by JV Love
"But Felix isn't here yet," he protested.
"Yes, I know."
They boarded the train and quickly found their seats. Katya sat next to the window and continued to search the crowds for Felix. Igor sat down beside her and awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll take care of you."
When she heard that, she felt an immense sadness settle over her. She wanted Felix's arm around her shoulder, and his voice telling her not to worry. She wanted to run her fingers through his curly hair, put her lips to his skin, feel his strong hands on the small of her back. The thought that she might never see him again was unbearable. She was ready for the tears to start. She was ready for that familiar feeling of mourning to set in.
She stopped looking out the window and stared at the ceiling instead. When the tears started to come, she felt no relief. What good are they anyway, she thought. They can't change anything.
If only she knew what to do - how to live a life of peace and pacifism - then things would be all right. If only she didn't constantly question her beliefs. If only she knew how a lamb was to survive when wolves were roaming the world so freely. If only she had her soul mate with her so they could lean on one another.
Suddenly Igor yelled, "It's Felix!" He pointed toward the back of the train. "Look! There he is!"
Katya stuck her head out the window, scanning the platform frantically. She finally saw him running alongside the train, jumping up every few steps and yelling to the passengers on each car, "Katya! Katya!"
She waved her arm at him. "Felix! Down here!" He saw her and started running toward their car. Katya rushed out of the compartment. "You can't get off," Igor yelled after her. "The train's going to leave!"
Katya fled down the aisle and Igor chased after her. When she got to the exit, Felix was already there and she leapt from the stairs into his arms. He squeezed her against himself and swung her around in circles, her feet never touching the ground. "I'm so sorry, Katya," he said, his voice cracking. "I couldn't find you. I just couldn't find you."
Katya felt her breasts tight against his chest and his strong hands around her waist. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in the side of his neck, and inhaled deeply the scent of his skin. "I can't do this, Felix," she said, the tears now flowing like a river. He pulled his head back and began showering her cheeks and forehead with kisses. "I can't leave you," she said. "I can't do it."
With a loud rusty groan, the train lurched forward and began inching down the tracks.
"Katya!" Igor yelled, pulling on her arm. "The train's leaving! Come on, let's get on!"
Katya heard Igor, and she heard the train as well. But nothing was going to break their embrace. Felix held her as tightly as ever, and she watched the train pull away, overjoyed that she wasn't on it. Overjoyed that her lover once again held her in his arms.
* * *
Misha was caught in another dream from which he couldn't awaken. He kept trying to yell, but the only sound he could get out sounded like the bleat of a baby goat calling for its mother.
In his dream, he saw a dozen people march single file down a dark hallway. They all looked familiar, but Misha couldn't place a single one of them. It was the same feeling he got after he'd had a few drinks and suddenly thought he knew each person he saw. Everyone would stir some distant memories in him. But the people in his dream were different in one significant way - they were all dead. Misha didn't know how he knew this, but there was no doubt in his mind about it. They all acted very strange, very freakish. They were indifferent to everything and only looked straight ahead at the door of the room they were progressing to. Each had a stoic expression on their face, and they all wore the same dark robes.
Misha felt an irresistible urge to join them but knew he couldn't. He couldn't join them because he wasn't one of them. He was not dead yet.
But if he wasn't dead yet, then why was he there? And who were these people? What were they doing? And why did he feel this urge to join them? The dream wasn't so much frightening as it was confusing.
The dead were oblivious to him, and Misha followed a few steps behind. There were no windows in the hallway and the walls were made of wet, jagged rock. He wondered if they were underground. The door at the end of the hallway looked like something from the last century. It was made of warped, unpainted wood and black iron hinges. It creaked loudly when it opened. The dead disappeared through it, and after a few seconds, Misha snuck in after them. He wanted to catch them somehow, to expose what they were doing. This seemed to be very important.
The room was similar to the hallway, cramped and without windows. Wooden torches jutted out from the cold, stone walls, but the light they provided wasn't nearly enough for the room. From the doorway, Misha watched as the dead gathered into a circle at the front of the room, surrounding a young woman there who was very much alive. They held hands and bowed their heads but said nothing. The only sound came from the crackle of the torches.
Misha looked at the young woman closely, recognizing her as his mother in her twenties - around the time when he was a young boy. She was radiant and had a calm, serene look on her face. Misha wanted to go to her, to be with her and feel that wonderful sense of peace and tranquility that he had only ever felt wrapped tightly in her loving arms.
Now was the time, he thought. Now was the time to yell to let them know they'd been caught and that neither he nor his mother belonged there. But again, all he could manage was a weak "bleawww" sound.
His mother strained to see through the darkness. "Misha," she called out. "Misha, is that you? Where are you? What are you doing? Come home, Misha. Come home."
Misha tried to go to her, but something grabbed his legs and wouldn't let him. He looked down at the floor and saw that it was covered with people, both dying and already dead. There were German soldiers, Russian soldiers, old men, women, and children. The man holding his legs had thin blonde eyebrows that were barely visible against his pale white skin. He had goggles around his neck, his nose was bleeding, and he had a gunshot wound to the chest. Misha recognized him as the German pilot he'd tortured.
