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

by JV Love

  Franz was reminded of the stupid stories Alfred used to tell him about Napoleon suffering a humiliating defeat just when victory seemed to be within his grasp. "You tell him we are not the French. We're German, and nobody has beat us and nobody will. The Aryan race will rule the world, and you animals will be put in your place." Franz looked at the prisoners and was filled with hate. "You tell them that," he said to Otto. "You tell these stupid rats what I said."

  Otto spoke to the men in Russian, but when he finished they all started laughing. Otto even grinned a little himself.

  "Why are they laughing?" Franz demanded. "You son-of-a-bitch. What did you say to them?" The thick blue vein on the side of his forehead started to bulge.

  "Just what you told me to tell them," Otto said.

  Franz squinted and pushed his lower lip up as he eyed the Russians. "There was absolutely nothing," he said, "nothing whatsoever funny in what I said."

  "Certainly not," Otto replied. "They should be paralyzed with fear. I have no idea why they would find it funny." He then said something else to the Russians, and they all laughed again. "Oh, sorry," he said to Franz, "I was just trying to clarify what I said to them earlier."

  Franz saw Otto trying to suppress a grin and figured out Otto was having fun with the Russians at his expense. Franz decided to get even the only way he knew how.

  He waited a few minutes until the time was right, then said, as casually as he could, that he'd been talking to Major Halder a short time ago.

  Franz watched Otto's grin vanish in a heartbeat. He knew that would get his attention. "The major wanted to know how the men were doing," Franz continued. "What the morale was like."

  Otto straightened his posture and gripped his rifle firmly. "Yes, well, he's a brilliant commander. Of course, he'd want to know about those things. He's the best there is." Otto took out a pack of cigarettes. He didn't take one for himself, but he did offer one to Franz.

  Franz had plenty of cigarettes, but took one anyway and tucked it in his pocket. The tide had turned, and now it was his turn to suppress a grin. "He asked specifically about you," Franz added.

  Otto stiffened even more.

  "I told him you were doing well," Franz said, "but that you seemed to have a certain fondness for Jews." Franz waited a second to see Otto's reaction, then added, "He seemed rather displeased about that."

  Otto's voice was suddenly very flat and serious. "I'm no lover of Jews," he said. "I understand just as much as the next German the problems they create for society." The lines sounded rehearsed, and perhaps being aware of it, Otto added with conviction, "In fact, I think we could solve a lot of the world's problems by getting rid of the Jews."

  Franz smiled openly, showing his sharp, tiny teeth. "Well, there's Jews right here in this truck," he said, pointing to each one of the prisoners. "What should we do about it?"

  "You don't know that."

  "I'm positive that one there with the big nose is a Jew," Franz said. "I can tell."

  "Your evaluation of the size of a man's nose isn't very scientific."

  "Ok," Franz said. "I have a surefire way to tell a Jew from a Russian. If they fail the test, then we'll 'get rid of' them, as you say we should."

  Franz felt pleased with himself as he noticed Otto starting to blink uncontrollably, as he always did when he got really nervous.

  "We were instructed to take these prisoners to a specific destination," Otto said. "If we don't deliver them, then . . ."

  "If anybody asks any questions, we'll just say they tried to escape," Franz interrupted. Then he yelled to the driver to stop the truck.

  "This is ridiculous," Otto said. "They're all Russians. We're wasting time."

  "We'll know for sure in just two minutes," Franz said.

  They forced all the prisoner's out and over to the side of the road. It was a big open area, surrounded by black fields that had been burned a few weeks prior. The road was straight and flat, and one could see a half mile in either direction.

  "Let's make it interesting," Franz said to Otto. "Since you're so sure there are no Jews in this bunch, I'll bet you my meat ration for the next week that at least one of them fails the test. And if I win, you give me that bottle of schnapps your father sent you. Deal?"

  Otto sighed heavily but nodded his head anyway.

  "Ok, first of all, we have to blindfold them so they can't cheat," Franz said. "You know these bastards will cheat every chance you give them."

