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

by JV Love

  Felix and Dima ran down an adjacent alley to the main road. When they passed the third house, they turned back toward the main road and stopped at a house on the corner. Dima readied his Molotov Cocktail and Felix stole a glance around the corner. They were now behind the tank and could see it slowly making its way up the road, decimating the Volunteers that remained.

  Dima lit the cocktail, stepped out from behind the house, threw it at the tank, and quickly stepped back behind the safety of the house. Felix, looking around the corner, saw that Dima hit the tank. It was covered in flames. After a few seconds, the men inside scrambled out. One of them was on fire and died a few feet from the tank. Another ran to the opposite side of Felix and Dima and disappeared behind the houses.

  There was gunfire throughout the small village now.

  "Good," Dima said, "that means we must be fighting back. I saw a good spot to fire from on our way here. Let's go back there."

  Dima led as they made their way back down the alley. Felix's legs felt like rubber and he cursed the fact that he didn't have a gun.

  As they ran around the corner of a small house covered with grape vines, they surprised three German soldiers on the other side. Two of them were kneeling on the ground and had just finished setting up a machine gun; their rifles were lying on the ground next to them. The third soldier was standing, rifle in hand, on guard for anything. He'd been looking the opposite way when Felix and Dima rounded the corner. He turned around quickly now, but it was already too late. Dima stopped, took aim, and fired a shot into the man's chest before he had a chance to shoot at them.

  One of the other Germans tried to swing the machine gun around and shoot at Felix and Dima, and the other lunged for his rifle on the ground, but Dima and Felix were already too close. Dima charged with his bayonet at the soldier on the right, and Felix gripped the handle of his shovel and swung it like a club at the soldier on the left. The man didn't have enough time to get out of the way, and put his arm up to block the blow. The edge of the shovel hit his forearm, cutting deeply into his flesh. He staggered to the right, his helmet fell off, and he tried to run away, but Felix swung his shovel again, this time over his head like an ax. He struck the man on top of the head and then watched him collapse to the ground, face first, blood gushing from the back of his skull. Felix raised the shovel over his head again to strike a final blow. But as he did, the man turned over and looked up at him, and Felix couldn't do it. He couldn't kill him. He brought the shovel down to his side and rested it on the ground.

  A terrifying scream brought his attention to Dima. Felix looked over just in time to see Dima thrusting his bayonet into the stomach of the other soldier. The man fell to his knees, and then his side, and then gasped for air. Dima kicked the man's rifle away from him so he couldn't reach it, and then looked at Felix. Dima's eyes grew large instantly, and he yelled, "Watch out!" Instinctively, Felix took a step back, but not before he felt a sharp pain. He stumbled backward a few steps and then made his way slowly to the ground. He'd been stabbed with a knife.

  Dima rushed over and thrust his bayonet into the ribs of the German soldier. "Why didn't you finish him off?!" Dima chastised Felix.

  Felix was in shock and couldn't reply - not that he knew the answer anyway.

  Dima's bayonet stuck in the dead man's ribs and he couldn't get it out. After a few attempts, he abandoned the effort and dragged the dead German soldiers in front of the machine gun and stacked them on top of one another. Felix then watched as Dima swung the machine gun around and fired at several German soldiers trying to cross from one side of the road to the other. Of the four Germans that made the attempt, only one reached the other side.

  The pain from the stab wound was the most intense thing Felix had ever experienced. All the blood coming from the wound compounded the nausea he'd already been feeling and he had to turn his head and vomit on the ground next to him. The voice in his head that had been saying, "I don't want to be here; I don't want to be doing this," was through whispering.

  Now it just screamed.

  * * *

  It was early morning when Alfred woke up. He'd slept for over ten hours straight. He was covered with sweat. The bed sheet snaked around his arms and legs. Alfred untwirled it and threw it across the room. Damn this country, he muttered. He'd come here to prevent a catastrophe, but they hadn't listened to him. And what happened to that shower he was supposed to get? Probably just another lie, he told himself.

