by JV Love
Katya took three tea cups from the cupboard and set them on the table. "Guzman and Felix are both very passionate people," she said. "I don't think either one of them would ever leave Leningrad voluntarily." She set three small spoons next to each tea cup. "We still have a little sugar left. Would you like some in your tea, Dmitry?"
"Yes, please," he answered. He crossed his legs, only to uncross them again three seconds later. "I've found that most all Jews are passionate," he said. "Everything is concentrated in them: the love, the fear, the tenderness, the fight, the yearning . . .. That's why I love Jewish folk music. It's happy and tragic at the same time - laughing through the tears."
Igor had left the kitchen and hadn't returned, so Katya only poured tea for herself and Shostakovich. "Felix told me once he heard a Jewish influence in your music," Katya said.
Shostakovich nodded. "Yes, that's true," he said.
She sat down next to him. "I always hear such wonderful things in your music, Dmitry," she said. "I wish more people heard your beautiful ideas so they could talk about them and discuss them."
"Art destroys silence," Shostakovich said and took a sip of tea. "Some think art is all about beauty and the such, but I don't buy it. Art to me is the pursuit of truth." He set his tea cup down and his trembling hands spilled half of the tea.
"I'm so sorry," he said, rising quickly from his chair. "Let me wipe this up."
Katya stood and took his trembling hands in hers. "Dmitry," she said, holding his gaze, "don't worry, Guzman is going to be fine. You and I will see to it. We'll take care of him."
"No, no, no. I'm afraid not," Shostakovich said.
"Why not?"
"Because they're making me leave the city," he confessed. "I've held them off as long as I could. They're evacuating me to Moscow, and then who knows where."
"Evacuating you? But I thought all the rail lines had been severed," Katya said.
"No, not by rail, by plane over Lake Ladoga. They're making Akhmatova go too."
"Anna's leaving too?" Katya nearly choked on her own words. She took a sip of tea to soothe her throat, but it hurt to swallow it. "I heard her reading poetry over the radio just the other day. She's such an inspiration to everyone. I can't believe you're both going."
"I think it's absolute cowardice to leave the city, but they're forcing us out," Shostakovich said. He tried to drink more of his tea without spilling it. "I don't want to talk about it anymore though. What's done is done." He crossed his legs in front of him again. "How's Felix getting along?"
Katya couldn't answer right away. She was still shaken by the news about Shostakovich and Akhmatova leaving the city. She wanted to cry. It seemed like everyone was leaving her. "I don't know," she finally answered, her voice trailing off. "I haven't heard from him."
"Yes, well the communication system has really broken down. I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. Mail to and from the front is tenuous at best. What about your father? Is he back from Moscow yet?"
"No," Katya said, and sighed. "I haven't heard from him either." She poured more tea into Shostakovich's cup. "Perhaps you could make some calls for me?" she said. "See what you can find out?"
"Me?" Shostakovich said, eyebrows arching over the thin black frames of his glasses. "Why do you think I could be of any help? I'm just a simple composer, and one who's an 'enemy of the people' at that."
"You're no simple composer, Dmitry," Katya said. "You're famous. Everyone knows Shostakovich - not only here, but in the West too. Besides, you told me once that Comrade Stalin himself has called you before."
"Well, that's true. That's true. But it's not as though he called to tell me how much he liked my music."
"I remember you told me you talked about the process of composing music, about inspiration," Katya said. She leaned forward to hear him better. The alcohol on his breath invaded her nostrils.
"I only spoke of inspiration because I couldn't get him to understand what I was talking about. It was the only time I've ever spoke of inspiration. If you ask me, it's nothing more than . . ."
"Dmitry, please," Katya interrupted. "Just do what you can to find out what happened to my father. This not knowing is maddening."
"All right. All right," he said. "I'll see what I can do, but I make no promises." He stood up, finished his tea, then went to the door. Katya followed him.