  "What exactly is this surefire test that you've got?" Otto asked. "I'd like to hear it first."

  "You'll see soon enough," Franz said.

  Otto and the driver forced the prisoners to their knees and blindfolded them while Franz stood guard with his rifle. When they were done, Franz started looking through his German-Russian dictionary. He didn't trust Otto to translate the right thing.

  Once Franz had found the phrase he wanted to say, he had Otto and the driver untie the prisoners' hands. Then, starting at the beginning of the line, he said in broken Russian, "Make cross." Franz waited a few seconds, then nudged the man with the butt of his rifle and repeated his demand for him to make the sign of the cross.

  "I don't think he understands what you're trying to say," Otto said.

  "He understands well enough," Franz said. "He just doesn't know how to do it. Here's your first Jew, Otto." Franz raised his rifle to the man's head and was just about to squeeze the trigger when Otto repeated the command to make the sign of the cross in correct Russian. "Da," Franz said. He'd been close, but had put the stress on the wrong syllable and had mangled the ending a little bit. Franz repeated the phrase exactly as he'd heard Otto say it and poked the man with his rifle once again.

  The man slowly moved his hand to his face and touched his index finger to the bridge of his nose and then to his right shoulder. He'd done it wrong already. The order was top then bottom, not top then right. And he should have done it faster, not touched his nose like that, and should have had his thumb and his first two fingers touching together, not spread apart. Franz looked at Otto and smirked. When the man had finished, Franz yelled "Nyet!" and shot him above the left eye. The shot echoed through the dull autumn sky, and a flock of birds fled from their perch in a nearby tree.

  The man's body had barely hit the ground when Franz started poking the next man in line and repeating the phrase for him to make the sign of the cross. The man sat back on his knees and said something in Russian in response.

  Otto partially stifled a short, "Ha."

  "What did he say?" Franz asked.

  "He said . . . hmmm, how shall I put it politely . . . for you to go have sex with yourself," Otto said.

  The man then made the sign of the cross perfectly, moving his right hand in an exaggerated fashion from his forehead to his stomach, and then to his right and left shoulder. But Franz again yelled "Nyet," stuck the barrel of his rifle to the man's temple and pulled the trigger.

  "You idiot!" Otto yelled. "What are you doing? He did it correctly."

  "No, he didn't," Franz said. "He went from right to left. I saw him."

  "You imbecile. You're a Catholic. Of course you do it from left to right," Otto said. "Russians aren't Catholic. They're Orthodox, like the Greeks. Orthodox Christians go from right to left."

  "What are you talking about?" Franz said and looked at the driver.

  "I think he's right," the driver said meekly.

  Franz looked beyond Otto and the driver and saw some refugees coming down the road. There were two of them, an old woman pushing an overladen cart, and an old man with a cane hobbling alongside her. Franz would usually drive on the return trip, and he liked to veer at the refugees and force them off the road or even clip their wooden carts so that all their belongings came tumbling out. But he didn't have time to taunt them now. He was eager to get through the next two men, because the two he really hoped to shoot - the ones who had ambushed Falkenhorst and his men - were at the end of the line. He made an agreement with Otto that he would consu
lt him first before deciding if the sign of the cross had been made correctly, then quickly moved on to the next prisoner.

  The man unfortunately did it right, although Franz argued with Otto that he seemed fairly unsure of himself and didn't actually have his thumb and first two fingers touching together. The next man didn't even attempt to make the cross. Instead, he raised his head and spit blindly in front of him, striking Franz on the chin. Then he tried to get to his feet and charge, but Franz shot him before he could do so.

  "You see?" Franz exclaimed. "They're animals. Complete animals." The dead man lay sprawled on the road, his left arm awkwardly tucked underneath his torso, a small puddle of red blood forming in the dark dirt of the road. Otto had a look of disgust on his face, and for a moment, Franz thought he was going to vomit.