  He scratched two of the half dozen mosquito bites on his arms, legs, and neck, but then stopped because he knew that it only made the discomfort worse in the long run. He rose slowly and walked over to the window. It was hot and the room was stuffy.

  The window was dingy, and he noticed that it was cracked in one of the corners. He tapped it a few times until it broke and then stuck his nose as close to it as he could to breathe the fresh air. He could smell lavender from somewhere and it reminded him of his mother's garden - that wonderful garden where she grew everything under the sun. He recalled how he used to pick strawberries to eat and how his legs would itch from the leaves. Strawberries had always been his favorite and he thought of how good one would taste right now. But then a quick boiling anger erupted within him and he struck his fist against the wall. As if his jailers didn't torture him enough - he had to torture himself as well!

  He felt better after they served him his breakfast. Again, he'd gotten English tea, and was grateful for it. When they came to take him to the interrogation room, he felt up to the challenge. For the first four hours, they discussed Alfred's scheduled "speech" and Alfred argued with New Face over every assumption and nuance in their conversation. He wouldn't give an inch.

  "So, in principle, you agree with me," New Face said as he leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head.

  "In principle," Alfred replied," I believe in right and wrong, good and bad, and truth and lies."

  New Face arched his eyebrows. "And where has this misguided philosophy got you in life?"

  "This misguided philosophy has landed me in a Soviet prison where I spend my days either in a tiny cell by myself or in a tiny cell talking to you."

  "And do you like spending your days this way?"

  "It's great," Alfred said sarcastically, and watched New Face for his reaction.

  New Face almost smiled, but didn't. "Do you like talking to me for hours on end?" he asked.

  "Oh yes, it's fascinating," Alfred said and started to laugh, half out of delirium and half out of exasperation. But he couldn't laugh completely because it hurt his ribs too much.

  "Alfred," New Face said, "it's time to be honest with yourself. Don't you think it's about time you do something different?"

  Alfred held his aching ribs with his right hand and shrugged his shoulders.

  "You're a soldier," New Face said, "what would you do if you were going into battle and your gun didn't work?"

  "I'd try to fix it."

  "And if it still didn't work?"

  "I'd get a new one that did work."

  "Precisely! So throw away these anachronistic views of yours and adopt some that work! These are not the old times anymore. The truth is what the people need to hear - it's that simple. Here in the Soviet Union, the Party makes the decisions and . . ."

  "The Party doesn't decide for me," Alfred interrupted.

  New Face frowned at Alfred's statement. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing his face close to Alfred. His slate-colored eyes taking on a duller shade of grey. "I think it's helpful at times like this," he said slowly, "to remind ourselves of why we're here and why we're both interested in a successful outcome." He sat back in his chair, but kept his gaze fixed on Alfred.

  "What is it that I want?" he asked rhetorically. "I want to get away from this miserable little outpost and return to Moscow. And you . . ., I suppose you would like to continue living, yes?"

  Alfred didn't respond, instead he focused his attention on how New Face's dark hair was alwa
ys combed straight back so perfectly. He wondered how much effort that took. As long as he focused on that, he wasn't really in that room - wasn't really in the situation he was in.

  New Face didn't wait for Alfred's answer. "Now then," he continued, "let's review once again the important points of what you're going to say and where you'll stand on the stage."

  Another hour went by and things started to seem futile to Alfred. He felt his will slowly breaking. New Face never quit. Even when Alfred had succeeded in getting him to acquiesce on a particular point, it would only be a matter of time until New Face returned to the same point and started from the baseline. It infuriated Alfred. He couldn't argue like that. Once a point was won or lost, you had to move on. Those were the rules when one was debating. You couldn't go back to a point and start again as if you hadn't already discussed it. But that was exactly what New Face did, and Alfred was through being angry about it. He was resigned.