Shostakovich gave her a quick, but tight embrace. "Thank you for listening and thank you for the tea. I feel much better now," he said. He opened the door and stepped out into the dark hallway. "If I don't see you again before I leave, take care of yourself, Katya. Remember, we will win this fight. I'll finish my Seventh Symphony and we'll perform it here in Leningrad - whether the Germans are still sitting outside or not. You'll see."
"But what will the cost of victory be?" Katya asked. "How many people must die? How many loved ones must we lose? How much destruction must our beloved city suffer?"
Shostakovich was already making his way down the stairwell. He responded by reciting one of the recent popular sayings. "Leningrad is not afraid of death," he sang, his voice echoing throughout the empty stairwell, "death is afraid of Leningrad."
Katya closed the door to her apartment, leaned against the wall, and wrapped her arms around herself. It was getting colder, and she was finding it harder and harder to keep warm. She heard a solitary explosion in the distance, but it was just noise to her anymore. She went back to the kitchen and looked out the window for the stars, but could only find a few faint ones. A tear slid down her cheek. It seemed that the stars too were abandoning her to fend for herself.
The aroma of the fried potatoes filled the entire apartment and brought Igor into the kitchen. He slouched in his chair at the table as Katya spooned some of the potatoes from the frying pan onto his plate. It wasn't much. Katya planned each meal in advance and this was all she had allocated for tonight's dinner.
"You're awfully quiet tonight," Katya said. "Is everything okay?"
He didn't answer.
Katya had noticed a subtle shift in Igor and was worried about him. He moved less and less each day, preferring instead to lay curled up on his bed under several blankets. It also seemed to be an effort for him to speak. She started thinking again about how to increase his ration when there was a knock at the door. She answered it and returned with Petya, who stopped at the kitchen doorway and leaned against the side. He had lost a fair number of pounds recently, but was still overweight. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't know you were eating." He stared at the food on their plates.
Katya sat down at the table. "Did you make it out to the countryside today?" she asked him. "Any luck?"
"I went," Petya said, "but it was a waste of time. Those damn peasants are so edacious. They've got all these beets and potatoes and cabbage in their cellars, but they won't trade any of it. They have closets full of fur coats and expensive jewelry now. The only thing they'll trade for anymore is vodka."
"Sorry it didn't work out," Katya said. "You really need to find a job that's directly involved in the war effort, then your ration would be increased."
"Don't you think I know that?" Petya said irritably. "You've told me that ten times already. Every day I look, and there's nothing available for a cripple like me. Everyone's biased against someone with a disability."
Katya suppressed a weary sigh. Everyone seemed to be on the edge of quarrel these days. "Petya, I'm really tired. It's been a long day," she said. "I was only trying to help. I understand it's been difficult for you to find a job, and I imagine you're more than a little angry about it."
"I'm sick of it," he said. "I don't get enough to eat, so I have very little energy and I have to hobble all over the city begging people for a job, and they take one look at my leg and then make up some bullshit excuse why they can't take me." He sat down beside Katya at the table. "Those damn Germans make me so furious. They should either take the city or leave. What do they plan to do? Sit in their trenches outside the city and starve us all to death?
"
"That's what I heard," Igor said.
Petya looked at him. "What did you hear?"
"I heard the Nazis were digging in, that they'd given up on taking the city."
"That's a bunch of lies," Petya said. "They're not going to sit out there in the Leningrad winter and wait for us to wave a white flag. They'll freeze to death the same as us."
"Well, that's what I heard," Igor said, his mouth full of food. "They're going to blockade the city so no food or supplies get in and bomb us every day until we surrender."
"Who told you this?" Petya asked.
"Guzman," Igor answered.
Petya put his elbows on the table and propped his head up. "I've had it with the Germans," he said. "They said they were coming to 'cleanse the world of communism.' I hardly see how blockading Leningrad is going to accomplish that."
