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

by JV Love

  "To be honest," Oksana said, "I don't know how much longer I can do it. I'm not a spring chicken anymore. I've asked to be evacuated but I don't think those bastards give a damn about an old woman like me."

  Katya hung Oksana's coat up for her. "You're angry because you want them to care about you and value your contributions," she said, then asked again, "Have you seen Igor lately?"

  Oksana held her nose up and sniffed. "What's that smell?" she asked. "Is that meat?"

  "Yes," Katya said. "Petya had some."

  "Where the hell did he get it? He has no money."

  "That you know of," Petya said from the other side of the room.

  "Oksana!" Katya said forcefully and put her face directly in front of hers. "I asked if you've seen Igor?"

  "I . . . ," Oksana stuttered, "I saw him this morning . . . before I left for work. Why?"

  Petya was looking out the window at the trees again when Katya went over to him and demanded to know where Igor was.

  "How should I know?" he said.

  "Damn you!" Katya screamed, her fear finally rising beyond her control. She pounded on his chest with her tiny fists. "What have you done with him?"

  Petya didn't try to stop her in any way. He knew he had a lot of penance coming. "He's probably just working late," he offered.

  Katya grabbed her hat and coat and fled the apartment.

  "Where are you going?" Oksana called after her.

  "To look for Igor," she hollered from the hallway.

  Petya sat down on the edge of his bed and began putting his boots on.

  "You're leaving too?" Oksana said. "Where are you going?"

  "To help her look for Igor," he said.

  * * *

  The room kept shrinking - getting smaller and smaller as the weather outside got colder and colder. Every day, beds would be moved another centimeter closer to the small stove in the middle of the room. It was so crowded now that two people could only get by one another if one of them sat down.

  The stove - with its flue stretching over to the edge of the room and out the window - was called a 'burzhuika.' Nearly every apartment in Leningrad had one. Katya woke up and stretched her hand out to see if the stove was still warm. She was always cold lately, no matter how many layers of clothes or blankets she had on. Resting her hand on the side of the stove, she was disappointed to feel it wasn't even lukewarm.

  She had woken from a wonderful dream. She and Felix were in the Kazansky Cathedral getting married. All their friends and family were gathered around and he had just lifted her veil and kissed her. The dream had been even better than her constant daydreams of him, and she closed her eyes now and tried to feel again his lips pressing against hers, his warm breath on her cheek, the smell of his skin as she inhaled.

  Folding her hands in front of her, she asked God once more to ensure Felix's safe return. Then she got out of bed, pulling one of the blankets with her, wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.

  They had a small pile of kindling in the hallway that she could use to start a fire, but she could find neither paper nor matches to light it with. Careful not to wake her sleeping roommates, she went over to Guzman's apartment. She'd seen some matches there a while back and hoped no one had taken them yet.

  The matches were right where she'd last seen them - on top of the now legless piano. She also found a piece of wadded-up paper and brought them both back to light a fire.

  Petya snored loudly as she stuffed the paper in the stove and stacked a few twigs on top of it. It had been a fitful night of rest for her and she was glad it was over. Still half-asleep, she lit the paper and she watched it burn as if in a trance. One of the paper's edges turned bright orange, then quickly faded to black and crumbled. There was handwriting on the paper and Katya saw Shostakovich's name scrawled on the bottom. She felt disappointed that Dmitry had written Guzman and not her. And then the paper shifted and uncrumpled and she was able to read a few fragments of the letter:

  " . . . items are meant for you and Guzman equally . . ."

  " . . . the vodka or cigarettes, for . . ."

  She tried to get the letter out of the fire, but it was too late. The whole thing was engulfed in flames.

  She stared into the fire, unable to comprehend what she'd just seen. She thought back to the birthday dinner Petya had surprised her with a few weeks ago. He had mysteriously acquired caviar and vodka, but wouldn't tell her where or how he'd gotten them. And of course he had suddenly started smoking cigarettes after complaining for a month that he didn't have any and couldn't afford any. Items like cigarettes that numbed the pain of the constant cold and hunger were in high demand. They were the second most sought after good at the markets, right behind the most coveted item: vodka.

  Katya was fairly sure the items were meant for her and Guzman, and not Petya and Guzman, but she had no proof. She certainly didn't want to believe Petya capable of stealing something so precious - something that could determine whether one lived or died. If he'd done that, she didn't know if she could forgive him. Anger burned through her just thinking about the possibility.

  She looked at the bed where Guzman used to sleep, where Igor now slept so restlessly and let out little, muffled screams from time to time. She thought how Guzman might still be around telling his wry jokes and meandering stories had he received more food.

  A neighbor had found the poor old painter's mutilated body buried under a thin layer of snow in the courtyard. Katya hated to think that Petya was the one who'd hacked off the arms and legs, but where else could he have gotten the meat he'd been eating lately?

  She turned her head slowly, cautiously, to the other side of the room, where Petya slept. He had his blankets wrapped around him and only the bridge of his nose and his thick black eyebrows were visible. It seemed like he was always in bed, as if he thought he could hibernate his way through the blockade.