  After another half hour, Alfred was back in his cell. He laid on the bed and wondered what the point of anything was. He felt so out of place in this day and age. Nobody wanted to try to understand anyone else. Nobody was interested in the truth or honesty or good intentions. No matter the country, leaders all seemed to prey on people's fears. It was a game of "you're either with us or against us." Independent thinking was frowned upon. It was dangerous. To question authority was to question life itself, and no mere soldier or citizen was qualified to do that. No, to question those in power was to risk your life. Alfred felt like crying, but again no tears would come. Where were they? Where were all those tears that he never allowed to see the light of day?

  He longed for freedom, for the time when man was free to speak his mind and live as he pleased. But when was that time? Had it ever existed? History had always been one of Alfred's passions, and he strained his mind to think of a time when man was truly free. He thought of the ancient Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians . . .. But none of them. Not a single one of them had ever allowed man to be free!

  Freedom. The thought weighed heavy on his mind. What exactly was it? And why did he need it? There was freedom from hunger, freedom from pain, freedom from suffering, freedom from death . . .. But no, there was no freedom from death. No one could escape it - not the rich man, not the holy man, not even the one with the heart of gold. Perhaps true freedom is merely acceptance, he thought. Acceptance that to live means to suffer and to eventually die. Wasn't that what everyone was fighting for? A vain attempt to decrease their suffering. Thinking that more military victories or more land will somehow make them happy.

  But if people accepted suffering - accepted it as a part of life - then wouldn't that change something?

  He didn't know the answer. He was filled with despair and wanted nothing more to do with the world. He was through with it. He was through fighting to ease his suffering. And if death was ready for him, he was certainly ready for death.

  "Nazi criminal," a voice announced from the hallway, "your dinner is here."

  Alfred didn't answer, didn't move. He thought of home, the lavender in the garden, the

  fresh strawberries in June . . ..

  The man opened the door and walked in. "Well, General P__ was shot last night," he announced as he set the tray down. "Too many complaints and not enough victories, I guess."

  Alfred looked at the man and was filled with hate. He sprung from his bed and put him in a choke hold before the man could utter a sound. Then he used his weight to swing the man around and smash his head into the brick wall. He only had to do it two times until the man's body went limp, then Alfred laid him down on the floor. He was still alive, just unconscious.

  Alfred took the man's Soviet army fatigues off and put them on. They fit rather tightly, but at least they fit. He quickly and quietly moved his bed away from the wall, removed the bricks to his hole, and set them off to the side. He squeezed through the opening head first, and found himself on the other side behind a small bush with sharp thorns.

  He looked around and saw the guard standing in the tower in the far corner. It was the same tower he could see from the window in his cell. A light breeze brought him the scent of lavender again. The sun was high in the sky. White clouds drifted by aimlessly. Everything was remarkably quiet. The colors around him seemed brighter than usual. There was a strange familiarity to it all, like he had seen all this before, only a long time ago.

  Two Soviet soldiers walked out the door of the building on his left. They were chatting and both stopped to light cigarettes, then continued on around the corner of the building in front of Alfred. He didn't know what was on the other side of that building, but he hoped that the complex's exit was there.

  Alfred looked around again, and seeing no one, stood up and started walking. After a few seconds, he glanced up at the guard in the tower and saw he was looking at him. Then that image from his dream came back to him - he, a small boy, screaming and crying on his bed and beating the pillow with his fists, and his father walking in and telling him to stop crying, telling him to "grow up and be a man." Alfred had stopped crying, wiping the tears from his eyes and coming to an understanding with his father that crying was something boys - and ultimately men - did not do.

  He was nearing the corner of the building and could hear some men having a conversation. They were talking about a long forgotten song that their parents used to sing and were trying to remember some of the lyrics. "The willow tree whispers my name," one of them hummed, "and the wolf searches for the water, but the stream has dried up . . ."

  "No, it wasn't a willow tree," one of the others interrupted.