Katya started eating and Petya watched her as she did so. "Petya," she said, putting her fork down, "I feel uncomfortable eating in front of you like this when I know you must be terribly hungry."
"If you gave me some you wouldn't be uncomfortable anymore," Petya said. He laughed awkwardly, and Katya could tell that it was forced.
Katya thought highly of him. He took care of Igor when she wasn't around and was always available to help her with anything she needed. She considered him a good friend, making what she was about to do all the more difficult.
"I think it would be best if you left, Petya," she said. "I need to ensure that Igor and I have enough food to survive and I'm not sure that we do."
Petya's forehead wrinkled in astonishment and his jaw dropped. He stood up, bowed dramatically, and said, "I am sorry to have disturbed you this evening. That was not my intention. Please forgive me." He didn't wait for a reply before limping down the hallway.
Katya felt scared for what she'd just done. It was necessary, but still hurt like hell. "Petya," she cried out, "wait." She got up from the table and went to him.
He stopped and turned to face her. "No," he said, "you're right. I can't be asking for you to share your food with me. I understand the situation. We all need to fend for ourselves now."
Katya looked at him and recalled how he'd told her that after they'd shot his parents, he'd clung to his dead mother's side for two days before someone found him. She reached her long, slender arm out and squeezed the fingers of his right hand. She felt so sorry for him. He'd been 'fending for himself' for his entire life.
Petya faked a quick smile. "I'm going to go back to those peasants tomorrow to trade my bottle of vodka. And I'm going to find a position that will increase my ration," he said. "You don't have to worry about me."
She watched him walk down the hallway and out the apartment. "I will anyway," she said.
When she returned to the kitchen, Igor was already eating his last bite of food. She sat down and recited a short prayer. She asked God to watch over Felix and to also give her the strength to uphold her values, because it was getting more difficult with each passing day. One of her biggest fears was that her compassion and humanity for those around her would crumble under the weight of the daily deprivation of Leningrad under siege.
* * *
"But why didn't you just shoot them?" Franz asked, the big blue vein on the side of his forehead protruding slightly. He craned his neck to look at the six prisoners lining up to his right.
"Because they were already dead," the German soldier replied. He frowned thoughtfully and flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "Well obviously they weren't, but there were bodies all over the place: Russian, German, and of course Falkenhorst himself. These two," he said, pointing at the prisoners on the far right of the line, "were laying just outside the warehouse - which was still burning - and they weren't moving so we assumed they were dead too."
"You should always put an extra bullet or two in their heads just to be sure," Franz said. "They're tricky bastards. They'll pretend to be dead, then get up and shoot you in the back after you walk by. I'm telling you this because you're new to this front, and you don't want to learn the hard way."
"Well now I know," the German soldier said. "I'll be more careful next time."
Franz was looking at the two men again when the wind picked up. He held his hand over his eyes to prevent dust getting blown in them again. He was sure the prisoner with the dark, curly hair and grey eyes was a Jew. He'd recognize that nose anywhere. "So these are the only two to have survived?"
The German soldier nodded his head, then walked inside the building and closed the door behind him.
They certainly didn't look like much, Franz thought. Sure they were both bigger than he, but then most everyone was. It was difficult for him to believe that these two pitiful looking Russians were in any way responsible for taking out Major Falkenhorst and all his men.
Franz would be helping transport these two and the four others to a camp farther behind their lines and was bitter about it. He hated that the German army expended its food, time, and effort on these sub-humans. It would be better just to gas them and bury them in shallow graves.
The prisoners stood in a row against the wall. Franz saw a couple of them shivering uncontrollably in the cold autumn wind. They had no coats, and Franz smiled at their discomfort. They deserved what they got.
It amazed him that Leningrad had held out as long as it had. Didn't they know that they'd already been beaten? He just hated people who didn't give in when it was obvious they had lost. But maybe it was for the best, let the Jews and communists die of hunger, cold, and artillery shells. It was better that way than having to fight them in combat. They seemed to be getting progressively more deceptive and stubborn every day that the war dragged on. The slaughter of Falkenhorst and his men testified to that.
