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

by JV Love

  The great clouds of smoke in the distance started to turn from light gray to dark gray. "You know that train you just bombed was full of children," Misha said, looking intently at the pilot's face.

  "Shoot him in the knee first," Igor said. "My pa told me it hurts like hell, but won't kill a man. He said he and his buddy used to do it to the rich farmers during the Civil War."

  "Shut up," Misha said. He was looking for a quick reason to shoot the pilot dead, half hoping the man would lunge at them or turn and run.

  The German pilot looked at them both with a blank expression on his face, obviously not understanding a word of Russian. Misha made him lie on the ground and held the rifle a few inches from his head while Igor went through his pockets. Igor found a pistol, a half-eaten slab of bread, and a photo of the pilot with his family. His wife was young and beautiful, his son still a baby, and his daughter a smiling two year old with big dimples and curly blonde hair.

  The smoke in the distance was getting thicker and blacker, and Misha thought he could hear people screaming. He recalled with fondness the curious boys on the train who'd waved to him and asked him where the Germans were. That they might all be dead infuriated him. He hated the fucking Germans, this one especially. Why shouldn't he shoot this Nazi? He deserved to die for what he did.

  As the pilot laid on the ground in front of him, Misha put his boot on his neck and pushed. He placed the tip of his rifle against the man's head and started to squeeze the trigger.

  "Yeah, shoot him! Blow his brains out!" Igor yelled.

  But Misha didn't pull the trigger. Not yet. The pilot had to see what he'd done first.

  They marched along the railroad toward the smoke around the next bend in the tracks. The closer they got, the louder the yelling and screaming became. The screams were high-pitched, too high to be coming from adults. The pilot turned back toward Misha several times with his thin eyebrows arched, his jaw hanging down, a look of confusion on his face.

  Misha could just make out some of the words the adults were yelling: fire, evacuate, why, children, God, hurry, dead, why. The screaming coming from the dozens of young voices was all the same: unintelligible high-pitched shrieks, wails for "mama."

  When they could at last see the train, Misha's heart sank. He'd hoped that the damage would be small and the injuries few. The reality was much uglier. He could already see several small lifeless bodies on the ground next to the train, and it had only been a little over ten minutes since the attack. A short distance away, dozens of children huddled together, hugging and holding hands as they watched the smoke and flames grow thicker. The German pilot whimpered, crossed himself, and started reciting a phrase over and over. When he turned to look at Misha again, his hands trembled and his eyes were full of tears.

  The last car of the train was on fire and smoke poured out of its smashed windows. The back of the car was being devoured by flames while three women frantically carried children out the front exit.

  The July heat was intense and Misha hated it. He cursed the bright sun and held his hand above his eyes so he could see better. His stomach felt queasy and his mouth dry. Igor walked beside him. The German pilot was in front with his hands in the air. The pilot's arms dropped slowly toward his waist with each passing step. As soon as they were within fifty yards of the train, he started running toward it. At first, Misha yelled for him to stop and thought to shoot him. But the pilot wasn't running away. He was running toward the train, so Misha gave chase.

  When he got to the train, the pilot leapt up the stairs into the car that was on fire. By the time Misha and Igor got there, the pilot was already leaving the car, carrying out a small girl who had a pink bow in her hair. Misha wasn't sure how to react. The pilot set the visibly frightened girl down by the others, watched her cough for a few seconds, then ran back into the car. Misha followed. A few seconds later they both came out with injured children.

  Igor tried to help, but Misha told him to stay out of the way. The flames roared out the back of the car, and Misha didn't want to go back in there again. The smoke stung his eyes, and he found it difficult to keep them open. He felt a tug on the back of his shirt and was about to yell at Igor to leave him alone, when he saw that it was the little girl with the pink bow in her hair. She had such a look of terror on her face that Misha thought to pick her up and hug her. "My brother," she said with great effort, "he's still in there." She pointed at the burning train car.