  Franz stepped in front of the next man, the one with the curly, dark hair and grey eyes. He pointed his rifle at him, but then turned to Otto and the driver. "You know, there's only three left. Let's just shoot them and be done with it - three less communists in the world." He looked at the driver to see his reaction. "If we do it now," Franz added, "we can be back in time for dinner."

  "No, the deal was only for Jews," Otto said. "You've already won your bet. Let's just put these three back on the truck and get going."

  He's just like Alfred, Franz thought. A coward. "You know as well as I do that if we go all the way there and back that we'll miss dinner and will be lucky to get some beans and bread. There certainly won't be any meat left. Who wants to be on that miserable bumpy, dusty road for another two and a half hours?"

  "Yeah, I'm hungry," the driver said. "We'll just say they all tried to escape."

  The two refugees on the road were getting nearer, and Franz saw Otto looking at them. "Don't worry about them," Franz said. "They don't have anyone to tell."

  "Come on, Otto," the driver said. "No one's going to care about a bunch of prisoners anyway."

  The wheels of the cart the old woman was pushing made a high-pitched squeak that annoyed Franz and hurt his ears. He thought it odd that they kept approaching. Most refugees steered clear of any situations where there was shooting going on. "Tell them to move on," Franz said to Otto, "or else they'll be shot too."

  Franz didn't care about Otto's objection anymore. Otto couldn't very well report on him without implicating himself, and besides Franz had the driver on his side. He wanted to kill these last two whether they were able to make the sign of the cross or not. They'd killed at least two dozen German soldiers, including Falkenhorst, and deserved to die themselves. There would be no trickery about it though. There was no honor in that. Franz wanted them to see exactly what was coming. That was the German way. Germans didn't need to be sneaky, because they were Aryan. They were superior.

  Franz yelled for the driver to take the prisoners' blindfolds off. Otto was still conversing with the refugees, who, instead of passing by, were actually crossing the road toward them. "I told you to get rid of them," Franz yelled to Otto.

  "They want to trade us something for some food," Otto said.

  "Tell them we're not interested," Franz said.

  "I did," Otto said. "They're very persistent."

  Stupid Russians, Franz thought. He'd shoot them if he had to. He turned toward them and waved his rifle as a warning, but they kept approaching. The old woman was thick, like a tank. She pushed the rickety cart right toward Franz, all the while saying the same thing over and over. The old man with the cane stopped and talked with Otto. He was covered in blankets from head to toe and it was hard to see his face.

  Franz knew the Russian phrase for "go away," and said it to the old woman. In response, she grinned, and the sun glinted off her gold tooth. She grabbed the blanket that covered the contents of her cart and pulled it off in one big, swooping motion. Under the blanket was a man with a submachine gun pointed right at Franz.

  The man pulled the trigger and the gun let out a rat-tat-tat. All three bullets struck Franz in the chest and he fell to the ground. He heard a pistol fire and Otto scream. Then he saw the driver attempt to run away but get cut down in a hail of fire from the submachine gun.

  Franz was in extreme pain. The old woman was looking down on him, smirking. He was finding it difficult to breath, and even more difficult to believe that his life was ending this way. "You sons-of-bitches," he muttered. "You tricky sons-of-bitches. There's no honor in that. No honor at all . . .."

  * * *

  Dima stretched his arms out close to the smoldering fire. He was hoping to warm up his cold hands, but the fire had ceased giving off any heat twenty minutes ago. Endless, thick gray clouds filled the sky and a fine mist that continually switched to light rain and back permeated the air. Felix had gone off with three of the partisans to gather more firewood. Dima didn't know where the rest of them had gone, nor did he care.

  For three hours, he'd been sitting there thinking. Thinking about so many unpleasant things. He wished he could flip a switch and turn off all the thoughts in his head. But he couldn't, and he felt completely at their mercy. He let his head fall back so he could feel the mist on his face. It only made him colder, but he didn't care.

