices of the newspaper, Leningradskaya Pravda, where news bulletins were often pinned to a board. There was nothing about a war with the Germans, only a notice about a patriotic parade of university graduates that had taken place the day before. I walked down the prospekt, past the General Staff Building with its great arch dedicated to the defeat of Napoleon in the War of 1812. Russia had won that war, but Napoleon didn’t have hundreds of tanks and bombers to use against us as Germany did. I was eager to go into the General Staff Building and ask where I could enlist in the army, but I knew I should wait until war was declared; otherwise, I might get Andrei into trouble.

  Across the street from the General Staff Building was the Hermitage, where I had thought I would be working, and next to it the Winter Palace. Mama had told us in great secrecy how she had once lived in the palace with the daughters of the tsar, when her own mama was lady-in-waiting to the Empress Alexandra. Laughing, she had said, “I splashed around in the tsar’s bathtub.” All that was long ago, and until that morning I had thought I would have no chance for my own adventures, only day after day of dreary study and work. With talk of a war with Germany, the world was suddenly more exciting. Of course I had seen the worried looks on Andrei’s and Mother’s faces, but they were old.