Franz was steadfast in his faith in the Fuhrer and his directives. He had led them to unimaginable victory so far, and it was preposterous to question his judgment. The decision to move the entire 41st Panzer Corps and several Motorized Divisions to the Moscow front had taken him by surprise at first since Leningrad had yet to fall, but then, he thought, it was only a matter of time until the city began begging to surrender. They were bombing Leningrad daily and their spies reported that the food situation grew more desperate each day. Already, they'd received accounts of citizens dying of hunger.
Yet another officer came up to Franz and asked him to point out the two men responsible for taking out Falkenhorst. Everyone wanted to see the two Russians who had managed to kill the formerly invincible warrior. Major Falkenhorst, or Old Leather Face as most of the men called him when out of earshot, had been famous for his ruthlessness, not only with the enemy, but with his own men, for never losing a battle, and for always escaping unscathed from seemingly inescapable situations. Franz had idolized him for his toughness and uncompromising nature with enemy forces. If he were still alive, all these Russian prisoners would have been shot by now. Falkenhorst was a man who knew what it took to win a war. He'd been experienced - unlike the choirboy in charge of Franz's platoon, who'd somehow been duped into believing that the Russians were actual human beings. They weren't. They were animals, and the choirboy would learn that soon enough.
A truck lumbered into the courtyard and came to a stop in front of the prisoners. Franz and another soldier, Otto, herded the prisoners into the back and then joined them. A third soldier hopped in the front to drive.
On the way to their destination, Otto rested his rifle on his lap while Franz kept his pointed at the prisoners at all times. Franz hated the Russians. They were sneaky sons-of-bitches, and you couldn't let your guard down for one second. What truly amazed him though was that no matter how many they killed, they just kept coming. They wouldn't give up. It reminded Franz of when he was on vacation as a kid and had caught rats in traps just so he could throw them in a whirlpool he'd found and watch them drown. That's what the Russians were like - rats caught in a whirlpool. It was inevitable that they would drown, yet still they fought, refusing to accept their fate.
T
he truck bounced and squeaked and shifted its occupants relentlessly from side to side. Clouds of dust made the air nearly unbreathable, and the wooden benches they sat on were hard and cold.
"Are we even on the damn road?" Franz asked. He didn't expect an answer from Otto, who kept to himself most of the time. Otto reminded Franz of that lunatic, Alfred Liskof, who had tied him to a tree and left him for dead. They both thought too much and didn't dislike the Russians enough in Franz's opinion. But Otto was no Alfred. For starters, he was about thirteen years younger.
"What do you think, Otto?" Franz said. "Did the Jews make this road?"
Otto ignored him, but Franz was used to it. They'd made this long, boring trip several times before and it was the same every time. Franz would try to amuse himself by provoking Otto. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't.
"Hey Otto, what do you call one Jew drowning in the sea?"
Otto stared at him, then looked away.
"Pollution. Ha-ha! But wait, it gets better. What do you call ten million Jews drowning in the sea?"
Franz paused for the punch line, then said, "the solution!" He then proceeded to laugh at his own joke as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. He had a high, nasal laugh that sounded like a squeal.
"You get it?" he asked between laughs, slapping Otto on the knee.
The prisoner with the dark, curly hair and grey eyes said something while looking at Franz.
Otto spoke some Russian, and Franz asked him what the man had said.
When Otto didn't answer right away, Franz shook his shoulder. "Hey, what did that fucker say?"
"He said you laugh like a pig being slaughtered," Otto said.
"Is that so?" Franz said, pointing his rifle at the man. "Well, you tell him he is going to be slaughtered like a pig."
Before Otto could translate, the man said something else, and Otto translated that. "He says for us to go back to Germany. He says we'll never win because they'll never give up, that we're doomed to repeat Napoleon's fate."