  The others had finished eating their meal of stale black bread and slightly rancid grilled horse meat a half hour ago. Dima had been working up the courage to take his last bite ever since. He pinched his nose with his fingers, put the food in his mouth, chewed it quickly, and swallowed. He was amazed he'd been able to keep everything down so far. The Germans hadn't fed them much of anything for the two weeks Felix and he were in their POW camp. His stomach was weak, and he'd lost a lot of weight for such a short time span. He'd lost a lot of things in such a short amount of time: his pride, his dignity, his confidence, and with the exception of Felix, every man under his command.

  His teeth chattered with cold as a shiver ran up his spine, and he wondered, how could you be a commander if you had no one to command? You couldn't, he decided. That was the depressing answer.

  His career was dead. He wouldn't be surprised if he faced a court martial for getting every one of his men killed. And for what? What had he accomplished? Two weeks ago, he would have been able to answer that question without hesitation. But now . . . now he just didn't know anymore.

  The Nazis had beaten him badly. Nearly every day, they'd interrogated him in a small room with an extremely bright light. If they didn't like his answers, they let him know it with a swift whack from a club or by burning a hole in his skin with a cigar. Dima had never experienced so much pain in his life. Each time he took a deep breath now, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain just above his stomach and wondered if they'd broken one of his ribs.

  It was during their ninth talk that Dima had broken down, when he just couldn't take it anymore, when the lack of food and sleep and warmth became too overwhelming. They'd promised not only to end the physical punishment but to also give him a bowl of hot stew with bread and coffee. They'd brought it in and set it on the desk so he could see it and smell it. Then they continued shining the bright light in his eyes, badgering him with questions, and whacking him with their hard little stick. They said to just tell them one little thing that might be of use to them, just one little thing, and then they'd give him the food and let him sleep.

  And Dima had given in. He'd told them about the poor distribution and shortage of ammunition. They said that was common knowledge, so he told them something else until they were finally satisfied. Then he ate the food, drank the coffee, and slept for twelve hours. When he woke up, he hated himself thoroughly. He despised his body for betraying him. Even now, as his hands and feet went numb from the cold and from not moving in so long, Dima wasn't going to do anything about it. He wanted them to suffer.

  Felix and the others returned with armloads of firewood and stacked them under a large pine tree where it was still fairly dry. Dima only knew the names of two of the partisans so far. The tall, skinny one who had been hiding under the blanket in the cart and was now helping Felix stack the wood
, was Misha. The stout woman with the gold tooth who'd been pushing the cart was Olga, who was apparently in charge of the rag-tag group. Everyone seemed to fear her, and Dima didn't understand why, though he had heard her threaten Felix with bodily harm twice already, and they'd only been in the camp four hours now.

  Dima had learned that the members of the group had been involved in the battle for Mga, and, having been thoroughly routed by the Germans, had fled to the woods where they'd remained ever since. They fought behind the lines now as partisans - destroying German ammo dumps, attacking supply convoys, blowing up roads and bridges, and severing telephone and telegraph wires. There were ten of them (eight men and two women), but their numbers kept growing as more and more ordinary citizens became disgusted with the brutality of the German occupation.

  According to Olga, Felix and Dima were now a part of this group. Dima didn't care. He had nothing to go back to, but Felix didn't like it. He protested that he wanted to return to the Leningrad front, but Olga claimed authority vested in her by the Party to keep him here.

  He heard Olga's voice now. She was threatening Felix yet again. "Don't cross me, kike," Dima heard. "You do what you're told or I'll have you shot. I'm in command here, and the sooner you get that through your thick kike skull, the better."

  Felix started to say something in response, but Olga cut him off and walked away. The mist turned into light rain as Dima watched her go to her tent and disappear inside. Then he got up and followed her. Outside her tent, he pulled the canvas door to the side and saw her leaning over a map, a kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling.

  "Comrade, might I have a word with you?" he asked at the doorway.

  "No, I'm busy," she said, not even looking up. The map was crudely drawn and showed the locations of forests, streams, nearby villages, and roads and trails. German positions were indicated with swastikas.

  Dima came in anyway. "I've noticed," he said, "that you seem to have some problems with Comrade Varilensky."