  "Are you sure?" Misha asked.

  "I don't see him," she cried, "and he was on the same car as me."

  "He's probably already out here somewhere. Go ask some of the other kids if they've seen him," Misha said and pointed to the groups of children huddling together in the distance. "I'll go see if he's still in there," he yelled over his shoulder and jumped back in the car. The smoke was now twice as thick, and he could barely see a few feet in any direction. He walked down the aisle yelling for any children who needed help. Hearing no responses, he turned back toward the front to search under the seats. He passed by the German pilot who was going further back into the train car. Misha began to tell him that there was nobody back there, but then realized the pilot couldn't understand what he said anyway.

  Misha couldn't see under the seats, so he just reached his arm in and felt. Under the fourth seat he checked, he came upon a small bare leg and pulled it toward himself. He didn't know if it was a boy or girl, dead or alive. He carried the child out and laid it next to the motionless others. His eyes were red and burning from the smoke, and he closed them for a minute for relief. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the child was a little girl. She had long blonde hair and a small doll tucked inside her dress - the head of it peeking out near her shoulder. There was no noticeable blood on her, but she wasn't breathing all the same.

  Misha looked up and saw a giant of a man in a Red Army uniform run up to the burning car and almost stumble headfirst into the side of it with his giant-sized feet. He was out of breath and his big, flat face had beads of sweat streaming down it. For some reason, he had only half of his right ear. Before he jumped in the car, he asked Misha if there were any more children inside. He spoke with a heavy peasant accent, and Misha immediately thought him an idiot.

  "I already got all the children out," Misha said.

  The man then proceeded to unhook the car from the one in front of it. Misha had thought of that earlier too. If the burning car wasn't separated from the one in front of it, then the fire would eventually consume that one as well. Though it was possible to unhook them from one another, it would be impossible to move them away from one another, Misha reasoned since he'd heard that each car weighed over fifty tons.

  Misha thought to tell half ear that it was pointless to unhook them since they couldn't be moved apart, but he decided to let him figure it out for himself. Those peasants always had such thick heads.

  Half ear began trying to push the burning car back, and Misha watched him. The flames at the back of the car rose higher and higher and half ear grunted and groaned and dug his heels in. Then - inch by inch - the car began to move. Misha could hardly believe his eyes. The giant moved the car about eight feet in all.

  As half ear bent over to catch his breath, the pilot came out of the burning car carrying yet another child. The body of a boy rested limply in the pilot's arms, and half ear stared in astonishment as the German walked past.

  Misha recognized the lifeless body that the pilot was now laying on the ground. It was one of the boys who'd waved to him earlier. Misha remembered him because he had a long scratch on his cheek that hadn't quite healed yet.

  The pilot coughed for a long time, then kneeled at the boy's side and put his ear next to the boy's nose. Misha saw that the pilot's blonde hair and eyebrows had been singed from the heat of the fire.

  "What's he doing?" Igor asked.

  "He is listening to see if boy still breathes," half ear said.

  Misha could see from where he was that the boy's shirt was soaked with
blood around his belly.

  "I thought I saw two other soldiers with you on the train earlier. Where are they?" Misha asked half ear.

  "Dead," came the reply.

  Misha watched two young women and a babushka - an old woman with a kerchief tied around her head - as they treated the wounded children. They tore strips of cloth from bed sheets and used them as gauze to wrap around wounds. Misha counted over a dozen bodies on the ground with white sheets covering them and another two dozen or so children who were wounded. He wanted to do more to help and felt sick that there was nothing left to do. All the children that could be saved from the fire had already been rescued, and the women were tending to all the wounded.

  Looking at the pilot, half ear asked, "Is he the one that jumped out of plane?" He spoke slowly and enunciated each syllable, as if he was a child still learning the language.

  Misha nodded his head yes.