"Let go of me, you bastard," Misha shouted, striking him with the butt of his rifle. When he still couldn't free his legs from the man, he fired several rounds into his chest and head. But still the man held tightly to Misha's legs. Only after Misha fastened his bayonet and plunged it into the man dozens of times did he finally release his grasp.
He looked up to the front of the room for his mother, but she was gone. He was furious. "Damn you," he muttered and prepared to stab the German pilot again. But the bloody corpse at his feet was no longer the German pilot. It was his mother.
Misha was startled back into consciousness. He awoke gasping for air.
He was alone, swaying slightly from side to side, and sitting on a wooden seat that folded out from a wall. He had trouble catching his breath and convincing himself that it had all been a dream.
A rifle leaned against his left leg. He could see houses and trees passing by the window to his right. Yes, he was starting to remember now. He was on a train, and he'd sat down to rest between stations. That's when he must have fallen asleep.
Feeling relieved, Misha tried to put more of the pieces of the puzzle together. He had to do this a lot lately. It seemed a part of him wanted to forget, wanted to deny what was going on all around him. A part of him wanted to pretend that it didn't know who he was and what he'd done in his life. Misha struggled against this part of himself more as an obligation than a desire to truly be rid of it. He would gladly forget, if he could.
He didn't have to think very long before it all came back to him. It was August 30th and he was a guard on a train on the Northern Railroad. He remembered he'd been in Leningrad dropping off Igor. Then, while he was trying to find his mother, they'd demanded to see his papers, and he'd been rounded up with the rest of the deserters, the refugees, and the merely lost. They herded everyone before tribunals where they were either s
ent to a firing squad, a construction battalion, or reassigned to another infantry unit.
The deserters were mostly sent to the firing squad, and Misha was thrown into that group. He tried explaining to the tribunal how he hadn't actually deserted - how his air base had been annihilated by the Luftwaffe - but they had no interest in his story. At that tribunal, suspects were guilty until proven innocent, and Misha had no evidence to back up any of his claims. Right after that, a high-ranking officer came in and interrupted the proceedings. He stated to the tribunal that he needed twenty-four men to perform duties as guards on the trains evacuating citizens from the city. Misha had heard about the big push to get as many people out of the city as possible, and hoped he would be selected. But then the officer stated he'd take anyone except deserters, who, he added, should be hung from Leningrad's lampposts for all to see what cowards they were.
The tribunal began sorting through men looking for the best candidates. It was a small, overcrowded room, and in the brief chaos of men switching groups, Misha slipped out of his group and joined those being selected.
They counted heads at the end and found twenty-five men, instead of twenty-four. Misha was afraid they'd find him out, but then one of the men coughed and wheezed for a long time, and the officer pulled him out of the group and sent him back to the tribunal.
Misha was proud of his ability to survive but also felt that fate had destined him for something. If the officer had walked in five minutes later, Misha was sure he would've already been marched off to the firing squad.
He went over to the train car door now, opened it, and stood in the doorway for a few minutes. The sun was bright, and the wind blasted him with the scent of smoke and buckwheat. They were passing by a blackened forest that was still smoldering. Bomb craters filled with brown water dotted the landscape, and four smashed train cars lay helplessly on their sides next to the tracks.
Sitting back down, Misha wondered how many more times he could cheat death. He knew that it always won in the end. One of his mother's favorite sayings was, "Everyone you love and everyone you hate, everyone who tells the truth and everyone who tells a lie, will all eventually die."
Misha wanted to live. He wanted to live at any cost. That was what life was about - surviving. You survived any way you could. You lied, stole, and cheated your way, if that was what it took. People who didn't understand that were stupid. .
The way to survive against the Nazis was to meet them on the same level. They were animals, and animals had no moral dilemmas or remorse about killing. You had to stoop to that level to beat the Nazis.
The door coming from the next train car opened, and Olga, the woman who collected passengers' tickets and checked their papers, walked in. She held no military rank, but there was no doubt as to who was in charge on this particular train.
Misha jumped to his feet.
She looked at the open door, then back to Misha. "Comrade," she said, "I see you have disobeyed me once again by opening the door." Sunlight shined on her face like a spotlight, and her gold tooth glinted when she spoke.
Misha saw no point in responding. He'd been caught red handed and awaited the usual venom to pour from her lips. Olga was a forty-five year old mother of three grown sons who were in the navy. She was from a small village in the north, had an accent to match, and a thick body that was not unlike the T-26 tanks that defended Leningrad from the Germans. Her face seemed to have a permanent scowl etched into it. With her on the train, Misha often wondered why guards like him were even necessary to keep the order. He had heard many accounts, and even personally witnessed her push, kick, and punch people - men, women, and once even a child - who dared cross her.
She stepped closer to Misha, and he thought he might be the next one to be on the receiving end of her blows. She bared her menacing gold tooth in preparation to either say something or bite him. Misha wasn't sure which.
"You're going to get what's coming to you one day, you little weasel," she said. Her breath smelled like moldy tea. She started to say more, but the train jerked them both forward a step as it began to slow unexpectedly - its brakes squeaking and squealing the long column of cars to a crawl.