  Alfred pulled his cap down tighter over his head. When he turned the corner, he saw the three of them congregating in front of the exit that led to the outside. One seemed to be the guard on duty; he was standing with his back to the exit and holding a semi-automatic rifle. The other two had their backs to him. The exit to the outside of the complex was about six feet wide. There was a giant wooden door that could be closed, but it looked as if it was permanently propped open.

  Through the exit, Alfred could see a narrow dirt road and lots of open space. There were jeeps and motorcycles parked in front of a small building about 50 yards away. Alfred hoped to make it there and hop on one of the motorcycles. He'd grown up with motorcycles and knew how to start one without the keys. But first, Alfred would have to get through the exit.

  As he approached, he bowed his head and crossed his right arm in front of his face, pretending to scratch his left eyebrow. Alfred wasn't sure if he would be questioned as he went through. He thought of what he might say if he had to speak. It had to be something short, a word or phrase that was used often, so that he could mumble it slightly so they wouldn't recognize any accent. With his limited Russian, if he had to speak more than two words, he was doomed.

  Just as Alfred approached, an officer walked through from the outside. Upon seeing the man, the guard stopped talking and stood at attention. His two companions left abruptly. The officer stopped in front of the guard, looking him up and down. "Are you supposed to be socializing while you're on duty?" he asked him. Alfred recognized New Face's voice. "No, comrade," came the response.

  Alfred was too close to turn away without drawing attention to himself. He passed within a few feet of the two men as he walked through the exit. He was then outside the complex and walking toward the motorcycles. From behind him, he heard someone sniffing loudly. "When's the last time you bathed?" New Face asked the guard.

  "Just last night, comrade."

  "Then why do you stink so bad?"

  "It's not me. It must be him."

  Alfred was sure he was being pointed at, and that both of them were staring at him as he walked away.

  "Comrade," New Face yelled in Alfred's direction, "may I have a word with you."

  Alfred kept walking.

  "Who was that?" New Face asked the guard.

  The guard said he didn't know, then yelled at Alfred to stop.

  Alfred knew t
hat if he turned around, it was the end. He pretended he didn't hear anything and kept walking away.

  New Face ordered the guard to fire a warning shot.

  "Halt!" the guard yelled again and shot his gun into the air.

  There was a thick evergreen tree next to the motorcycles. If Alfred could get away with a few more steps, then he could run and make it to the tree.

  "I know that smell," Alfred heard New Face say. Then, in German, New Face called out, "Stop! Or you will be shot!"

  Alfred decided to make a run for the tree. His heart was pounding furiously and he took off like a charging bear. He could be at the tree in only a few seconds.

  "Shoot him!" New Face yelled to the guard.

  Bullets whizzed past Alfred, striking the ground around him and kicking up little clouds of dust. He felt something sting him in his left forearm and knew he'd been shot. Before he made it around to the other side of the tree, he felt something else penetrate his chest through his back. It didn't hurt, but he could instantly feel that it was harder to breathe.

  He sat on the other side of the tree with his back against it. The sound of gunfire quickly faded, and all was quiet again. He closed his eyes and the image from his dream was there again. But then he remembered something else, something he'd never remembered before. He remembered the look on his father's face - that look of exasperation, of anger and despair. And then Alfred had the strange feeling that he'd had these issues and these confrontations with his father many, many times - more than just this one lifetime.

  He opened his eyes and looked at the clouds again. Big white cotton balls floating through the sky. They were so beautiful. He tried to suppress a cough, but couldn't and blood came up into his mouth.

  Alfred had the realization that he and his father were continually choosing each other in that place between death and rebirth in the hope that they could transcend their differences and help one another move one step closer to the Light. He thought back to his childhood and the violence that had been inflicted on him in the name of religion and tough love. He thought of the constant criticism and the indifference with which his father had regarded him. He felt so angry about it. So many vile things he'd always wanted to say to his father.