  The wounded boy was unresponsive to any of the pilot's efforts to save him. The pilot used his hands to push down on the boy's chest, but it only caused more blood around his midsection. He pulled the boy's shirt up and saw why. There was a bullet hole in his stomach and any pressure on his chest just pushed more blood out of it. The pilot sat back on his knees and coughed some more. He wiped his hands on his shirt and pants to try to get the blood off. When that didn't get it all off, he poured water from his canteen over his hands and rubbed them together furiously. He used every drop of water he had, but the blood wouldn't go away.

  "Murderer," Misha muttered under his breath.

  "What do we do with him?" half ear asked.

  Off in the distance, Misha saw the little girl with the pink bow in her hair coming toward him. He wondered if she found her brother or not.

  "Let's cut his stomach open and pull his guts out like they used to do in the old days," Igor said.

  "Are you going to do it?" Misha asked sharply.

  "No," Igor said, dropping his gaze to the ground.

  "I know," Misha said. "We could tie him to a tree and each give him a pop to the nose!"

  "Yeah," Igor said, echoing Misha's excitedness. "Let's bloody him up and then leave him out here for the bears to find! We could even smear him with honey!"

  Misha laughed a brief, derisive "ha," then told Igor to shut up. The little girl with the pink bow was calling out her brother's name over and over again, "Seryozha! Seryozha!"

  "I think we turn him over to authorities," half ear said.

  "Who?" Misha asked sharply. "You want us to track down General Zhukov so we can give him a Nazi pilot? Zhukov would shoot him on the spot. That's what he'd do."

  "It is right thing to do," half ear said. "It is not our place to judge and sentence him."

  "You should have shot him when you had the chance, Misha," Igor said.

  "Shut up," Misha said. He studied half ear's face. He wondered if he was born with only half an ear or if he'd lost it in some accident.

  "Are you blind? Don't you see what he's done?" Misha said. "He deserves to die for what he did."

  "It is not for us to decide," half ear repeated, stuttering a few times on the last word.

  "Then whose right is it to decide?"

  Half ear opened his mouth to speak but then hesitated. He looked back at Misha with his mouth agape and a puzzled look on his face.

  "Russ-ian," Misha said, sarcastically pronouncing each syllable. "I'm speaking Ruusss-iian. Do - you - un-der-stand - me?"

  Igor erupted in jeering laughter. "Do you un-der-stand Russ-ian?" he repeated, trying to mock as well as Misha had.

  Half ear's face became crimson red. He turned from Misha to Igor, and then back again, looking like he would blurt out an obscenity or two, but choking on his own rage instead.

  "It is not for us to decide," he stammered again.

  "Then whose right is it?!" Misha yelled. He couldn't tolerate this villager's insolence. "Is it God's right?" he asked, studying half ear's face once more.

  "He's a Jew!" Igor yelled.

  "I am no Jew."

  "Then what are you?" Misha asked. "Are you a Christian? . . . Or are you a Soviet?"

  "I," he said haltingly, "I . . . am . . ."

  "What?" Misha asked impatiently. "What are you?"

  "I am a man."

  "He's a coward!" Igor yelled.

  Half ear turned toward Igor with an angry stare. Igor took a step back and fixed his gaze on Misha.

  "As Soviet soldiers, we have an obligation to the Motherland to defend our country," Misha said.

  "The German risked his life to save child," half ear said and pointed to the little boy lying on the ground in front of the pilot.

  "That boy would still be alive if it weren't for the German!" Misha said.

  "He did not know what he was doing. He did not know that train was full of children. Look. He cries," half ear said.

  Misha looked and saw tears streaming down the pilot's face. The little girl with the pink bow was only a few yards away now, still calling out her brother's name. "He's not crying," Misha said. "That's just from the smoke. It got in my eyes too."

  Half ear offered the German his handkerchief, which he accepted and used to dry his eyes. Misha continued to watch the pilot, feeling uncomfortable being in the presence of another man who was so openly crying.

  "It's all an act," Misha said, feeling reassured by his own words, "he probably understands what's going to happen to him."