"We can't be at Obukhovo yet," Olga said. "Why the hell are we stopping?"
Obukhovo was the first station on Leningrad's outskirts, and Misha could tell from the scenery that they were indeed not there yet. He leaned out the doorway and saw three men on the station platform ahead. They were signaling for the train to halt. "There's an officer and two other soldiers up ahead waving for us to stop," he said. The name of the station was written on white-painted stones nestled among red and white petunias. Misha read it aloud, "Mga."
"Let me see," Olga said, pushing him out of the way.
Mga was a small station about twenty-five miles southeast of Leningrad. It was the last of the numerous sleepy little stations in between Moscow and Leningrad, and they didn't usually stop there.
When the train at last came to a standstill, Olga, Misha, and the eleven other guards on the train jumped down and started walking toward the Red Army officer who signaled impatiently for them to gather around him. Anti-aircraft guns thumped in the distance, and judging from the loudness, Misha guessed they were only a few more miles up the tracks. He walked a few steps behind Olga, gripping his rifle tightly, expecting to see German warplanes any second.
A few of the guards had already gathered around the officer, and he began pointing to a spot in the sky up ahead of the train. Everyone looked in that direction, and Misha quickly saw what he was pointing at. There were at least three dozen paratroopers gliding through the sky and many more who'd already landed on the ground.
Once everyone had assembled, the officer addressed them. "Comrades, I am Major Leshchev. We are in a very dire situation. As you can see, the Germans are attacking. We have very few men here to fight back. What do you have on this train? Any weapons?"
Olga spoke up. "We have nothing of use, comrade. We've been evacuating citizens from the city and were just now returning to get more."
Leshchev shook his head and cursed. "All right then, we'll have to make do with what we have. I need all the men I can get. How many soldiers do you have on this train?"
"Just these men," she said, pointing at Misha and the others. "They're the guards for the train. But they will stay and fight."
Leshchev paused a minute, looking pensively over the men. "Very well," he finally said. "Bring every weapon and cartridge you have. We have to prevent the Germans from taking this station."
"You heard him," Olga yelled. "Get going!"
Misha moved quietly into the shade. He didn't have anything else to get, so he stayed where he was and scratched at the earth with his boots. The recent rain must have just missed this area as the ground was quite dry. When a breeze came, it picked up clouds of dust and rolled them along the ground.
"Comrade Major," Misha overheard Olga say in a low voice. "I wish to stay and fight as well."
Misha saw that Leshchev didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Can you handle a rifle?" he asked.
"Yes, I've had training."
"Very well," he said. Then, turning to one of the men with him, "Lisovsky, go tell the conductor the tracks ahead have been bombed. He'll have to go back to Volkhov."
The man saluted and left for the front of the train. "And one other thing," Leshchev said to Olga, "tell your men to bring all the food, water, and blankets you have on the train." Then, leaning over to her and whispering, just loud enough so that Misha heard, "We've been fighting the Germans all the way from Novgorod. We have no artillery, very few cartridges, and my men are exhausted."
Misha watched Olga hesitate. He wondered if she grasped the full meaning of what Leshchev had told her. Did she comprehend the futility of the situation? That an additional twelve men and one woman weren't going to make a difference in this battle? "I will stay and fight," Olga responded. "And so will my men."
He nodded his head somberly. "Someone told me this is
the last railroad in and out of Leningrad. Is that true?"
"Yes," Olga said. "This is the last line."
Leshchev glanced in the direction of Leningrad and sighed. "These are dark days, comrade," he said. "Long, dark days."
Misha watched the remainder of the German paratroopers land on the ground and form up at the far end of the field. He wondered what would become of Leningrad if the Germans took this station. Without this railway, the poor city would be cut off from the rest of Russia, and then the Germans could lay siege and force its inhabitants to surrender or starve.
The train reversed course and began pulling away from the station. The breeze picked up again, and a solitary brown leaf twirled by him. Misha tried to keep track of it as it scurried along the ground - past the hurried footsteps of his fellow guards, past the retreating train, and eventually past the tiny station of Mga that had quite unexpectedly become the key to the battle for Leningrad.
~
-- Part II
We two form a multitude. - Ovid
-- Chapter Five
All that Matters
____________________________
Dragged,
by well-fed ignorance
Down,
into subtle lies
That can't disguise
this ruse,
this fuse,
that goes
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick . . ..
Meet me down by the railroad
where the tracks curve west.
Meet me before the realists
steal the youth from my chest.
Meet me while this righteousness
still burns on my breath.
Hitler's war plan for the Soviet Union, code named Operation Barbarossa after the Holy Roman Emperor who marched east in 1190, had as a general objective the destruction of the Soviet Union's military capability and control of the country's vast agricultural, oil, and raw-material resources. With a total of three million German troops, Operation Barbarossa was to culminate in an assault on Moscow. German forces were to attack from the north and the west in a giant pincer movement. The capture of Leningrad was critical to Hitler's plan. Only after Leningrad was taken could the forces from the north march on Moscow.