  Katya was afraid of him. With each pound that disappeared from his now lanky frame, so too did an ounce of his sanity. If these were normal times, he'd be in a mental institution. But these were anything but normal times. Millions of people the world over were trying to kill one another. Scientists and engineers worked day and night to devise more efficient ways of eradicating people en masse. Men operated mechanized killing machines that prowled the ground, the sky, even the sea. And those who were the best at it - who killed the most people - were given medals and honors.

  The whole world had lost its sanity. Petya fit right in. Maybe it was Katya and her cockamamy notions of peace and understanding who was the misfit. Perhaps she was the real lunatic.

  She started getting bundled up to go to the hospital, wondering all the while how she could prove that Petya had stolen a package meant for her and Guzman, and wondering, too, what she would do if she could find a way to prove it.

  She was going to the hospital to get her old nurse position back. If she was going to survive the winter, she had to get the worker level of rations. The non-worker level she was on now - a measly two slices of bread a day - wasn't enough to sustain her.

  It could be worse, she thought. If her former director had gotten his way and not cut any of the troops' levels, she and every other Leningrader might be dead by now. The two slices of bread had kept her alive at least.

  The editorial in the newspaper announcing the recent reduction - the fifth - stated in very stark language its necessity:

  ". . . it is not possible to expect any improvement in the food situation. We must reduce the norms of rations in order to hold out as long as the enemy is not pushed back, as long as the circle of blockade is not broken. Difficult? Yes, difficult. But there is no choice . . .."

  Lake Ladoga had finally frozen and the 'Road of Life,' as it was now called, was busy with people hauling food and ammunition into the city. Tikhvin was still in German hands though. Unless the Red Army could retake that city and its all-important railroad junction, there would soon be no more supplies to deliver.

  As she walked to the
hospital, Katya dreamt about food. It had become her favorite pastime. She liked to imagine eating all those ordinary foods she used to take for granted. Like raw carrots. She pretended she held one in her hand. What a wonderful, vibrant shade of orange it was! How sweet it tasted! She took bites in unusual ways - from the sides, from the opposite end. What an amazing vegetable! It was like tasting the whole universe: the rain that watered it, the sun that shed light on it, the ground that nourished it. That it could grow in the ground and you could pull it out and eat it just like that was a wonder of the imagination.

  She dreamt of radishes, tomatoes, fried onions. And mashed potatoes! Thick, creamy potatoes with milk and butter and garlic. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a bowl of that right now.

  Katya realized how little she'd really appreciated food in her life. It had always been available. Even in times of short supply, it was never that serious and she'd never gone hungry for days on end. She felt such regret for having ever taken food for granted. It was such a precious gift, and she had so often ate it without even knowing that she was eating it. She ate simply because it was time to eat - breakfast, lunch, dinner. It hadn't mattered if she was actually hungry or not.

  If she made it through the blockade, she vowed to eat every meal with appreciation. She would no longer stuff her face while she was working or thinking of something else. No, she would concentrate solely on the food - its taste, texture, and smell, and appreciate its presence in her life.

  As she rounded the corner of the next block, the hospital came into view. Rumbling up the street toward it was one of the never-ending stream of camouflaged trucks that dumped the wounded off. It came to a stop at the front door, and Katya approached, waiting for the driver to emerge. She hoped for the off chance it was delivering supplies and not more wounded, but she heard the familiar moans coming from the back and knew what its cargo was. The driver hopped out, said he had six wounded soldiers, then went in to the hospital. When he opened the door, Katya could see that the beds crammed in the hospital's hallway were all full. That meant they'd run out of beds and the men would have to remain in the truck - possibly all day - until the nurses could free some beds for them.

  A nurse came out and began processing the wounded men. Katya didn't recognize her and wondered if she'd replaced any of the nurses she knew or was simply a new hire.

  Inside, she saw several patients making candles. The hospital had run out last week and one of the wounded men had suggested that those who were able could make them - that they'd be grateful for something to do. The idea had worked brilliantly so far.

  The hospital administrator was also the lead doctor, and Katya had to wait for him to finish an operation before talking with him. When he finally came out of surgery, he took off his blood-covered apron, threw it in a hamper, then invited Katya into his office.

  He was a well-organized man and his desk reflected it. On its surface were two orderly stacks of papers, an electric lamp (that he obviously hadn't been able to use in quite some time since there was no electricity), and a black bowl with a lid. He motioned for Katya to sit, then sat down himself. "How are you getting along, my dear?" he asked.

  "I'm alive," Katya said, "which is more than a lot of people can say."

  "True, true," he said, running his fingers along his grey mustache. "I wish I could convince some of my patients of that wisdom. I just had to amputate a leg. I was hoping I could save it, but the gangrene was too bad." He took the lid off the black bowl and the room filled with a delicious aroma. He poured some of the soup into a tea cup and handed it to Katya. "Here," he said, "have some of this. There's even some meat in there."

  Katya opened her mouth, about to say that she couldn't accept such a generous offer, that his job was so important and that he needed it more than she. But before any words came out, she put the cup to her lips and drank.