  "He made mistake and knows it," half ear said. "Why you don't understand that?"

  "He's a soldier," Igor yelled. "It's not his job to understand things!"

  "Shut up, Igor," Misha said. "I stopped trying to understand things," Misha said to half ear, "when this war started because none of it makes any sense to me. I only know that the Nazis invaded our country and are killing our children, and you are the one who doesn't understand that."

  "Give him to me," half ear said. "I take him to prison in next town. They serve justice there."

  The little girl's call for her brother suddenly changed from a plea for an answer to a scream of panic. "Seryozha!" she cried and ran to the dead boy lying in front of the pilot. She knelt down by him and saw that he wasn't moving. "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

  No one answered her.

  Misha felt his rage start to flow over the edges of the small container he tried to keep it in. He took a deep breath and did his best to keep from exploding into a thousand lethal pieces. "We're going to serve justice here," he said calmly, "right here and now." He looked over at Igor. "Take the girl over to the women who are treating the wounded," he said, "and then bring me my pack."

  Igor picked up the little girl, who continued to ask what was wrong with her brother, and carried her away. Misha switched his hostility from the pilot to half ear. Who did this peasant think he was to argue with him? When Igor returned, he set Misha's pack down at his feet. Misha retrieved the cap from it and pulled it down over his head. "In fact," Misha said, looking at half ear, "you're going to help us." Misha pulled a rope out of his pack and handed it to Igor. "Help Igor tie the German to that tree over there." Misha picked up his rifle and pointed it at the pilot.

  Half ear continued to sit where he was, leering at Misha.

  "That's an order," Misha said and adjusted his cap with the lieutenant's insignia on it.

  Half ear stood up, but didn't take his eyes off Misha. Misha was sure he was the biggest man he'd ever seen. He towered over him, but Misha wasn't afraid of a half-brain peasant. He knew how to be tough with them. You had to show them who's smarter and put them in their place.

  Misha motioned for the German to get up and go over to the tree behind them.

  "Come on. Let's go," Misha said to half ear and Igor. "Igor, show half brain how to tie a knot."

  "I know how to tie knot," he said, clenching his fists.

  "Then what are you waiting for?" Misha looked at him and scowled. "Does it take that long for your brain to tell your legs to move? Get over there and tie him up."r />
  Igor and half ear started walking over to the tree while Misha stood watch with his rifle. Misha smiled to himself over his last remark about the length of time for half ear's brain to tell his legs to move. He thought that was pretty ingenious, associating this giant peasant with a dinosaur.

  The air was hot and sticky, and drops of sweat rolled down Misha's forehead to his eyebrows. The leaves of the trees were a dark and somber shade of green against the bright July sun. Igor and half ear tied the pilot's arms and legs tightly behind the tree. The pilot didn't resist in any way. He looked straight ahead at nothing in particular, that same harmless look about him that aggravated Misha to no end. When they were nearly finished, he said something in German that sounded like a question.

  "What did he say?" Igor asked, looking to Misha.

  Misha shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares," he said. "Just finish up."

  The German repeated himself, emphasizing the last word - "tah-bak."

  "I think he wants cigarette," half ear said.

  "Shut up," Misha said. "You don't know that."

  But then the pilot looked at half ear, nodded his head yes and repeated the same word, "cigarette."

  "I do not smoke," half ear said, looking at Misha. "You have cigarette?"

  "Of course I have a cigarette," Misha said. "I'm a man." He took out a half-smoked cigarette and lit it. "He ain't getting one though."

  Misha wiped the sweat from his forehead and glanced at the still burning train. The fire was going stronger than ever and the crackle of the flames filled the air. He looked again at the dead boy that the pilot had tried to save. He found it was so hard to accept that the boy was dead, that his life was over before it had really begun. Misha felt that familiar constricting in his chest and stomach and wanted to scream as loud as he could to let it all out.