  He picked up a large spoon and began eating from the bowl. "So what is it you want to talk to me about?" he asked in between noisy slurps.

  "I'd like my old position back," she said.

  "You want to be a nurse again? I thought you had an administrative position overseeing the food supply."

  Katya took another sip of the soup. She couldn't tell what meat they'd added, but she guessed it was probably horse. "I don't have that position anymore," she said.

  "What happened?"

  "I'd rather not talk about it."

  "I'd really like to know," he said, wiping soup from his mustache.

  "I was let go because I had a disagreement with the director."

  "It must have been one hell of a disagreement for him to let you go."

  Katya saw a little piece of carrot in her soup and smiled. "He's the type of person who demands people carry out his orders unquestioningly," she said. The soup tasted good and she was looking forward to eating food of this quality every day.

  "I see." He ran his fingers thoughtfully along his mustache once again.

  "But that's all over," Katya said and drank the last of her soup. "I'm actually excited to be a full-time nurse again. I missed it."

  "I'm not sure how to tell you this," he said, "but we don't have any room for you."

  Katya tried to hide her shock. She expected her request to be a mere formality - that he would welcome her back with open arms. "You're always understaffed," she said. "I know that. You know that. That's why I come and volunteer in the evenings."

  "Well, there's no question we could always use a little more help, but we're constrained as to the number of personnel we can take on."

  Katya thought it strange he wouldn't look her in the face. "When I left," she said, "you told me you were very sorry I was leaving, that I was the best nurse here. And now you won't take me back? Were those words just lies?"

  "No, it was the truth," he said. "I'd love to take you back, but I can't." He wiped some dust off the corner of his desk. "I just can't."

  She felt her eyes filling with water, but wouldn't allow herself to cry. "I overheard two nurses saying they were going to Tikhvin next week to serve on the front there," she said. "You're definitely going to need some help around here then."

  He held his hands out for her tea cup and she passed it to him. "Katya," he said, finally looking her in the face. "I think you should look at some different places, perhaps a different hospital. We're not going to be able to take you on here."

  "Why? I don't understand," she said. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  He got up and closed the door to his office. "Listen, Katya," he said in a low voice, "you've made some powerful enemies with whatever you did. I've been warned not to take you back. I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

  Katya suddenly felt dizzy and had to get some fresh air. She hurried out of his office, excusing herself briefly, then slamming the door behind her. She walked quickly down the hallway toward the exit, but felt lightheaded and short of breath and had to stop. There was no place to sit, so she leaned against the wall and hoped the sickly feeling would pass.

  One of the wounded in the hallway began moaning. It started as a whimper, but within a minute or two developed into an outright scream. He was lying on one of the makeshift beds just outside the surgery room. Katya held her hands over her ears to block it out but couldn't. No matter how hard she pressed, she still heard him screaming.

  No nurses were responding, so Katya went over to him and asked what was bothering him.

  "My leg!" he cried as he thrashed his head from side to side. "My left leg is killing me!"

  "Where does it hurt?" Katya asked as she grabbed the bottom of the blankets so she could pull them up and get a look.

  "Where I was shot," he said, "just below the knee."

  She started pulling the blanket up to the man's waist, but then stopped and hurriedly pulled it back down. He had no left leg. It had been amputated. They must not have told him yet.

  Morphine was in short supply, but Katya got some and gave him a small dose anyway. She couldn't b
ear the screaming. He calmed almost immediately, and she watched the tension melt from his face. "You're an angel," he said and smiled slightly.

  "Tell me, what was the pain like?" she asked. She'd heard about this type of thing before - ghost pains, they called it - but this was her first experience with it.

  The man had sparkling blue eyes and light blonde hair that hung down to his eyebrows. "It was like it was on fire," he said, keeping the slight smile on his face. "Like someone was pouring boiling water on it."

  "And is it gone now?"

  "Yes, it's gone."

  She debated whether or not to tell him that he had no left leg anymore. A high-pitched whistle screeched through the sky outside and then an explosion shook the ground a few seconds later. A thin mist of dust fell from the ceiling and Katya heard someone curse loudly in another room.

  "I felt safer at the front," the man said.

  "Why?"

  "You hear an incoming shell like that there, you can just duck in your foxhole," he said. "Here, there's nowhere to hide."

  "I guess I've gotten used to it," Katya said. "The Germans rarely let up. They're either firing on us with their artillery or setting the city on fire with those awful incendiary bombs they drop by the dozen. Or both."

  She'd caught her breath but still felt lightheaded, like she was floating. Things moved in slow motion. Words echoed in her head: ". . . nowhere to hide . . . I've gotten used to it . . ."

  She turned to go, but he grabbed her by the arm. "So what does my leg look like?" he asked. "It's not too bad is it?"

  She tried to change the subject. "So what did you do before the war?"

  "I taught at the university," he said.

  Katya was surprised. He looked quite young, no more than twenty-six she guessed.

  "I get that reaction all the time," he said. "I wasn't a professor. I taught dance - the foxtrot, waltz . . .. I hope my leg heals all right so I don't limp or anything. Do you know how to dance?"